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“Bea, baby, wake up for me. Come on, Bea.”
I blink into the inky gray morning light. Tristan is hovering over me. His thumbs brush along the edge of my jaw. “Time’s it?” I ask.
“Early.”
“Flip?”
“In the shower.”
Awareness hits me. I turned him away last night. He’s leaving this morning, and I won’t see him until he’s back in thirty-six hours.
“I get it. I get why you said no,” he tells me softly. “I just wanted you next to me. I hated last night. I won’t fuck anyone else while I’m gone. I haven’t and I won’t. There’s only you, okay? You’re the only one.” His eyes are wild. Haunted almost. He takes my hand and presses it against his cheek. “Just don’t go. Please, Bea? Don’t leave yet. I’m not done with you. I need more.”
I’m half awake, barely processing his words. “I won’t go.”
“Okay. Good. That’s good.” He kisses my palm. “Fuck, Bea.” He drops his head and nuzzles into my hair, breathing me in. “Can I kiss you? Please? Before I go?”
There’s panic in his voice. Anxiety. I’ve heard it before, but I can’t make the connection. I’m still too out of it.
“Please?” he begs.
“Sleep breath,” I mumble.
“Don’t care.” He cups my face gently between his palms. “Please say yes.”
“You can kiss me,” I whisper.
Tristan climbs onto the futon with me and straddles my hips. He slants his mouth over mine, and I feel the desperation in his kiss. The longing. The need.
Saying no last night was the right thing to do—not because this is the result, but because he came to the realization I needed him to. Actions have consequences. And last night he experienced those consequences and didn’t like them.
Neither did I.
He moves my hands to his hair and stretches out on top of me. Bracing his weight on one arm, he curves his other hand around my throat.
He breaks the kiss and rubs his nose against mine. “I slept like shit. All I wanted was you.” His lips brush over mine.
I run my fingers through his hair. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
“Promise.” He pulls back, his expression fierce. “Promise you’ll be here when I get back.”
“I promise.”
CHAPTER 13
RIX
Toronto wins the exhibition game. I don’t love the gut-churning anxiety I feel knowing the team is out celebrating the win. But when they return the next day, Tristan fucks me into next week and asks for my cell number so we can sext during away games. Because he’s not going to screw anyone else while he’s screwing me.
Two days after they return from Winnipeg, I’m standing in front of the fridge post workout, frowning at the contents. Flip is meeting with his agent and Hemi. He brought two women back to his hotel room after the Winnipeg game, and they posted photos online. Unsurprisingly, it’s causing him trouble with his endorsement campaigns.
Tristan may or may not be in his bedroom.
“Where the heck is it?” I shift the contents around, searching for my post-workout treat. There’s a bakery on the way home from work that sells delicious mini cakes. I’ve been looking forward to the last slice all day.
Tristan’s bedroom door opens. He’s shirtless and wearing a pair of gray jogging pants. When the heat kicks on in the fall, it gets warm in here. Particularly in the loft. I take a moment to appreciate his rippling abs, cut chest, and popping biceps. But my appreciation fizzles the moment I spot the container in his hands. The one that used to contain my cake. It’s empty.
His eyes heat as they absorb my sports-bra-and-shorts combo. I’m sweaty. It’s not a deterrent for Tristan. More than once he’s yanked my shorts down and bent me over the kitchen counter when I’m back from the gym. He’s a big fan of licking my skin when it’s salty. The guy has some strange kinks, and most of the time, I’m down for it. But right now, I’m super pissed.
He tosses the empty container on the counter and moves into my personal space. He wraps my ponytail around his fist, but before he can lick a path up my neck, I cover his mouth with my palm. “Stop.”
He releases my hair immediately and steps back. “Is Flip home?”
“No.” I pick up the empty container. A swipe of icing is all that remains. “What does it say on the top of this box?”
He glances at the plastic container. My name is written in bold black letters. “Rix.”
“Why would you eat it when it’s clearly marked as mine?”
“Because I was hungry, and it’s been sitting in the fridge for four days.”
“But my name was on it.”
He frowns. “It’s just a piece of cake, Bea.”
“That’s not the fucking point, Tris! It had my name on it. I was saving it for after my workout.”
He looks perplexed. “So buy another one.”
