Bad Things (Tristan & Danika #1) (44 page)

A bitter laugh burst out of me.
 
“You know who else said that to me?
 
My ex, right after I caught some girl with his dick down her throat.”

He squeezed me again, both arms pinned to my sides.
 
“Don’t compare me to him.
 
I’ve never lied to you.
 
I’m not a liar, and I’m telling you that was just two people who used to be friends talking.”

“You’re still in love with her,” I accused, not keeping any of my pain at the notion out of my voice.
 
“I could tell just by the way you talked to her.
 
You wanted her to be jealous of me.
 
Is that why you invited her here?
 
To make her jealous, so she’d want you back?”
 
My voice was shrill by the end of my little tirade.

His arms tightened again, his voice a frustrated growl in my ear.
 
“You’re being ridiculous.
 
We were talking, and that was it.
 
I don’t have feelings for her.
 
I haven’t for years.”

“You were flirting with her,” I snapped.
 

He moved his lips to my neck, pressing there so softly that it made me shiver.
 
“Maybe I was, but it was harmless.”

“Harmless?”
 
I tried to elbow him again, but my arms were locked down tight, so I tried kicking my heel back into him.
 
He didn’t even seem to notice when my shoe made contact with his shin.
 
“How was it
harmless
?
 
It wasn’t harmless to me.
 
It hurt like hell to see you
flirting with your ex!
”
 

His hands were on my arms, and he started stroking softly, a soothing motion, his face nuzzling into the spot just behind my ear.
 
“I didn’t think of it like that.
 
I thought it was harmless, because it didn’t mean anything to me, but I’m sorry if it hurt you.
 
You’re right, that’s not harmless, and it won’t happen again.
 
Just understand this, even if we weren’t together, I’d never go near her again, not like that.
 
I know that woman too well to ever want to lay a finger on her, okay?
 
And I don’t need anybody but you.”
 

I took a deep, trembling breath, finally convinced that what I’d seen hadn’t been two exes that still wanted each other.

“But, sweetheart, listen carefully, when I say that I don’t need anybody but you, what I mean is that I never have.
 
I need you.
 
I’ve never needed anyone or anything the way I need you.
 
I need you in a way that would break me if I lost you.
 
Being with you makes every part of my life better.
 
Every second I get with you is the best second of my life.
 
I’m not good at expressing myself, not like you are, but I treasure this thing between us.
 
Don’t think I don’t.”
 

I nodded, my heart racing.
 
He’d never said anything so revealing to me before, and I savored every word like it was a feast.
 
And I’d been starving.
 

His mouth moved back to my neck, kissing and biting at that tender flesh.
 

I gasped.
 

“I need you.
 
Now.”
   

“I think you might just enjoy it when I have jealous fits,” I told him.
 

“I just might,” he murmured, biting down on that tendon between my neck and shoulder.
 
“But let’s not pretend I don’t want to fuck you just about every waking moment, regardless.”
 

“Let’s not,” I agreed, almost laughing now.
 
The man could give me serious mood swings.
   

“I need you right here, right now.”

“
Here
, here?” I asked dubiously.
 
“Here as in the balcony, in the middle of a party?”

“
Here,
here,” he affirmed, his hands sliding down my arms, gripping onto my wrists, pulling them out from my body.
 

He nudged me forward two steps, wrapping each of my hands carefully around the top of the metal rail that ran the length of the balcony.
 
Even his touch on my hands was a caress.
 

“Hold on,” he warned.
 

I gripped hard, instinctively obeying the command in his voice.
 

It was a hot summer night in Vegas, and so I wasn’t wearing much.
 
He slid my little khaki cargo shorts and panties down my legs with one smooth motion.
 
I stepped out of one leg, not bothering to step out of the other side of the shorts.
 
Hell, I didn’t even kick off my flip-flops.
 
It wasn’t that type of a fuck.
 

Tristan’s hands ran up my body, starting at my ankles, up my calves, over my ass, across my naval, finally going to the front clasp of my bra to snap it open.
 
He freed my breasts from their confines, but left my little white tank, and even the straps of my bra on.
 
It wasn’t that type of a fuck, either.
 
This was a direct access, get at it as fast as you can kind of fuck, and I was right there with him.
 

His knee moved between my legs, nudging them a few inches farther apart, and I heard him unfastening his own shorts, and pulling himself free.
 
He rubbed his bared erection along my already slick sex, over and over.
 

I stared over the balcony’s railing, thanking God that it was dark, and that his apartment was facing away from the other buildings.
 
We were on the third floor, but even in the daytime, I would have only been looking at a large concrete wall and the desert field beyond.
 

His mouth was at my ear, telling me in detail just how good I felt, as he worked himself into me.
 
One of his hands slid up to pluck at my breast, his other moving to grab my hip hard as he seated himself to the hilt.
 
We both let out a low groan as his hips made solid contact with my ass.
 

Balcony sex should have been a quickie, but it wasn’t that.
 
It wasn’t a rough race toward the finish.
 
He brought me over twice in a row, with his perfect strokes and his magic hands, and the sexy things that came out of his mouth.
 
He took his time with me.
 

At some point, someone began to open the sliding glass door.
 
The door itself was quiet, but the racket they made moving the blinds out of their way was loud enough to give us warning.
 

“Go back inside and shut the fucking door!” Tristan barked out, not even slowing his strokes.
 
Sure enough, that worked like a charm.
 

And strangely, hearing that rough command in his voice, that raised voice he almost never used, brought me over with a helpless little moan.
 

That had him moaning and jack-knifing into me, shouting out my name with his own release.
 
“You like it when I yell at people, huh?” he panted into my ear as he leaned hard against me, both of us recovering.
 

I didn’t answer, didn’t even acknowledge the question.
 
I wasn’t sure what to think of it myself.
 

He nuzzled his face into my hair as he pulled out of me, doing it slowly, making me want him all over again just from the long exquisite pull of him.
 

I turned into his arms after he’d gotten loose, throwing my arms around his neck, and then, when he hugged me back hard, lifting me slightly, my legs around his waist.
 

I kissed his ear.
 
“I love you,” I said, never able to hold back the words.
 

He squeezed me, kissing my cheek in the sweetest way.
 
“Thank you for that, boo.”
 

I tried not to let myself be hurt by that all too neutral response to my nowhere near neutral feelings.
 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The words he didn’t say started to weigh on me more and more as time went by.
 
I knew that I’d fallen way too fast for him, but as we approached the one month mark of our relationship, it started to feel like, if he didn’t feel it yet, then he never would, and that thought
consumed
me.
 

I had seen how easy he was with his ex.
 
The sort of careless flirtation, the easy affection he felt, just seemed so brutal to me the more I thought about it.
 
I never wanted to be that to him—a woman who he’d owned completely and would never want again.
 

She’d cheated on him, and then he had moved on.
 
I knew this, just as I knew that I would never do that to him, but I still couldn’t shake the feeling that he could never love me like I loved him.
 

I became almost clingy in my affections, which I’d never been before.
 
I’d get upset about being clingy, and become withdrawn, which drove
him
insane.
 
Clingy, he could deal with, withdrawn, not so much.
 

We kept the crazy club hours, and I became worse and worse at my day job, which I beat myself up about often.
 
I loved the kids, loved Bev and Jerry.
 
They’d done so much for me, and had helped me out a lot with school and just general employment, and I knew that I was becoming a bigger flake by the day.
 
Still, I couldn’t seem to keep away from Tristan, not even for an evening, and the man couldn’t stay home for one damned night.

The band started playing every other weekend at Decadence, and that was both heaven and hell for me.
 

I loved to watch Tristan on stage, the way his presence seemed to suck the very breath right out of a crowd.
 

If the place was so packed that the room got warm, he’d whip off his shirt, tucking it into his belt, and boy did that get a reaction.
 
I saw him naked all the time, spent hours staring at his beautiful body, but even I was blown away by the sight of him, tattooed and huge and toned within an inch of his life, the cut of his abs even more stark when he was belting out a song.
 
That was the heaven.
 
That and his voice washing over the throng in deep, intoxicating waves, making me warm all over.
 

Like me, Frankie never missed a show.
 
We went together, always watching the performance from a few rows back.
 
Tristan told me he preferred this, since I tended to distract him, if he could see me in the crowd.
 
I was torn on this, liking the way I distracted him, but wanting so badly to be front and center.
 

Rosette, the pink haired slut from hell, never opened for them again, but Tristan’s female fans were nearly as bad.
 
In just a few performances, I’d seen panties thrown on stage, a topless woman, and several with tops, try to grope Tristan, and heard things shouted at my boyfriend that no one should ever have to hear without a plate handy to throw.
 
That was the hell.
   

I’d learned to focus on Jared when this happened.
 
He was nearly as arresting as Tristan singing when he strummed on his guitar, a look of absolute bliss on his face.
 
If the lead singer had been anyone but Tristan, I was convinced that Jared would have stolen the show.
 
He was fond of taking off his shirt about halfway through the show, which the crowd always appreciated, showing that appreciation with screams and catcalls.
 
How he was a relationship guy, and managed to stay single, I would never understand.
 
Part of me wished I’d seen him first, like there was some chance that I may have been a different person before I set eyes on Tristan.
 

At the band’s third appearance at Decadence, I got to see firsthand why Tristan didn’t want me at the front of the stage, distracting him.
 
In all fairness, though, there
were
extenuating circumstances…

Frankie had pulled me front and center between the opening act and the band coming out, spotting a friend of hers.
 
It was a lovely Hispanic woman with an hourglass figure, and I saw right away that Frankie was interested in her.
 
She’d told me many a time that this was her type.
 

We’d barely gotten introductions out before Tristan was filing on stage, the rest of the guys behind him.
 
He’d spotted me before he even reached the mic.
 
He sent me a slightly puzzled look, but that was all.
 
He quickly looked away.
 
He’d explained to me before that he needed to focus when he was up there, that no matter how many times he did it, it still gave him a strange bout of nerves, to the point where he couldn’t handle the level of distraction I caused him with my presence.