Page 61 of The Contract

I nibble at his lip. He arches.

Then I absolutely devour him.

I slot my mouth against his. I bite and nibble and suck. I sweep my tongue into his mouth.

Tristan moans and lifts against me. He takes every hungry swipe of my tongue. His tongue strokes mine in return, and it has me grinding into him through our clothes.

His hands grip my sides as he draws himself up against me. It’s not against the rules, but it still makes me pause for a second. He doesn’t usually touch me very much. Sometimes because he’s bound. Usually because I don’t encourage it.

But this …

He tugs at me, and I grind against him again. I devour him again. I slide a hand under his ass and angle him against me.

Then I hear someone in the doorway. I break the kiss to look over at Rafael. He’s leaning against the doorframe like he’s been there for a while. He looks both intrigued and irritated. He knows I don’t do this.

“What the fuck do you want?” I growl.

A dark eyebrow lifts in his handsome face. “You are in my lounge, you know, mouth-fucking my employee while he’s on the clock.”

Tristan shifts under me like he’s going to get up. I still him with my body and a deep, warning sound in my throat. He settles under me.

I send Rafael my most dangerous look. His eyes flash in response. He’s dangerous too. This is why we almost killed each other the one time we sort of fucked. Well … one of the reasons. There are a hundred others. When we start fucking with each other, way too much shit gets stirred up.

That’s why, before Tristan, I didn’t spend all that much time at Lush. Rafael and I are forever connected and I would help him with anything, as he would help me, but we kind of hate each other too. Partly because, when we’re together, the past is too present.

Partly because of Noah.

I hate Rafael because when Noah destroyed the Society and got us out of hell, Rafael got to stay with him. I went back to my parents.

Rafael hates me because when I turned eighteen, Noah shifted his focus to me, hoping it wasn’t too late.

Rafael’s gaze runs down my and Tristan’s bodies. His eyes shutter. He’s always been a bit of a voyeur.

“Noah’s here,” he says.

Shit. “You fucking daddy’s boy. You told him.”

Rafael shrugs. “You have your rules. I have mine.”

I really, really hate being interrupted, but I have no choice but to draw away from Tristan. Rafael is not going away—and neither is Noah. Tristan sits up, looking between me and Rafael with wide eyes. But as I straighten my clothes and head toward Rafael, I catch Rafael smirking at Tristan.

I don’t fucking like that, so I slam Rafael into the wall. Because he’s fucking crazy, he laughs. He’s also a masochist, so he probably likes it. But maybe not from me. His laugh takes on a sharp edge.

Definitely not from me.

But he’s not the one I’m focused on right now. I glance back at Tristan and find his eyes narrowed on me. Me and Rafael. Tristan is jealous. I didn’t expect that. I don’t know how I feel about it. Annoyed? Yeah, a bit, but also kind of … satisfied.

The thing is … Rafael is also jealous. He’s very prone to it. Always has been. Even when we were in hell, he wanted the attention. He hated it and hated, hated, hated the men, but he also hated when they didn’t pick him. So even though Rafael doesn’t want me, he doesn’t seem to like seeing me with Tristan.

He didn’t mind at first, but he’s starting to. But that’s his problem. I shove back from Rafael and wait for him to precedeme. I need to be between him and Tristan. I shouldn’t have trusted Rafael with Tristan last night. Something happened.

I’ll have to deal with it later. Right now, I need to deal with Noah.

Rafael and I take the private elevator up to his penthouse. His kitchen is basically a bar, and his living room is basically a piano studio. I don’t know how many pianos he has. The one at my place has been there for six years. He used to come over more often. Then we sort of fucked and it went poorly. Now we’re more careful.

Noah is sitting at Rafael’s island/bar. He’s wearing his usual worn-out jeans and flannel shirt and looks exactly like the burned-out former FBI agent that he is. He’s fit but looks older than his fifty-four years. Too much stress. Too much loss. Too much fucking alcohol.

“Christ, Dante,” he says as he gets a good look at my face.

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