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Has anyone ever stood their ground for me before? My parents certainly didn’t. Not the neighbors, or my teachers. Not the foster system that tried to separate all of us. Not even my siblings. They care about me, love me, but I’ve always been the one to fight their battles for them, not the other way around. They just quietly—and not so quietly—assume I can handle anything. And I can. I’ve learned how. But it’s nice to have someone do it for me.
It’s nice that Vic cares enough to do it for me.
“I don’t think I want hot chocolate anymore.” I tell him, towing him down the alley back to where his car is parked. The poor man looks completely shell-shocked.
“Are you okay?” He asks me, cupping my face in his hands. “What that man said—”
“I’m fine, Vic.” I reach into his pocket for his keys and click open the doors of the Mercedes.
“I didn’t know what to do,” he says, tangling his fingers into the strands of my hair.
“You did exactly right.” I wrench open the back door.
“What are you—?”
I shove Vic into the backseat, watching him hit ass first and tumble back against the far door. God, he’s big. Could his legs span the entire width of the car? I climb in after him, straddling his thighs as I push my hands up to frame his face.
“Thank you,” I say, staring deep into worried hazel eyes. “For standing up for me. For caring enough to do it.”
“Of course I care about you,” Vic says. He’s frowning even as his hands cup my hips.
I’m insanely grateful that I wore a skirt. Despite cursing my choice when we first got to the rink, now I lift the hem up and try to wiggle my tights down over my thighs. It’s not working. Not if I don’t want to brain myself on the roof of the car.
“Tristan?”
I give up on my tights and focus on his jeans, ripping open the top button and pulling the zipper down. He hisses as my fingers trail over the bulge of his erection. I pull him out and he drops his head back to the headrest, cursing as I wrap my fingers around his swollen length. He’s hot and hard in my hand, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
There’s so much I want to do to him. With him. But I’m desperate here. I’ve been revved up since we were on the ice and I can’t wait. I can’t. Not another second longer.
“Fuck, baby,” He says the words against my mouth and I swallow them down, greedy for more.
“Yes, please.” Am I whining? I might be. My core is contracting on nothing, clamping down so hard I might already be coming.
“I’ve got you, Tristan. Always. I’m never going to let you go.” And then his hands are between my thighs and he’s tearing the tights apart—they were supposed to be un-rippable. I paid top dollar for that feature—pulling me forward until he’s notched at my entrance, and I sink down on him, taking him inside me to the hilt.
“I’m going to miss you after we get divorced.”
Forget the fact that we’re in the backseat of my car half dressed. Forget the fact that I’m still buried deep inside her and just roared my release into her neck. Her words hit me like sliding headfirst into the boards at breakneck speed.
My fingers spasm on her waist and I feel like she’s slipping out of my grasp, dripping through my fingers like water as I try to hold on. There was a reason I didn’t tell her the truth before. A reason I held back. We aren’t married. We never were. Pretending it won’t change anything, not when the photos leaked, and she already told our boss, is a weak justification.
Now… I can’t lie to her face. Not when those eyes are warm with pleasure, her limbs loose from her orgasm. Her full weight is cocooned against my chest, our hearts beating in tandem, and I can’t keep it back. I can’t pretend that what I should have told her won’t matter. It will.
I tuck my nose into her hair, breathing her in one last time before I ease her off me. Citrus and ice and her. Like a pine tree covered in snow and orange slices. Christmas.
“We should head back,” I say, because we need to have this conversation about the legality of our marriage, but I don’t want to do it here. Not now. Not like this. This moment is too raw, too vulnerable. I want to have this conversation in our space, not out in the open, waiting to be popped for indecent exposure.
Tristan shifts, her head tipping back so she can look up into my eyes.
“Everything okay?” Her brows tip together in a frown, and I can’t breathe. Can’t suck in air. I’m drowning in the backseat of a Mercedes. Not how I ever thought I’d go.
I move my hips back, slipping out of her. My lap is a mess and I ignore it as I pull my pants up and over my softening dick. There’s not much I can do about it right now, anyway. Tristan pulls her skirt down, still frowning, and slides to my right. She twists, pressing her back into my leather seat, but her eyes are still on me. Questions swirl in them. She’s not dumb. I’m not subtle.
“We don’t want to get caught out here,” I say, like an idiot. Instead ofI love you. Marry me for real. Please.
“Right.” She pops open the car door and I wince against the sudden light and chill. Tinted windows made me almost forget where we were and why we shouldn’t be doing what we were doing. She slams the door and I wince again, watching her shimmy her tights into a manageable position. She’s in the passenger seat and buckled in before I get out of the car, but message received: get moving.
I drive us back home on autopilot, secretly wishing for a detour, construction, anything to prolong the inevitable. She’s going to be furious, and rightfully so. I always knew this house of cards would tumble when she found out. I had hoped to build a foundation strong enough to rebuild us stronger than before. Either way, I’ve wound up for this shot and now I have to see it through.
