Page 42 of False Heir

His touch was demanding, and for a moment, I felt myself sinking into the familiar comfort of his desire. But the weight of unspoken words hung heavy between us, and I couldn’t let it go—not when so much was at stake.

“Please listen to me,” I said.

“Okay. I’m listening,” he replied, looking into my eyes, practically nodding off as he did so.

He was not listening. “Okay. Maybe a conversation better left for tomorrow,” I said.

I sighed, feeling the heavy pull of exhaustion and the ache for a different kind of connection. Resigned, I lay back on the bed, my resolve waning under the intensity of his gaze.

He mistook my surrender for acquiescence, his hands deft as he peeled down my top and captured one of my nipples with his mouth. A gasp escaped me, betraying my body’s instinctive reaction to his touch. Tristan, emboldened, began to crawl up the bed, his torso bare and muscles taut. He was half-dressed, the epitome of raw masculinity, and under different circumstances, I would have definitely given in.

“Wait.” I pushed against his shoulders, halting his advance. It pained me to resist him, but there were things that couldn’t be drowned in sensation. “We need to talk about my dad. Seriously.”

Tristan’s movements stilled, and he looked at me, irritation flickering in his eyes. He was used to being the one in control, but tonight, I needed him to listen.

“I’m pretty sure he’s growing unstable,” I said firmly, meeting his gaze head-on. “It’s not just about us anymore. It’s about the family, our future. We can’t ignore it.”

His jaw clenched, the playfulness gone from his expression as he absorbed my words. We both understood the gravity of what I was saying—the potential danger that my dad’s erratic behavior could pose to everything we held dear.

I was about to tell him how I had gotten that information when he sat up.

I hesitated, the weight of what I needed to say pressing down on me like the thick Boston air outside the safehouse. Tristan’s annoyance was very obvious, etched into the tight set of his mouth and the furrow in his brow. “Everything is a damn problem,” he muttered under his breath.

“Tristan,” I started again, trying to anchor him back to the conversation. “I went to see Carmen today—“

“We don’t need to do this now,” he cut me off, his voice laced with irritation. His hand found the waistband of my panties as if trying to divert us back to familiar territory, away from the complexities that awaited us outside these walls.

“Wait, Tristan—“ My protest was silenced by the sudden press of his lips against mine, demanding, insistent. It was a tactic straight out of his playbook, using passion to sidestep conflict. But even as I recognized his avoidance, I couldn’t deny the way my body responded to his touch, how the warmth of his hands sent a jolt of electricity through me.

“Let’s just forget for a moment, yeah?” he whispered against my lips before capturing them again in a kiss that left no room for argument. I wavered, torn between my need for him and the urgency of our situation. His fingers tightened around my arms, pulling me closer, and for a second, I allowed myself to get lost in the sensation, in the escape he offered.

But reality clawed its way back, and I knew that no matter how much we wanted to hide in each other, we couldn’t outrun the truths waiting in the shadows of The Callahan Domain.

I pushed against Tristan’s chest, putting space between us as my resolve hardened. He looked at me, confusion etched in the lines of his face, his blue eyes searching mine for an answer.

“This isn’t about that. It’s not just about sex,” I said, trying to steady my breath and gather my thoughts. The frustration was clear on his face, a crease forming between his brows.

He shook his head. When he spoke, his speech was slurred. “When have I ever failed to make you come?” he asked.

“That is completely irrelevant.”

“You don’t seem to think so most of the time,” he said.

But he wasn’t having any of it. He was too drunk to argue, but he wasn’t too drunk to move.

“Seriously, stop,” I tried again, but he was relentless, his fingers finding my clit in a way that made me gasp despite myself. My body betrayed me with its responsiveness, yet my mind remained clear–barely clear–on what needed to be addressed.

“But Ade, you always look so perfect with my cock inside of you,” he groaned, grabbing my hand and placing it on his erection through the thin fabric of his boxers.

“Fuck, why? Why are you so insistent on this right now?” I managed to ask, though my voice came out weaker than I intended.

“Because being inside you is all I can think about,” he said. “It’s all I can think about all the time.”

“We can do that in the morning,” I said, trying to sound more convincing.

“No, Ade, we’ll do it whenever I want,” he stated, a hint of the authority he wielded within The Callahan Legacy seeping into his tone.

The conflict within me raged on, knowing that the conversation we were avoiding was about more than just our relationship—it was about survival, about the very fabric of the life we were entangled in. As I lay there, with Tristan’s heated presence enveloping me, I realized that our love was both our sanctuary and our battlefield. And right now, the battle lines were being drawn.

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