Keeping His Promise (Year of the Billionaire Part 3) (11 page)

"I've always had lots of time and state-of-the-art equipment. Plus, geeky-ness runs in our family," he explained.

Boyd had a girlfriend who was in her last year of college and away in Spain for a semester abroad. That suited me fine. I wasn't interested in him as a potential boyfriend anyway. I just wanted to spend some time with someone who didn't make me crazy like Tristan did. When Boyd asked me to pinch hit for a stage manager who'd broken his ankle, I was happy to oblige. I didn't realize it at the time, but my simple favor to my new friend would catapult my relationship to Tristan into a brand new dimension.

Eleven

He called Wednesday evening.

"What do you mean you can't go out
Friday night? I haven't seen you at all this week!" Tristan was petulant and acting like a spoiled child.

"I told you that I've committed to stage managing that off-off Broadway play until the regular guy is fit to return. Why don't you come see the play and we'll grab a bite to eat after?"

"Because I don't
want
to see your crappy little play. I want to have dinner, alone, with you at
Per Se.
"

"I'm very sorry, but I simply can't."

"Blow it off," he demanded.

"No."

"So . . . you'd rather blow me off?"

"I'm not blowing you off. I've made a commitment and I ca
n't back out of it just because . . ."

"Because I want to see you? What about your commitment to me?"

"I wasn't aware I had any commitment to you." That was cold, I know. But he was being unreasonable. There were plenty of late night options for dinner and his refusal to compromise got under my skin.

"You're absolutely right, Raina. You have no commitment to me at all. Enjoy your weekend." He hung up the phone.

It's possible to feel right and wrong at the same time. Tristan was out of line and I called him on it. Yay me. I didn't know when or if I'd hear from him again. Miserable is a pretty lame word for how rotten I felt. I spent Thursday and Friday in a daze of despair. Imagining a life without Tristan--without him at all--took up every free thought I had. I didn't want to call Jenn. She hadn't been too thrilled with the whole idea of Tristan in the first place. I couldn't call Mom. She and Dad were already a little hurt by what they perceived as Tristan's abandonment and I hadn't told them that it was me who initiated that.

I couldn't really talk to Boyd, either. Somehow I hadn't gotten around to telling him about my bizarre relationship with a man who gave me earth rocking sex, lots of laughter, plenty of kick-ass dates and zero future. Boyd was all about his plans with his girlfriend Phoebe. He had their happy life all mapped out and that was enough to keep me quiet about mine.

I foolishly hoped that I'd spy Tristan in the audience on Friday night. I peeked through the curtains at the audience expecting to see his tawny head towering above the crowd. I smiled with pity for the poor soul who has to sit behind my giant.
Only he's not your giant, remember that.

"Hey, it's bad luck to look at the audience," Boyd laughed from behind me. "In which case, I've cursed every production I've ever been involved with. How's the house?"

"Filling up. Looks like we have a decent crowd."
Except for the one person I hoped to see…

***

Concentrate
. The computer screen was turning into a maze of nonsense. My mind just refused to obey me as I struggled to cross reference 'Shakespeare' with 'Elizabethan'. It was an important interface and I just could not seem to make it work.

Every time the little bell over the door rang I hoped that it would be Tristan or at least the flower delivery guy. The last flowers I'd been sent were looking ragged on my coffee table, but I couldn't bring myself to throw them away. The finality of that was too much. It was a busy day and I had plenty of opportunities to be disappointed.

By the time I turned the key in the lock and headed for the subway I was so damn sad I wondered if I'd be able to make it through the night's performance without bursting into tears. The play was a very erotic tale of lovers who had been separated and reunited. Of course I couldn't watch it without thinking of Tristan. I'd never hurt this way, never missed anyone so keenly, never felt so devastated at a loss. As I listened to the hum of the train over the track, I knew that this was my first real heartbreak. And with that realization came the knowledge that I did love Tristan. Dancing around limitations and saying anything but the 'L' word didn't make what I felt anything but what it was. All the rationalization in the world couldn’t stop it from happening. Love trumps logic every time.

It was almost curtain time and I rushed through the stage door and took my place. There was barely enough time to close the store and get to the theater on time. If I had been getting paid I probably would have gotten fired for cutting it to the minute. But I wasn't, so everyone cut me a lot of slack. They were grateful to have me.

I took my place at stage left after I checked the line-up of props. The play was quite simply staged so I didn't have a lot to do, really.

Boyd came up beside me. "I'm leaving early tonight. Phobe's coming
home in time for Christmas and I have to pick her up." He wore a full-body smile and I envied him.

"I'd love to meet her when the two of you come up for air."

"Oh for sure. I know you'll like her."

"I know I will, too."

It was during the first intermission that I saw him. Most of the people in the audience got up to stretch their legs or get a drink in the lobby, but Tristan sat five rows back in the center section idly flipping through the playbill. Every nerve ending in my body woke up and started singing.
He came, he came, he came!

I had two acts to compose myself which was a very good thing. It wouldn't do to go running down the aisle to leap into his arms. Appearing pleased, but not giddy was the goal. And I knew better than to even hint at how triumphant I felt.
But his presence sure felt like a victory to me.

During the second intermission he left his seat and I waited behind the curtain agonizing over whether he would return for the final act. The play wasn't on a par with the kind of things we'd gone to see on Broadway. It wasn't
even close to as good as the production Tristan had starred in at the Mahkeenac Little Theater. This one wasn't going to win any Pulitzer Prize, that's for sure. I hoped he had the patience to stick it out.

After the last act crawled millimeter by millimeter to its conclusion, I couldn't wait for the actors to finish their bows. I could bolt out of there almost as soon as the curtain came down for the last time. I'd already put the props back in their places for the Sunday matinee and was tidying up the last bits and pieces when I felt him behind me.

He took my shoulders and spun me around to face him. Without a word, he drew me into a savage, mastering kiss. His hands covered the cheeks of my ass and pressed my hips into him. I willed my mouth to answer him in a way that told him how much I wanted his touch, how keenly I needed to feel him all over me, inside me, completing me as only he could.

Drawing his hands to my chest, he f
ound my breasts and felt for tight nipples under the lace of my bra. His hands. Oh God, his hands. I moaned quietly against his seeking tongue oblivious to the rustle of actors and stage hands around us. Finally he rested my head against his chest and held me there. Feeling his heartbeat, smelling his clean, masculine scent was like being home.

"I couldn't stay away. I missed you."

"Oh God, Tristan, I missed you too."

He tilted my chin up toward his face. "Your play sucks," he smiled.

"I know it. But the playwright has some talent. He just needs time."

"Newsflash for you. There aren't enough years in a lifetime for this guy to improve."

"But the actors . . ."

"Are just okay. Let's get out of here."

Riding through post theater traffic, we pawed our way back toward his apartment. He'd closed the privacy screen after I'd said a brief hello to Kwan. His hand was under my dress where he found a grateful and eager pussy wet with desire for his touch. I stroked over the bulge in his trousers and began to unzip his fly to free it.

"Wait a second." He tapped the button and the black window lowered. "Kwan, you remember that Cuban joint in Hoboken?"

"La Isla?"

"That's the one. That's where we're going." The window silently closed us back into our little world.

"Hoboken? Isn't that pretty far to go for Cuban food?" I asked him.

"I think we can fill the time . . .
"

His mouth was on mine in a rough, devouring kiss that left no doubt about what he intended to fill our time with.  I loved all the many ways Tristan chose to take me, but my favorite was his 'take no prisoners' approach.
He pulled my dress over my head and threw it to the side. The leather of the converted Escalade he used as his 'town' car was warm against my skin. It was like traveling in a rich cocoon. I could barely see the lights of the passing cityscape through the darkly tinted windows.

He pulled off my boots and slowly rolled my thigh-high stockings down my legs. Tristan lingered at the backs of my knees, whispering his fingertips on the sens
itive skin until I shivered. When he came to my feet he rubbed the toes and curled my instep with a fingernail scraped along their responsive soles.

My bra unhooked, he wove his thumbs into the straps and bared my breasts. His eyes narrowed at the sight of them and he leaned into my chest inhaling the scent of my hot skin. My nipples puckered when he licked them and left them again and again. Then his hands were at my panties. He didn't remove them immediately but worried around the edges of my thighs getting closer and closer to the spreading moisture between my legs. His thumbs rubbed over the silk against my clit and I moaned with my mounting appetite for his touch.

Finally, he stripped the thong down my hips. He was on his knees in front of me, fully clothed. It made me feel vulnerable and needy to watch him rake over my nakedness. He slid my hips forward and took my sex into his mouth without preamble. Splaying my knees with my hands, I opened myself shamelessly. I wanted to feel his tongue flicker against my clit. It was rigid with arousal, begging for him.
My love, pleasure me
. I said it in my mind, and told him with my willing body. This time there were no toys, no blindfolds or ice. Just the raw human contact of his lips on my tender folds as he buried his face between my legs. I pushed against him, groaning with the absolute perfection of his touch. He hummed 'yes, yes' into my pussy and I felt the vibration of the words ripple up through my core. Two fingers stroked inside me and brought a deluge that he lapped from me as if it was champagne. So hot, so erotic, so primal. I moved against him faster and faster, unable and unwilling to control my greedy body. The stubble on his chin scraped against the swollen flesh that I bounced against his face. I came with stars and screams; spasms of light shot through me and made me his again.

Wide-eyed and heaving I watche
d him unzip his pants and roughly push his garments to his knees. He didn't bother to do more than expose his hips and his raging erection. He sat beside me and hoisted me over him, impaling me on his cock. His girth stretched my wet channel around him and he grabbed me with his hands at my hips.

"Fuck me now. Ride me hard."

I didn't need to be asked twice. Bucking against his groin while the road rolled under us excited us both and we fell into a primitive rhythm. It was artless. It was crude need. I loved it.

His face was intensely contorted. I banged down on him, propelled by his hands the slap, slap of our flesh mingling with guttural grunts of exertion as we strained toward climax. When I reached around and cupped his tight ball sack in my hand, I could feel him tip over the edge. I added a roll of my hips each time the base of his cock touched my body, grinding my clit into him as hard as I could.

When I felt the contractions I breathed, "I'm coming now, give me . . . give me."

He gave. Great gushes of hot spunk hit me inside. He slammed my hips hard against his with each spurt, growling his release each time. I 'd feel the power of his bruising fuck for days.
I knew I'd savor each time the delicious ache reminded me how it got there.

Twelve

My apartment was full of flowers again. I hadn't intended to decorate for Christmas, except what Mr. Clemson and I had done for the shop, but Tristan sent over a little three foot tree that was perfect. It was exquisitely decorated with miniature ornaments, satin ribbons and a darling lace skirt and of course, it looked like it had cost a fortune. My mother's tree still boasted craft dough stars and clothespin reindeer my sisters and I contributed over the years. Tristan had mentioned how special his mother had made Christmas for him and as I worked the stacks I wondered what I could do to bring some of that magic back for him.

"The stage manager returns tomorrow," I told him the Sunday after our weekend reconciliation.