Page 24 of The Contract

“Why are you here?”

“Because I’m waiting for someone.”

“What if he doesn’t come?”

I grin wickedly. “Oh, he will.”

Tristan sucks in a breath as he catches my meaning. His eyes close briefly. His cheeks flush. He’s thinking about last night. About the dildo vibrating in his ass. About my hand on his cock.

Then he glares at me again. He turns on his heel and leaves. I’m still grinning as I watch him return to the bar.

As much as I hated taking him back to his shithole apartment last night, it was worth it. He’s had to go about his day, controlling himself, containing it, saving it up for me.

He won’t be returning to that apartment tonight. That’s a play to be made only once. From now on, he’s with me.

Saylor is closing tonight, so after last call, Tristan helps her make a few final drinks. Saylor’s eyes flick to me then she says something to Tristan. He nods without looking at her. When he heads for the door, so do I. I time my arrival just ahead of his and open the door for him. Like a gentleman.

There’s a challenge in his eyes like he’s considering refusing. He’s such a fighter. And yet … it’s not freedom he wants to fight for.

As we go down the stairs, I’m prepared for questions or angry words, but I don’t get them until the valet pulls up with my Jag. Even then, they’re not what I expect.

“You’re disgustingly rich,” he says, scowling at the car.

“I know.” I open the passenger door for him. Nostrils flaring, he gets in.

I tip the valet and get in the driver’s seat. I don’t look at Tristan or talk to him. I’d rather let his temper build. From the corner of my eye, I can see that his arms are crossed, his hands fisted under them. I wonder now if that hole I saw in his apartment wall, obviously from a fist, was made by him.

When we get to my building’s garage, I park in one of my spots. Tristan eyes the limo next to us. He doesn’t say anything about it.

We take the penthouse elevator. When I key into my place and open the door, he hesitates.

“You’ve already been here,” I remind him. “You survived it once.”

He opens his mouth to retort. I grab his wrist and yank him inside. I barely get the door closed before I hear, “You fucking psychopath! What you did waswrong!”

I turn on the light. His righteous anger looks beautiful in my black and white checkered foyer. I take a moment to admire it then point out, “I didn’t break the rules.”

“You don’t fucking think so?”

“No. You didn’t say red.”

His hands go to his hips. “And how was I supposed to say that when I was unconscious? When you—” He breaks off like he can’t give voice to what happened.

I prowl toward him. “When I stripped off your clothes and arranged you on the bed? When I bound your wrists and ankles?” He’s backing away from me, but I don’t stop until I have him caged against the wall. His hands come up, bracing against my chest, but I push into him. I whisper in his ear, “Or when I fed that dildo, bead by bead, into your ass?”

His breathing is shallow. It puffs deliciously against me. His fingers flex.

“I don’t think that’s what you’re really angry about, Tristan.”

His breathing cuts off. I draw back to look at him. His jaw is set stubbornly.

Mm-hmm. That’s what I thought.

I let his anger fade for the moment because I know it will be easy to spark again.

I open one side of my body, giving him an exit that leads toward the kitchen and living room. That’s his only option, so he takes it. I follow, turning on the main lights and watching his reaction to my apartment. He glances to the left at the spacious, galley-style kitchen, but he focuses on the living room.

A chandelier hangs from the two-story ceiling, softly illuminating the black leather furniture and piano. The light reflects against the huge windows and sliding glass door that face the patio and the city. A set of stairs leads to my bedroom and office. The other rooms are on this floor.

---