4. Tristan

4

TRISTAN

I'm moving.

Or, rather, I'm being moved .

I open my eyes and thrash, panicking as I try to get my bearings.

"Shhh … It's all right. I've got you."

It's Senator Dawes. Mason. He's cradling me in his arms, carrying me up the wide, winding staircase in the hallway. He holds me closer, and the memories come flooding back. The fundraiser. Father badgering me because I hadn't yet swapped the Fairchild painting with the forgery. Heading back to the kitchens to tell Jack I wasn't well. Then, instead of leaving, sneaking outside to climb through the window during a gap in the guards.

And my heat.

My unexpected, intense heat.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, it occurs to me that I should go; it's far past midnight, and the limousine can't still be waiting. Father's almost certainly furious. But I'm so tired, and my thoughts are fuzzy. Didn't I promise to leave after the wave subsided? Wherever Mason's taking me, this can't be the way out.

"Home," is all I manage to mutter.

Mason continues up the stairs anyway. "You need to rest. You'll have another wave soon, and you'll be safer here."

"But my Father?—"

"Your father won't appreciate me letting his omega son in heat wander Arden at three o'clock in the morning."

That's where he's wrong.

But Mason is warm and strong, and it feels good to be pampered for a change. So, I don't argue. Instead, I yawn and wrap my arm around his neck, then nuzzle his throat. He smells nice—like bergamot and lavender. I inhale him again, and he squirms, chuckling.

"Ticklish?" I ask as we reach the top of the stairs.

"Right there? Very."

The upstairs corridor is dimly lit, but in the shadows, I see him smile. My heart flutters happily at the sound of his laughter. It's gentle and friendly, like a summer shower on a tin roof. I want to hear it again. The second I lean in to graze my nose against his Adam's apple, though, he jerks his head away.

"Already using your discovery for evil, I see."

Mason's blue eyes shimmer down at me, and his laughter returns as he pushes open a door at the end of the hallway. Pale light brightens the space just enough to make out shapes and colors. Everything is as elegant and luxurious here as it is downstairs. More velvet and damask, this time in navy blue. A bed practically the size of my entire room at home. A tiered ceiling. And skylights. I stare up through the glass, and the moon blinks back at me. A perfect, golden crescent.

"Is this … a guest room?" I ask.

He shakes his head as he crosses toward the bed. "It's mine. This is better than downstairs. It's private, and you'll be more comfortable."

I blink. Stunned. I'm a stranger—and, worse than that, I'm a thief. There's a reason I wouldn't let him strip my clothes in his study. Beneath my shirt, the forged Fairchild painting—the replacement for the one Father sent me to steal—is still strapped to my torso. If Mason knew what really brought me here … if he understood my original intentions, he'd have turned me out on the street to suffer through the first wave of my heat. My face burns, and I glance away from his kind eyes. I don't deserve his generosity.

But he mistakes my shame for reluctance.

"If you don't want me to help?—"

"No. It's not that." I look up at him again. Even with his face blurred through the wall of tears trapped behind my lashes, he's so virile and good-looking … and good. His scent catches in the air around me again, and once more, I feel powerless to stop my cravings. "I definitely want you."

I want you too much , a soft but insistent voice in the back of my mind adds . I want you so badly I can barely breathe. When I called you my alpha earlier, it's because I wish it was true.

There goes my theory on the omegas in Dane's heat porn, I suppose. The evidence suggests that even I can be made into a panting fool.

"Definitely …" Mason echoes the word, the smile back on his lips.

"I just … Maybe I could have a minute to undress?" I reach up to my shoulder and rub my shirt against my skin. It scratches, and the fabric feels like a vise. Constricting and rigid. Another sign of my heat, but until I'm alone and can change without him watching, I'll have to keep itching.

Mason sets me down by the bed. His expression is a cross between puzzled and eager. "But downstairs, you didn't want to disrobe?—?"

"There's more time now," I offer as an excuse.

He nods, then darts across the room from the closet to the bureau and back again, draping far too many articles of clothing over his arm in his eagerness to please me. "My clothes are about three sizes too big for you …" He glances over his shoulder, surveying my frame. "But here's a terrycloth robe and a sweater—or maybe some silk pajamas will help to keep you from getting cold?—"

He's mumbling to himself, thinking out loud, and before I can respond, he's on the move again. Watching him pull teal and purple fabric from the drawers, I can't keep the grin off my face. He's so sweet. Such an attentive alpha. So dedicated to making everything perfect for his omega. For me. No one has fussed over me like this since I was twelve and had the flu. Papa didn't leave my side for days. He just sat in a chair beside my bed, watching me, ready to spring to his feet the second I coughed or sneezed.

I'm jealous of the omega Mason will eventually take for his mate. He'll never have to doubt the senator's devotion.

Please claim me, the little voice begs.

Finally, Mason piles the stack of clothes on the bench at end of the bed. When he looks up at me, he smiles eagerly, as if seeking my approval. Something about him reminds me of a golden retriever. "Will any of that do?"

Everything he's offered will be too scratchy against my skin … except maybe the silk. But I don't want to burst his bubble by telling him, so I simply nod and reach for an olive-green pajama top. "Thank you."

Seconds pass, the two of us staring at one another. Me, waiting for him to leave so I can change. Him … I'm not so sure.

My gaze drifts meaningfully toward the half-open door to the en suite a few paces away. "Well, I?—"

"Oh." Surprise and realization illuminate his face. "I guess I should let you freshen up."

When I nod, Mason's face falls. He heads to the door reluctantly, like a dog with his tail between his legs. "I'll be in the hallway if you need anything."

The instant he's gone, I slip into the bathroom with the silk pajama top. The space is as overwhelming as the rest of the estate. Marble, gold accents, double sinks, a clawfoot tub … what I wouldn't give to be able to soak in it. I run my fingertips along the edge. Father is far from poor—the jobs he sends me on help with that—but we are nowhere near this rich.

Father. I should at least call him. Let him know I'm all right.

But the thought is fleeting. It drifts away again as quickly as it came, washed over by my heat's hormones like sand against the tide.

Another wave is coming. My skin prickles and the ache of wanting tugs at my core. Thoughts of Mason drilling me into the sofa downstairs flood my mind. Father will have to wait. I need my alpha. I want to feel his hands on me this time. His breath against my skin. His lips pressed to every part of my body.

Which means I have to rid myself of these clothes—and, more importantly, the forgery hidden beneath them.

Slick dampens my pants. They're pulled up and zipped closed around me again; Mason must have done that after I fell asleep on his knot. I hurry to strip them off once more. Then, I start in on my shirt and shoes. Socks are next. Before I can stop them, my miniature tool set clatters to the floor. Lock picks. Blade. The signal scrambler.

Shit. I'd forgotten about those. They're just as incriminating as the forgery itself. I drop to my hands and knees, rushing to collect them.

Something's missing, though.

One of the lock picks, I think. There are only seven picks inside the sheath. I usually have eight, don't I?

Maybe I'm wrong. The heat pheromones are messing with my head. Yes, it must be seven. I'm certain now. What could I possibly need with more?

And just like my thoughts of contacting Father, my worry fades. Quickly, I tuck everything back inside my empty sock and rise.

Finally, the clothes are gone. I stand in the middle of the bathroom, nude, except for one last article: the canvas wrapped snugly around my ribcage like a corset. The straps and knots are Blaise's handiwork. I shed them like an old winter coat, wishing I could detach myself from Father and my brothers themselves just as easily.

But where to hide it?

I glance around the en suite, searching for an unsuspecting spot. A towel rack catches my attention.

Perfect.

I snatch one of the bath sheets, roll up the canvas inside it, and shove it—along with my tools—under one of the sinks, behind the plumbing. No one will notice it there. I hope, anyway. Then, it's only me and Mason's pajama shirt. I reach for it with a strange sense of reverence. I've touched silk before—Father's ties, mostly, while ironing—but this feels softer, sleeker than any I've ever felt. It must have been expensive, and yet Mason offered it to me without a second thought. He offered it to me to wear , not to clean and press like a servant. As if I'm good enough to feel it slide against my skin. As if I'm worthy of it.

My bottom lip trembles as I slip the pajama shirt over my head. I've never worn a garment so fine in my life. It soothes my skin on contact, and it smells of him. Which means I smell of him. Mason, my alpha. If only for tonight. I catch my reflection in one of the mirrors, and for a moment, I stare. I almost look … happy.

What if I am worthy after all?

A fresh bead of slick trickles down my thighs, and emptiness gnaws inside me, reminding me that my heat is far from over. As I rush back to the door to find Mason, I push my hopeless dreams from my mind. There is nothing in this world more dangerous than hope, and wishing for anything more from the senator than what we have here and now is the most perilous hope of all.

"You look wonderful in my clothes," Mason murmurs when I open the bedroom door. His eyes drift longingly over me, head to toe. He reaches out to flatten the collar on the nightshirt, folded awkwardly against my throat, and his simple touch sends sparks over my entire body.

"Another wave is coming." I pull him into the room beside me and push the door closed behind us.

He blinks. "Already?"

"Yes. Hurry." Shamelessly, I crawl onto all fours on his bed, ass in the air. The room is comfortable but cool, and I shiver as Mason's nightshirt slides up, exposing my slick-drenched hole. "Please—I don't want to hurt this time."

Mason walks forward slowly, removing the remaining pieces of his tuxedo. I swallow hard, watching over my shoulder, burning hotter by the second. Hotter not only because of the heat. Hotter for him .

First goes his vest. Then, his shirt, his fingertips working over the buttons one by one. They fall to the floor like a breadcrumb trail, revealing more of his moonlight-streaked body as he draws closer. There's the broad, bronze chest I snuck a peek of when he emerged from the pool earlier—and the drum-taut abs—and those ridges where his legs and hips join. Mason drops his pants, and I finally glimpse his heavy, boulder-thick dick bobbing against a pair of muscular thighs. A plump, flushed crown peeks out from his foreskin, already glistening with precum, and my mouth waters as I wish there was time for me to taste him.

My gods, he's the picture of the ideal alpha.

"No, Tristan, I won't let you hurt," Mason says, standing behind me. I can't see his face now, but I can hear reverence in his voice as he reaches out to touch me. His strong hands slide up my thighs before settling on my ass, massaging my cheeks. "I'll make you feel good. I promise."

My hips sway beneath his palms. I'm not sure which feels better: the warmth of his fingertips kneading into my skin or the confidence with which they do so. It barely matters, though. Within seconds, an entirely new sensation replaces them both.

His mouth.

The mattress shifts, and Mason rests an arm across my lower back as he leans in to dot kisses against my ass checks. Light, teasing pecks. Still, I squirm, anticipating what might come next.

"Mason—"

His thumbs part my cheeks at last, and he licks a stripe up my crease, from the back of my sac past my hole. And even though I knew it was coming, I'm completely unprepared. I shiver again—this time for an entirely different reason than the room's temperature. When I whine, he does it a second time, lapping slick from my rim before spearing his tongue inside me.

"Mason!" I cry out his name as my hips pitch forward, eager for more.

No one—not even the omegas I've been with—has lavished my hole with attention like this before. In seconds, my cock is a fountain of precum, leaking on my skin, on the bedding, on Mason's silk nightshirt.

"You're a feast, Tristan," Mason says, drawing back from my channel only briefly. "So sweet, like the nectar of the gods. Do you think you can you come like this, on just my tongue?"

My cock pulses, delighting at the idea. I'm not sure it's possible for me to come with my dick untouched. I've never tried to, but I have a feeling I'm about to find out.

I want to find out.

I only hope my wave will hold long enough to let me.

"Yes … I think so," I tell him.

"Would you like to?"

Without waiting, Mason's tongue slips back into my channel. He can't see me nod, but the way I sink down into the bedding so I can reach back behind me to hold my ass open for myself should tell him all he needs to know.

"Talk to me," I beg as he works my hole with kisses and corkscrews. Fast and slow and always tantalizing. "Say dirty things. Tell me what you're going to do to me. I liked it when you did that downstairs."

He chuckles between my cheeks. The sound reverberates against my rim, and I squirm from the added stimulation.

Odds of coming untouched before: eighty percent.

Odds of coming untouched now: ninety percent—and rising.

"I'm going to taste the deepest parts of you, Tristan," Mason says as he draws back to add a finger to my hole. He licks a swirl around the digit, then pumps it in and out of me. Sparks fly behind my eyes as he finds that bundle of nerves inside my channel. "And when you're cum-soaked and satisfied, I'll roll you onto your side and take off your nightshirt."

A second finger joins the first, then a third, and I mew like a cat. Maybe there's something feline about me after all.

But I still don't have a pussy.

"I'll lick you clean and lay you out bare across the bed, your skin speckled with starlight and shadows. Then, I'll hook your ankles over my shoulder and stroke you while I fuck you."

Mason's fingertips circle over my p-spot again, and I shudder.

"Where?" I ask, panting. "where will you stroke me?"

"Everywhere," he whispers, licking around my stretched-tight rim. "Your abs." Lick. "Your arms." Lick. "Your nipples." Lick. "But especially your cock. I'll hold my release so we can come together, then give you my knot so I can fill you thicker than my fingers are right now."

I pull my cheeks wider, welcoming him. Welcoming it all. "Want that … want you."

Mason withdraws his fingers from my hole and drives his tongue back inside in their place. I thrash as my cock quivers and jolts. Then, cum floods my nightshirt as I cry his name. It doesn't stop until I'm boneless and breathless, moaning and muttering face-down into the bedding, my cock still untouched.

After my orgasm subsides, my alpha does everything else he'd promised.

I'll make you feel good, he'd told me.

And he does exactly that.

Let it be known that Mason Dawes is a man of his word.