Page 48 of The Contract

Fuck the people. Why should he care about these assholes waltzing around the banquet room with their champagne glasses? I don’t think he actually does. He only cares about performing his act to control the kind of attention that he receives, which generally means minimizing it. He thinks I’ve made that harder for him.

He’s wrong though. He was nervous, hung up on the idea that he doesn’t belong here. Now he’s not thinking about that at all, and every hint of self-consciousness is gone. He’s focused on me, and that’s what I want.

I fucking love his attention. I love when he’s furious with me. I love when he’s desperate for me. Right now, he’s both—and I haven’t even started fucking with him. He has no idea what I have in my pocket.

Of course this little game isn’t just for his benefit. I need something to focus on so I don’t lose my shit here. And there is nothing I’d rather focus on than Tristan’s perfect ass.

Not just his ass. I love his face too, especially when he’s glaring at me like he is now as I hand him a glass of champagne. That glare is pretty glassy. He’s aroused as hell. His cheeks are flushed. His lips are parted.

Those lips. Just the right shade of pink. Just the right shape. I feel a sudden, overwhelming urge to kiss him.Reallykiss him. Lips, tongue, teeth. I want to devour that mouth.

What the hell is happening to me with him? The idea of kissing usually makes me want to throw up. I can’t even watch it in movies.

“So this is a hospital fundraiser or something?” Tristan asks, watching the city’s rich mingle and congratulate themselves.

I settle against the wall and pretend to sip my champagne. “So it seems.”

Tristan gives me a sharp look. “What does that mean?”

I’m shocked that he can think critically enough to catch my sarcasm. Either that plug isn’t big enough or he’s just that damn smart. It pisses me off that he doesn’t seem to regard himself that way. We’re not done with that topic.

“It means that everyone is here to raise money for expanding Mercy Hospital—because they’d rather have that happen than see clinics go up in their gentrified neighborhoods.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“No.”

That’s all I give him. I won’t tell him the truth, which is that I’m here because I caved when my mother pleaded with me. I’m here because I haven’t seen her in over a year, and it’s easier to see her at something like this than somewhere more private.

And here she comes.

I don’t realize I’ve tensed until Tristan gives me a look then follows my gaze to the approaching woman in a black silk dress and sparkling diamonds. Her light brown hair, untouched by gray, looks like her natural color, but who knows. I don’t see her that often. But there’s no way a woman in her late fifties looks thirty-six without dermal fillers.

“My mother,” I mutter and straighten from the wall.

“Oh, shit.”

Tristan takes an instinctive step backwards. I put my hand against his lower back, just above his ass. He glares at me, remembering that he’s pissed.

I soak that into myself and let it ease the churning in my gut.

My mother does her best to maintain her polished smile, but I can see the strain in it. I can see the unhappiness in her eyes. Her hands tighten on her clutch as though she’s holding herself back from touching me. She knows it wouldn’t go well.

“Dante,” she greets me.

“Hello, Mother. This is Tristan. Tristan, this is my mother, Natalie Adesso.”

Her eyes jump to him. She knows I’m gay, but she’s never seen me with someone. She smiles at him, “Hello, Tristan, it’s so nice to meet you.”

“You too, Mrs. Adesso.”

“Please call me Natalie.”

When Tristan shifts uncomfortably, I ask, “How are you, Mother?”

Her smile is genuine, if a little sad. “I’m … yes. I’m so happy to see you.”

She rocks toward me. I know she can’t help herself, but I can’t help myself either when I growl at her. She rocks back, correcting the movement.

---