Exit Strategy (14 page)

I disintegrate and reassemble just in time to witness his release, which is almost as undignified and uncontrolled as mine. In all the time we’ve been together, I’ve never seen Tristan react this way.

“Fuck!” he says. Then it’s his turn to descend into incoherence. “Goddamn ... this... fuck... .” And he collapses on top of me.

I gasp from the impact.

He tries to lift himself, but his arms wobble precariously before he rolls onto the bed while pulling me close. We’re breathing like we’re in serious need of oxygen, but he kisses me hard anyway. He kisses me so long and so deep my tongue gets tired, and I let him have his way until finally he comes up for air.

~*~

I wake up alone in Tristan’s bed, fully sated by the telltale ache between my legs but otherwise feeling like Anakin Skywalker. I’ve been lured to the dark side, yet again. The glossy sheen of lust has worn off, and I might just be in a worse situation than I was before. Tristan targeted me with all that romantic charm and cast out his line; I took the bait, and he reeled me in just as sweet as you please.

What kind of idiot am I to allow him to woo me into a romantic stupor like that? He showed me a glimpse, an aberration of something I’ll likely never have with him, and I fell like a flimsy house of cards. Yes, I was suckered but good.

“Oh God. What have I done?” I mutter.

My Fairy Hoochie languishes on her mini chaise with a chicken-shit grin on her face.
You got us laid, is what!

“Insatiable heifer.”

She purses her little lips.
Like you didn’t want him yourself.

Mini-me has a point. I was practically having Tristan DTs just before he called, I was so damned horny. It didn’t take much pushing on his part to get me back into his bed. I can’t say the same for his role-play room, though. I was afraid to go back in there, because I didn’t want him to get carried away and utter another Javier Beale-ism in the heat of the moment that would throw me into another convulsive anxiety attack.

Tristan took me through some rather benign bondage routines and took the punishment deck completely off the table, so I felt fairly comfortable after the first scene. Thank goodness Daddy dearest never tied me up, blindfolded me, or locked me up. Otherwise Tristan—and me by default—would be SOL.

My Triple-G is still sleeping like the dead and snoring like she hasn’t slept well in weeks. Poor little fairy. At least she looks happy.

I shake off my ambivalence and smile to myself when I see the expression of utter bliss on her tiny face. Last night
was
perfection. It was a multiple-O night, as most nights are with Tristan White. I am always surprised how just the right amount of pressure executed in such a precise manner can be so lust-inducing. He massaged and patted my derriere until he graduated to a light spanking, and the sight of my ass cheeks all bathed a dusky rose made him so hard I could still feel the sensation of the tip of his manhood hitting my cervix.

I hug myself at the intensity of the recollection and then drag my ass out of bed. I tug on the shirt I ripped off Tristan the night before and slide on a clean pair of his boxer briefs. They’re too big, but the elastic waist keeps them from sliding down. I also borrow his shortest robe to cover up because I don’t want to traipse around Mrs. Naven in anything less than proper attire.

Barefoot, I go in search of him. I follow the sound of voices. As I’m about to enter the sitting room, I hear him say, “I took your advice.”

I stop just at the edge of the open door and listen. I’m not sure why I do. Mama’s always told me “most eavesdroppers wind up wishing they hadn’t.” Her way of saying they invariably hear exactly what they shouldn’t, and I believe I’m about to be the rule and not the exception.

“And did you give yourself a little bit of hope in the process?”

“Maybe.”

“Just so you know, I’ve gone all in with Jada, man. She is the whole package. Everything I’ve always wanted in a woman. Six months to a year, I’m putting a ring on it.”

It’s Nathan.

“Congratulations?”

Nate laughs. “I didn’t stutter when I said that, so you didn’t have to say that like it was a question.”

“Sorry. I guess I just don't see Ms. Jameson as one who’d want to go for the domestic scene so soon.”

“Believe me, Jada wants a family of her own. She’s determined to live the dream her folks shattered while she was growing up. She has a strong maternal instinct. She’s just a hard-ass with you because you two are so damn much alike.”

I almost laugh out loud on that one. I’d never thought about it, but Nate’s right. Jada is like a female Tristan sometimes.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. She’s got some strong Domme tendencies, that’s for sure. I like her because she’s such a good friend to Keisha.”

“Speaking of Keisha, you can’t tell me you don’t have stronger feelings for her than you’re letting on. You were a mess until she came back. Admit it.”

“My condition was a result of overwork.”             

Denial much, Tristan?

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“And I’ve been having these fucked-up dreams about Mom.”

“Oh, yeah? Want to... talk about them?” Even Nathan sounds tentative.

“Like I really want you to psychoanalyze me? No thanks.” Tristan sighs. “Dr. Trammell came by yesterday after... you know.”

“Did you tell him about your dreams and talk to him about Keisha?”

“Believe me, I had quite enough shit to talk to him about, and stop harping about Keisha, okay?”

“She’s the first woman since Aimee to affect you like this. Your heart didn’t stop working, nor did your chance for a normal life die in that accident, but you’re acting like it did.”

Who the fuck is Aimee? This is the first I’ve heard of her. Is she a former submissive? Tristan’s last and only real girlfriend? And is she still alive, or did she die in that accident they’re talking about? Oh my God. If she did, no wonder he can’t seem to open himself up to anyone.

“It might as well have. Aimee was in pain, and I realized it too late. She loved me.”

“In the most destructive way possible, and you’re still letting what happened to her manipulate you into giving up. She hurt herself. That was not your fault.”

Oh, so she was just hurt in the accident. Where she is now, and why does Tristan feel like the accident was his fault?

“Isn’t that the only way people ever truly love—selfishly and destructively?”

“If you think that, you truly are a lost cause.”

I second that emotion, Nathan. I mean, geez, why does love have to be such a damned disaster?
If Tristan is really incapable of loving anyone, I’m back to square minus one, or some shit. I know I probably should’ve exercised a bit of self-preservation and put the brakes on getting back into this arrangement with him, but I’m already in too deep.

He’s been sending me so many mixed signals, though, it’s a miracle I haven’t become romantically dyslexic. I want to keep hope alive as much as the next girl, but seriously! Tristan’s middle name should be
delusion
because he operates in that state more than he does in any other. And mine is
rationalization
because I’ve decided that maybe we can still ride this out and let our relationship run its course. Maybe it will be okay.

The moment he convinces me he’s capable of anything more, I’ll really be done for. Being without him for three weeks was worse than existing without one of my own limbs. I know I have it bad, and I’m owning it, regardless of the consequences.

I decide it’s all kinds of wrong to be listening to this conversation, and truth be told, I don’t think I’m ready to know exactly what Tristan thinks he feels for me, because it’s clear he doesn’t even know.

I step into the doorway before they continue the conversation that is good for Jada but unflattering for me. “Good morning.”

Two sets of stunned blue eyes look at me, but I just flash them a brilliant smile, which they return with eagerness and a modicum of guilt.

“Keisha, you’re awake,” Tristan says and strides toward me.

“Morning, Keisha,” Nate says with a teasing smirk.

Tristan cups my cheeks in his hands and looks into my eyes before he kisses me in greeting. “Mrs. Naven is waiting to make breakfast. Please ask her to prepare my usual. I’ll see Nathan out and be right in to join you.”

His tone might indicate he’s making a suggestion, but I know it’s not. I frown as I make my way to the kitchen. Who was this Aimee, who did such a number on Tristan he can’t trust to love again? I make a mental note to ask him at breakfast, but then Mrs. Naven hovers in the kitchen the whole time we’re eating, and afterward, we get so caught up in each other again in the shower, I forget.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Tristan

“White,” Tristan says with his usual terseness. Now that lack of physical release isn’t clouding his brain, he’s back in stride again. Upon entering his office at the leisurely hour of ten a.m., he first reads through the Huáng contract and knows it backward and forward, including that irksome clause that tripped him up previously.

Charles White, in his age-graveled voice, says, “Hello, son.”

“Dad, is everything okay?” he says, all terseness gone.

“Yes, everything’s fine here. Velasquez’s team is so thorough that they’ve got my staff behaving like a paramilitary unit.” He laughs. “Lydia doesn’t like the extra muscle being around, but she’ll get over it.”

Tristan scowls involuntarily and is glad his father can’t see his face.

“Perhaps I should be the one inquiring after your health. Nate tells me you suffered an attack yesterday.”

Fuck!
Nate’s like a goddamned twenty-first-century town crier and shade-tree psychologist all rolled into one. The last thing Tristan needs is to have his father worried about him right now.

“Yeah, that was a combination of stress and burnout from the extra hours I put into the contract I’m working on with Huáng International.”

“Could it also have something to do with the fact that your mother’s birthday is this Friday?”

Tristan feels a pang at the realization that his mother’s birthday is so close and he hasn’t given it much thought. However, he’s not certain he isn’t affected subconsciously, given his dreams lately.

His father continues despite his non-response. “When Nate and I talked this morning, he asked if we could get together for dinner in celebration like we used to. I mentioned it to Lydia, and she thinks it’s a splendid idea.”

I’ll bet.
Lydia’s agreement is no doubt an attempt to ingratiate herself to a husband who, for all intents and purposes, is still in love with his dead wife.

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“It sounds like it’s just the thing you need, considering the dreams you’ve been having.”

For fuck’s sake, Nathan didn’t hold anything back, did he?

“And I guess Nate also suggested I bring Keisha with me?”

“No, he didn’t, but that’s a great idea. I think it’s about time Lydia and I met the young woman the media speculates could be the next Mrs. White.”

Tristan rolls his eyes, livid with himself for having walked right into that one.

“They’ve said that about the last five women I’ve been connected with.” The local gossip columnists take turns, hoping to be the one who predicts it first. His father’s own sexual proclivities notwithstanding, neither Tristan nor Nate have ever felt the need to share their lifestyle choices with him. He believes his father has an inkling about it, but they’ve come to a mutual policy of don’t ask, don’t tell.

“I know, son. However, I wouldn’t mind if you and Nate settled down sooner rather than later. Your mother and I always dreamed of having grandchildren before we were too old and decrepit to enjoy them.”