Page 111 of My Sweetest Temptation

I didn’t know much about BDSM, but what he did to me... it certainly fell under that category.

In those moments, I felt more alive than I ever had and undeniably sexy. Sure, it scared the hell out of me at first, being exposed and vulnerable in that position, with him seeing all of me. But there was a thrill, a part of me that craved the sensation of being dominated.

Did that make me a freak?

Maybe, but as much as Nico’s ways were twisted, in some crazy way, he made me feel beautiful and worthy to be desired in such a primal way. I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he kissed me and touched my body.

I had never wanted anyone so badly.

It was pathetic.

I was pathetic.

Shaking my thoughts free, I measured the flour right as Tristan suddenly sneezed, causing a cloud of flour to puff up around him.

“Whoa.” I chuckled. “You look like a flour monster.”

Tristan grinned, wiping away the white dust from his face. “I didn’t mean to turn into a monster,” he said as he giggled.

“It’s okay. You’re a cute little cookie monster,” I teased, ruffling his wheat brown hair.

Tristan’s brows furrowed as he mixed the ingredients in the bowl until they were creamy and smooth. “Can I add the chocolate chips now?” he asked eagerly.

I laughed at his enthusiasm. “Go ahead and sprinkle them in,” I said, extending the plastic cup of chips in his direction.

As we finished mixing the dough, I scooped out spoonfuls and placed them on the baking sheet. Tristan’s tiny hands shaped the dough into perfect rounds.

“Good job, Tristan.” I slid the tray into the oven. “You’re a natural cookie chef.”

“How long do we have to wait, Winter?” he asked while looking through the oven’s glass window.

I turned the timer on and winked at him. “When the timer goes off.”

Tristan pouted.

“Now, the best part. Time to clean up.”

Without complaint, he gathered the spoons and cups and tossed them into the sink, filling it with soap and warm water.

After a few minutes, the timer rang, and the kitchen filled with a sweet, buttery aroma, signaling the cookies were ready. I put on the oven mitts, printed with a music note design, and pulled out the tray, the cookies looking golden and ready to be devoured.

Tristan’s pupils dilated as he gazed hungrily at the cookies. His tongue darted out and moistened his lips. “Can I have one?” he asked innocently.

With a grin, I grabbed a fresh cookie and handed one to Tristan but quickly pulled it back. “What are the magic words?”

Tristan put his little finger on his chin and looked up at the ceiling as if in deep thought. He flashed a smile as if a light bulb had lit up in his mind. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he shouted, “Me want cookie! Me eat cookie!” while imitating the Cookie Monster’s voice, making eating gestures and adding the silly sound effects of “Om nom nom nom,” I burst out in uncontrollable laughter.

It was times like this that I wished Mom had more kids. Spending time with Tristan made me aware of that emptiness of not having siblings. I couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to have a little brother or sister to look after. Someone I could teach to play the violin, sharing the music that had always been my solace. But then again, they would be on the run with me. A life I would never want for them, or anyone else. A loud knock on the door startled me out of those thoughts

“Stay here,” I told Tristan. But whoever was there kicked in my door, and I jumped back into the kitchen.

The moment that felt absolutely perfect and serene was gone when a man’s deep voice echoed throughout the apartment, bouncing off the walls with a jarring force.

“Where the fuck is my son?” the man yelled, and Tristan flinched.

I pulled Tristan behind me, shielding him from view. A tall man who looked like a lumberjack stood in the archway between the kitchen and living room and stared me down. He tilted his head to the side to avoid hitting it. He stroked his thick, long beard that had to be tied at the end. His blue eyes almost looked pale gray, and the hate in them made them darker. They were bloodshot, too, which meant he was either drunk or high.

This was Tristan’s father. Tabi told me how dangerous and abusive he was. One night, he beat her so bad, she could hardly open her eyes, but thankfully, someone called the cops and they arrested him. Since then, she filed a restraining order against him and moved three hours away, but now he was here. In my kitchen. How did he find Tristan? I needed to call 911, but my phone was in the freaking bedroom.

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