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I avoid eye contact and head for the fridge, grabbing the orange juice. I shake it, twist the cap off, and chug straight from the container. When I’m finished, I swipe my hand across my mouth and lie again. “I’m not sure where she is. Maybe the gym?” But Beat is naked, in my bedroom. “I thought your promo thing would take longer.”
“I gotta meet Hemi again in”—he checks his phone—“shit. Less than an hour. I’m grabbing an extra suit and something casual, then I’m out. You around later? Dallas, Ashish, Roman, and Hollis are meeting at the gym, and after we’ll grab a bite.”
“Yeah. I should be good for that. Send me a text when you’re done with your promo stuff.” It’s bad that I’m already considering the next three positions I’d like to fuck Beat in while I’m making workout plans for later with my best friend. Who I’m lying to. But I’ve already made the mistake. The guilt won’t suck any less if I have her more than once.
“Cool. Your friend still here?” He tips his head toward my room.
I make a noise.
He claps me on the shoulder. “Have fun. I’ll see you later.”
He grabs another muffin and disappears into his bedroom.
I load up a plate with fresh fruit, muffins, and bacon, then grab a couple of bottles of water from the fridge and the maple syrup, because Beat likes her bacon to swim in a pool of it. Before I return to the bedroom, I stop in the bathroom and wet a washcloth. I want to clean Beat up before I get her dirty again. If she’ll let me.
I half expect her to be standing in the same place I left her, wearing a worried expression. But she’s not. At all. Apparently, she found her vibrator, because she’s lying on my bed, legs spread wide, fucking herself with it. Her other hand is balled into a fist, which she’s biting.
I close the door and lock it. Her eyes fly open, and she freezes.
“What are you doing?”
She stops biting her hand long enough to flail toward the door.
I set the tray of food on my dresser and cross to the bed. “He’s leaving again soon.” I hold out my hand. “I didn’t say you could have that back.”
“It’s mine,” she whispers, still frozen.
I shake my head. I’m already going to hell for this. Might as well enjoy my time in the fire. “It’s mine until I decide you deserve to have it back. And I’m also far from done with you, so hand it over.”
CHAPTER 8
RIX
Every muscle in my body aches. Tristan wasn’t kidding when he said he wasn’t done with me, or that he planned to fuck me raw, because that’s exactly how I feel. Raw. If there was more than one bathroom, I’d soak in Epsom salts. I’ve also been avoiding him since I left his bedroom this afternoon. It hasn’t been all that difficult.
He went to work out with Flip and didn’t come home until after dinner. And Flip left again almost immediately for one of his many “dates.”
I promptly disappeared to the coffee shop down the street, and now I’m nursing a decaf tea while trying and failing to read a book. My vagina has a pulse and sitting down is a challenge.
Rob tries to call me, and I send it to voicemail. He’s the last person I want to talk to—especially now that I realize our sex was meh.
At nine thirty I stop at the grocery store, pick up a few items, and splurge on a pint of my very favorite ice cream before I go home. Flip’s bedroom door is open. That means I’m alone in the condo with Tristan.
I quickly put away the groceries and hide my ice cream under a bag of frozen peas. I rush to the bathroom. My plan is to continue avoiding Tristan, but he’s in the kitchen when I open the door.
He’s eating a fresh peach. This seems purposeful. “Regretting your decision this morning?” His voice is apathetic, like his fucks-to-give meter is at zero. But his shoulders are tight, and he can barely look at me.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. He looks both delicious and like guilt personified.
“Of course I am,” I mumble. Now I know what all the hype is about. Tristan is a filthy fucker, and I loved every goddamn minute of it. Especially when he kept shoving his fingers in my mouth and holding me by the throat. Not hard. I never felt unsafe. It was possessive, and dirty, and hot. And he spat on my pussy. Who does that?
I was today years old when I realized my previous long-term boyfriends have all been totally vanilla. But not Tristan. He leans into the filthy and wallows in it. Not that I want Tristan to be my boyfriend. Because I definitely don’t. I’m a serial monogamist, but even I know where to draw the line with a fuckboy like him. We can’t even have a conversation without shitting all over each other. But that was the dirtiest, hottest sex of my life. And he probably knows it.
