Page 59 of The Contract

Because it’s a moment that seems to say: therecouldbe more. And isn’t Dante the very person who’s shown me that boundaries are meant to be pushed?

TWENTY

Dante

Something happened last night with Tristan. I don’t understand it. I don’t know if I like it. I liked it at the time. It felt really fucking good to have him with me. He didn’t push me. He was justthere. Even when I had a kind of bad moment, he let me deal with it in my own way.

I don’t even know what possessed me to let him drag his hand down my stomach. I knew where he was going with it. I knew I couldn’t handle it. But, fuck, Iwantedto be able to handle it. For some goddamn reason, I wanted to have him touch me. It wasn’t even sexual. I just wanted … fuck, I don’t even know. It’s so fucking confusing.Heconfuses me.

Because it feels really fucking nice when he’s around, and I don’t know what to think about that.

And that’s what has me walking into Lush tonight. I use the main entrance because I want Tristan to see me. He does, instantly. I’ve barely set foot inside and his eyes are arrowing across the room to me.

I fucking love it.

I descend from the mezzanine to the main floor. Rafael is playing the piano. He’s brilliant. He could’ve been a professional. Maybe if so much shit hadn’t happened to him, he would’ve been. Instead, he runs an upscale sex club and fucks his way into oblivion. We all have our coping mechanisms.

And even if he and I are sometimes ready to kill each other, we need each other too. No one understands me like Rafael. Not even Noah.

Tristan never could, and I don’t really want him to.

But I do like when he looks at me like that. Like he’s forgotten everything else around him. In fact, he sets down the drink he was mixing, ignores Saylor’s question, and leaves the bar to walk straight toward me. He’s totally broken character. He never does that, not at work.

But here he is, practically storming my way. Only my narrowed eyes stop him from grabbing at me.

“What are you doing here?” he demands. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

I’m not going to argue with him in front of Rafael, so I lean down, nip his ear, and say, “Go to the lounge.”

“Dante—”

“Now, Tristan.”

He huffs. He glares at me. Then he does what I told him. I stop at the bar first. When Tristan is gone, I say to Saylor, “He’s taking a break.”

“Apparently.”

“Don’t blame him.”

“I don’t.”

With that settled, I slip behind the bar to the lounge, where Tristan is pacing.

“I read about concussions,” he says. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“I hope not. Your face is a mess.”

Yeah, I know. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine! What the hell happened? And don’t tell me not to ask. How the hell am I supposed to not ask about something like that?”

Normally at a time like this, I would physically subdue him. He would fight then he’d relent. It’s what I should do. It’s what works. It’s what puts us in the right context.

So I don’t know why the hell I go sit on the couch and say, “Come here.”

Maybe it’s the concussion fucking up my brain. Or maybe it’s that I really like when Tristan walks over to me with his arms crossed, sulky but obedient. I fucking love that when I motion him toward me, he sits on my lap. He does it by straddling me in a sort of kneeling position, with his legs on either side of me. His hands settle on my shoulders. He scowls at me.

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