Lovely Trigger (22 page)

“I can live with that.
 
I’ll just move onto another one.
 
You’re forgetting just how many tricks I have up my sleeve.”

I rolled my eyes, though I couldn’t seem to stop smiling.
   

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

DANIKA

I found myself challenged with the issue of non-dressing up for his visit to my house.
 
Obviously, by the time he showed up after his show, it would be late at night, and I’d look like I was trying too hard if I was still dressed up for work.
 

I changed my clothes four times in the hours I waited for him.
 

Also, I typed out three texts to him, canceling our plans, because what were we thinking?
 
This wasn’t even dinner, which was bad enough.
 

This was straight-up booty call hours.
 

In the end, no texts were sent.
 

I was only human, and I wanted to see him.
 

Why did he have to be so much fun on top of everything else?
 
It was just so unfair.
 
And so addictive.
   

I put on a pair of gray sweatpants and a slouchy, off the shoulder gray sweatshirt.
 
This was outfit number one, my ‘It’s past my bedtime, and I’m not even trying to be sexy for you’ getup.
 
I put my hair up in a messy ponytail, put on makeup that made it look like I wasn’t wearing makeup, and then stared at myself in the full-length mirror in my bedroom for a solid five minutes.
 

I went into my home office and caught up on work for less than ten minutes before I headed back into my closet and changed.
 

I switched into some white cheer shorts, but left the sweatshirt on.
 
This was outfit number two, my ‘I’m dressing down, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be a little bit sexy’ getup.
 

That one lasted less than five minutes.
 

I changed into a half shirt that barely covered my breasts (I had to dig deep in my closet to find this one) and rolled the waistband of my white shorts up, making them miniscule.
 
I took my bra off and my hair down.
 
This was outfit number three, my ‘Let’s see how long you can last until we’re fucking tonight’ getup.
 

That outfit lasted nearly an hour, and my vibrator got some serious attention just because of where my mind went when I thought of how he’d react to seeing me dressed in it.
 

I buried that outfit back into my closet after I took it off.

Next I changed into a loose, pale pink, lace edged camisole with a built in bra, and found (after much digging) my favorite old pair of shorts.
 
The ones that read ‘sassy pants’ on the butt.
 
I’d had them forever.
 
Tristan loved them, I knew.
 
This was outfit number four, my ‘Yes, it’s sexy, but at least I didn’t have to masturbate for a half hour after I put it on’ getup.
 
This one ended up being the winner.
 
I left my hair down, and glossed my lips up three times in the five-minute window when I was expecting Tristan, before he actually showed up.
 

I opened my door to him with trembling hands and a racing heart.
 

We smiled at each other, him looking too devastating, still dressed in his suit, me in my thoughtful loungewear that I could tell he appreciated at a glance.
   

He stepped inside without a word, heading straight into my living room, which was directly accessed from my small entry hall.
 

He shrugged off his jacket, his back to me, and tossed it on the back of one of a set of armchairs.
 
He rolled up his sleeves as he turned back around, then, looking up at me, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt.
 
It was baby blue today.
 

“How was your show?” I breathlessly asked.
 

He strode to me, hands going to my hips.
 
It was so unexpected that it made me jump.
 

He smiled that heart-stopping smile.
 
“Relax.
 
I’m just saying hi.”
 
With that, he pulled me closer, putting his arms over my shoulders, and kissed the top of my head.

Since my face was already there, I let it rest against his chest, rubbing my cheek against the swollen flesh of his pectoral.
 
I kept my hands at my sides, attempting some form of restraint, no matter how feeble.
 

He pulled back, then stepped back, shoving his hands in his pocket.
 
He watched me, keeping his expression neutral.
 

I wasn’t sure what to do.
 
“You hungry?” I asked him.
 

“If you’re cooking, yes.”
 

I led him into my kitchen, and started pulling various items out of my fridge.
 
I knew how much he ate, so I’d planned for feeding him, though I’d only prepped, not cooked, just in case.
 

He made an appreciative noise when he realized what I was planning.
 
He went and preheated my oven without having to be asked.
   

He’d been the one, after all, that had taught me the recipe.
 

He helped me stuff several jalapeños and then wrap them in bacon.
 
We didn’t talk much, I don’t know why, but I was just enjoying the company, even in silence.
 

After I’d put the appetizers in the oven and set the timer, we went into the living room.
 

He sprawled out on the couch, and I took an armchair.
 

We smiled at each other.

‘Tell me something’ was a game we’d played back in the day.
 
It had started out as a game we’d played over the phone when we were doing the long distance thing, and evolved into a bullshit test, where we lied half the time, only admitting it was a lie when we thought we had the other convinced.
 
The best get, though, was when you said something legit and got called bullshit on the truth.
 
I’m not even sure why, but we’d both decided that was the win of all wins.
 
It was the most fun, I supposed.
 

We were twisted, but it was so much more fun to be twisted when you had a partner.
       

“Tell me something,” he said fondly.

I propped my feet up on the coffee table, chewing on my lip.
 
We hadn’t played in so long; I didn’t even know where to begin.
 
I beamed as I thought of a good one.
 
“I’m a huge Josh Groban fan now.”

He barked out a laugh.
 
I’d known he’d get a kick out of that.
 
That kind of music was so not his cup of tea.
 
“You are shitting me.
 
This one is easy.
 
Lie.”

“I’m not joking.
 
Bev got me hooked on him last year.
 
I’m not a rock snob, like you.
 
I like all kinds of music.”

He shook his head.
 
“I call bullshit.”
 

“Is that your final verdict?” I asked cheerfully.
 

He squinted his eyes at me.
 
I’d stumped him now.
 
“Well, hell, now I can’t tell if you’re lying.”

“The man can sing his heart out.
 
There’s so much power in his voice.
 
Gives me chills.”

“Fuuuuck.
 
Okay, you stumped me.
 
Let me think, let me think.”
 
He started stretching his shoulders like he was prepping for a challenge.
 

I giggled.
 

He pointed at me.
 
“Name one Josh Groban song.”

I pretended to have to think about it.
 
“Um, hmm.
 
Oh, I know.
 
Remember When it Rained
.”

“Well, shit.”
 

I grinned.
 
“You don’t know any of his songs, I presume.”
 

“No, of course not.
 
But that song has to be a fake.
 
It’s just the sort of thing that you’d come up with.
 
It sounds made up.
 
You are lying.
 
That is my final answer.”
 

I clapped my hands.
 
“
Wrong
!”

“Well, hell.
 
Pick your prize.”
 

“I’ll pick after your turn, in case I lose, we can cancel each other out.”

He shook his head, both dimples out in full force.
 
“Hell no.
 
I’m picking a prize if you lose, regardless.
 
You know I never mind paying up.”

“Well, I’ll have to think up something extra special for you, then.”

He winked at me.
 
“I’m counting on it.
 
Okay, hmm, oh yeah, I’ve got one.
 
I bought a painting of you, one of Bianca’s.
 
It’s hanging in my bedroom.”
 

That one did stump me.
 
“I call bullshit.”
 
It seemed too easy, because there was simply no way he had one of those paintings.
 
I’d put the show together, had handled the sale of each one.
 
There was no way I’d have missed it if
he
were a buyer.
   

“You’re wearing a vintage dress.
 
I know it’s called that, because a card with a long description came with the piece.
 
The dress has lots of beading.
 
It’s silver, the color of your eyes.
 
It covers you up to your neck, but it shows off your shoulders, and if I weren’t a pervert, I wouldn’t have to point out that it shows off a bit of side boob too.
 
The most spectacular side boob in the world, but your eyes in it were what slayed me.
 
You know which painting I’m talking about.”

I glared at him.
 
There was no way he should even be able to describe that picture, let alone claim to have it in his home.
 
“There’s just no way.”
 

“Is that your answer?”
 

I shook my head, back to glaring at him.
 
“I believe you; I just don’t know how you did it.”
 

“Dammit, you always were better at this.
 
You win that round.
 
It was the truth.”

“How?”

“Second party buyer.
 
Cost me a fortune.”
 

“That’s insane.
 
You weren’t even at the show.”

“He texted me all of the pictures, and I picked it out the second I saw it.
 
I picked out three, actually, but that was the only one he got before it sold to someone else.
 
The asshole was slow as hell, considering how much I was paying him to do it.”
 

“You do realize that’s insane, right?”

“Yes.
 
Now ask me if I’d do it again.”
 
His tone had gone from playful to so tender that I couldn’t look him in the eye for a long moment.

I looked down at my hands instead, wringing them restlessly.
 

I should have chewed him out, just on principle, but I didn’t seem to have it in me.

My heart
ached
.
 
What was I going to do about him?
 
About
this
?
   

“Your turn, boo.”

It took me a while, but I composed myself, reined in my reckless emotions.

“I think I’ll stick to my music theme tonight.
 
Fun fact about me.
 
I have three songs about eating pussy in my music library.”
 
I said it deadpan, and surprised a throw your head back, let loose kind of laugh out of him.
 

It was official, I still loved to make him laugh.
 

“I bet you can’t even name three songs about eating pussy.
 
In fact, that’s it: name three.”

“Hmm?” I played dumb.

“Name three songs about eating pussy off the top of your head.”
 

“Birthday Cake.”

“That’s one.”

“It’s a good one.
 
You love it, too. Admit it.”

“Eating your pussy?
 
Absolutely.
 
I fucking love it.”
 

That got a giggle and an embarrassed blush out of me.
 

“Two more, boo.”
 

“I Love the Pussy.”

“That’s not a real song.”

“It is.
 
I Love the Pussy by Alpa Chino.”
 

“Fake songs from movies don’t count.”
 

“They do.
 
It’s a song.
 
I know the words.
 
I could sing it to you.”

“I’d pay to see that.”

“I’d have to lose a round for that.”

“Noted.
 
Fine, I’ll give you that one.
 
One more pussy song.”

“Pussy by Iggy Azalea.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Well look it up.
 
Real song.
 
Definitely about eating pussy.
 
So now we’ve established that I can name the songs.
 
The question you have to ask yourself is.
 
Do I have them on my iPod?”

He pursed his lips, but couldn’t hide his irrepressible grin, his irresistible dimples.
 
“Okay, I believe you.
 
I win this round.”