Page 66 of The Contract

“Get in here.”

Tristan’s hands are shoved in the pockets of his jeans. He’s wearing a green t-shirt that hugs his chest and teases at the lean perfection of his abdomen. It brings out the green in his hazel eyes.

He glances at me as he walks into my office. I close the door.

“Um—” he tries again, but I cut him off with, “Face the desk.”

His breathing becomes audible as he walks to the desk, standing between the two chairs that face it. He looks over his shoulder at me, so I grab the back of his neck.

He tries once more. “Dante, I came here to—”

I force him down until his hands plant on the edge of the desk. “Don’t move,” I tell him before walking away. I round my desk and open a drawer, considering the options.

I want to fuck him, of course, but I’m not going to. An orgasm isn’t going to help me enough right now. I need something more, something that will last. Something that will help me put everything back in its box.

There’s too much shit swirling around, too many moving parts. I need at least one thing under control and easy to understand. Kissing Tristan last night fucked up my head more even than what happened with Noah. And his texts, even the fact that he’s here right now …

I can’t deal with what it might mean. Or what I might want it to mean. I just fucking can’t.

So I get out the lube and a large plug. Tristan’s lips part when he sees them. I hope he doesn’t fight me because things might get ugly if he does.

I walk around behind him. He’s breathing harder by the second, but he doesn’t try to stop me when I reach under him to open his fly. I tug his pants and briefs off his ass, but I leave them hung up on the head of his swiftly hardening cock.

I lube the plug and tease his hole with it. His hole is eager, even greedy. It clenches and opens at the stimulation. He starts panting.

I watch, entranced, as his hole stretches around the toy. I want to tie him up and spend all day sliding every toy I own in and out of him again and again and again, just to watch that tight ring of muscle stretch and clench.

The toy seats itself inside him. I stare at it for a while then I pull his pants up. I make him straighten. He falls back against me as I zip and button his jeans. Then I pull out a chair for him and make him sit. His body convulses as the plug shifts and bumps inside him.

I walk around to take my own seat. I get back to work, soothed by the sound of Tristan’s ragged breathing and the occasional shudder that I catch from the corner of my eye.

“I was worried about you,” Tristan finally manages.

“As you can see, I’m fine.”

“Where were you last night?”

Killing a man, I almost say. How would he react?

“Working,” is the answer I give him.

“When will you be home?”

“I thought you were working tonight.”

“No.”

I raise my eyes to his. “Did Rafael fire you?” If he fucking did—

“No,” Tristan replies. “I asked him for the night off. Was that your father I saw leaving?”

“Yes.”

I expect him to ask questions about my father or about Noah or about Rafael. I’m ready to punish him for them.

But what he asks is, “Dante … are you okay?”

Something awful happens inside me when he asks that. Normally, I wouldn’t react to such a question. I’d just brush it off, not let it touch me. But after seeing my father, after what said to me, after all the times I needed him or my mother to ask me that very question, I feel … I don’t know. Not good.

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