5. Mason

5

MASON

I watch him sleep in the moonlight, the rays stretching across the bed through the skylight. So beautiful. So peaceful. How could I have ever been suspicious when I found him in my study? I know I must have had a reason, but it seems so unimportant now, and I can barely remember.

In my world, in this moment, there's only him.

Tristan , he wanted me to call him, and I repeat the name in a whisper. I like it. It suits him. Much more fitting than Henry , though that was fine, too, in its way. The name Tristan sounds like the way love feels. Like wind chimes and sweet dreams and the first swim of the summer.

"Tristan …"

I trace his upper lip with my fingertip, and he makes the softest sound—part moan, part sigh. My chest aches with longing, and I hold him tighter against my side. This is as close as we can get, my cock inside him, his satin-smooth skin pressed to mine. And still, it seems not quite enough.

But then Henry—no, Tristan —pushes back against me, wiggling around my knot, and I swear I sink just a little bit deeper. The alpha in me pounds his fists against his chest with satisfaction. Heat only lasts for a few days. Is it selfish of me to wish it were longer? Maybe I can convince him to stay the whole time—during his recovery, too. I'll be good to him, I swear. Anything he asks for, I'll give him. Anything.

Vincent was right. I want this. I want to settle down. I feel it now more strongly than ever. Luke didn't crush this need in me, the way I'd thought he had.

And I know it's the pheromones' influence, but as I drift off to sleep, part of me thrills at the idea of sharing my life with Tristan himself.

When I wake again, it's to the sound of Tristan's whimper. My knot has gone down, but he's still in my arms, naked and trembling, his head lolling feverishly against the pillow.

Another wave.

My cock stirs, ready for action, but as I become more alert, I realize it's not Tristan's heat causing him to thrash.

He's having a nightmare.

"Father … Father, no … Please!"

I sit up quickly. I let him suffer too long downstairs in my study. I won't make the same mistake twice. Grasping his arm, I give him a gentle shake. "Tristan? Tristan, wake up. You're having a bad dream."

"I'll do anything … anything …"

A lump forms in my throat. The young man beside me—my omega, if only temporarily—is as damaged as he is beautiful, and, worse, his own father is to blame. The alpha inside me bristles.

What did he make you do, Tristan? How did he hurt you?

Then, with an extra pulse of anger, I think, Where can I find him?

But I don't ask any of those questions. A sob slips from Tristan's mouth—those lovely, berry-brushed lips—and I scoop him up to straddle my lap.

"Tristan—Tristan! You're safe. It's all right."

His lashes flutter, and his big, suede-like eyes find mine. Unlike when I carried him upstairs earlier, he doesn't seem so confused. He recognizes me. He knows where he is. For a few seconds, he simply breathes, holding my stare, his slender chest heaving.

"I'm sorry," he whispers at last, exactly as two tears stream down his cheeks. "That happens sometimes. I didn't mean to wake you."

I shake my head and cup his face in my hands. "You have nothing to apologize for." Catching his tears on my thumbs, I swipe them away. Then, I ask him the question I have no right to expect him to answer. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He slumps against me, resting his head on my shoulder. "No … It's all right. I-it's nothing."

The haunted look in his eyes and the way he's still shaking tell me otherwise.

"If you change your mind," I start to say, but I stop myself. He won't change his mind, and why should he? We've only known each other a few hours. The sex makes it easy to forget that we're strangers, but that's what we are. That's all we are.

So, why does it feel like we could easily become more?

Tristan forces a grin. "Just holding me is enough."

And that, I can do.

Laying back down, I brush my fingertips through his hair and press kisses to his forehead. After a moment, his smile eases into one more earnest. He nuzzles against that ticklish spot beneath my chin as if to let me know he's all right, and when I let him get away with it, he giggles.

"Mason?"

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you something?"

I raise a brow, teasing. "You already are."

"Something else, I mean."

"Yes."

"Why don't you like to be tickled?"

I sigh. "It's not that … It's that my Da used to tickle me when I was younger. It feels private—something personal. My life is so public now, and this is one of the few things I get to keep for myself. I know it's a silly thing to hide, but I can't help it."

Tristan's eyes glimmer warmly in the hazy moonlight. "It's not silly. It's sweet."

The subtext is unmistakable: I'm sweet, he means.

"Thank you for sharing that with me," he adds. "I won't tell anyone."

I chuckle, imagining the ridiculous headlines if the media were to unearth this secret .

Down with Dawes? It Just Takes a Tickle.

Opposition to Dawes: Coochie Coo, I'll Tickle You!

Arden Future at Risk over Tickle Fits

"I'd appreciate that," I admit with a sigh. "Vincent's busy enough swatting away all the rumors that circulate about my family. We don't need to add more clickbait to the pile."

"Vincent?"

"My assistant. He's the older omega who always stays nearby. You can meet him tomor?—"

I catch myself. Tomorrow, I almost said. But we don't have tomorrow, do we? We only have tonight. I can't keep forgetting that.

"—sometime," I correct. "If you want. If you're still here."

Tristan nods. He rolls onto his side then, facing away, his ass pressed against my groin. Whole minutes pass by in silence. Maybe I've scared him by pushing too hard. Maybe I've made him feel like he has to stay. Should I tell Tristan I didn't mean it like that? That I respect his decision to leave, if he wishes? After everything that happened with Luke, I feel so unsure.

"Mason?"

His voice cuts through my worries, and I'm all too eager to answer.

"Yes?"

"Can you … put your cock inside me again?"

I startle. "But your wave has passed, Tristan. My knot's gone down. I can't give you another yet. We need the pheromones."

"I know. I want to feel you anyway. It relaxes me to have you there … Please?"

My heart squeezes. "I … sure. Of course."

I reach between my legs to pump myself back to hardness, but Tristan's already craning his arm behind himself to do it. His palm wraps around my cock like it was made for it. The contour of his fingertips notching perfectly against a vein. The ideal amount of pressure when he squeezes. The right amount of friction when he strokes. In seconds, my body is soaring, a rocket approaching the stratosphere.

This is the first time he's touching me, I realize. Before—downstairs and earlier, after he undressed—he didn't place hands on me. There was no time; his heat was too intense, our sex too frenzied. And if we're this good together now, how much better could we be with more time together?

It's a shame I'm a coward, too frightened to ask.

"Tell me," he whispers as he guides my tip between his cheeks and into his hole, and I know what he wants at once.

"I'm going to stay here, Tristan," I say as slick and heat and the sticky remains of cum from my last orgasm envelop my dick. He releases my shaft, and I roll my hips against his ass, thrusting deeper. "I'm going to stay here, now and for the rest of the night. And whenever I go soft, I'll fuck your hole just enough to get hard again. Just enough to keep you wet. Then, when your next wave arrives, we'll both be ready. I'll turn you onto your back so I can watch your face when you come. And when you do, I'll lace your fingertips with mine, hold you down, and tell you how beautiful you are. Would you like that?"

"Very much." His voice is little more than a breathless whimper. He tilts his head toward me, then gives me another first—our first real kiss.

By the time the sun rises, Tristan's had another heat wave, another orgasm, and another nightmare. Reluctantly, I leave him while he naps. I wrap myself in a bathrobe and head downstairs to the kitchen in silence. My omega will be hungry when he wakes up, and I need coffee. I've just poured out the grounds when someone clears their throat behind me.

Okay, not someone . Vincent. I can tell without even turning. I've known him so long the irritation in any sound he makes seems as loud as a scream.

"Entertaining a visitor, Senator?"

The coffeemaker gurgles to life and begins to brew, so I have no excuse to keep my back to him any longer. When I glance over my shoulder, I see him standing in the doorway, a cup of tea in his hand, as alert as someone who's been up for hours.

I've never understood early risers. It's a habit I can never get the hang of.

I sigh. It was inevitable he'd find out about Tristan at some point, I suppose—if not from the moaning and thumping from my end of the upstairs hallway last night, then whenever the morning staff arrives and someone leaks news about my guest to the media.

"Who is he?" One of Vincent's brows rises, and he takes a sip of his tea, staring at me with an innocence he doesn't possess.

"He is an omega."

"So I gathered." He gives me a smug grin. "An alpha's tastes rarely run otherwise."

Rolling my eyes, I ignore him. "He's one of the extra catering staff hired to work last night."

Vincent sets his cup on the corner, and his lips purse. "That's dangerous ground, Mason. Sleeping with an employee."

"A temporary employee," I remind him.

Good gods, how long until this coffee is done? I'm not awake enough yet to have this conversation.

"Even so."

"He went into heat unexpectedly. I couldn't send him home like that." The coffeemaker hisses and beeps. Cycle complete. Finally. I reach for a mug from the neighboring cabinet and quickly pour a cup. Usually, I prefer my coffee with cream. Today, I need it stronger. Today, I'll take it black.

"No, I guess you couldn't." Vincent jams his hands in his pockets while he thinks. He's already dressed for the day, wearing a gray, well-tailored suit. I've never seen him in anything but formal attire. Sometimes, I wonder if he owns pajamas or jeans at all.

"We should get out in front of this," he adds. "I'll clear your schedule for the rest of the week and advise any unnecessary staff to avoid your room and the north wing in general."

I still don't know how long Tristan will stay. We've discussed him leaving after every wave of his heat, yet there always seems a reason for him not to go—exhaustion, the lateness of the hour … and now there seems to be this pull between us. Magnetic. A force like nothing I've felt before, not even with Luke.

It's time for me to stop indulging my fears. I'd like Tristan to stay. If he wants to, I'll let him.

Grinning to myself, I reach for some citrus out of the bowl on the counter and start peeling segments to feed to Tristan when he wakes. Vincent keeps going on about his plans to mitigate media gossip, but as I assemble a plate, all I can think about is how luscious Tristan will look with those fruit juices dribbling down his chin.

I can't wait to lick them off him.

"All that sounds excellent, Vincent." I've finished the platter and am practically bouncing on my heels to get back to Tristan. Rudely, I head toward the door. My omega awaits me. "Just knock if you have any questions—oh, and please ask Jack to have two breakfasts sent to my room later, when he gets here."

Vincent finally stops talking, but instead of frowning and accusing me of being rude, he grins. "You like him, don't you, Mason?"

No senator this time. I'm merely Mason.

I give a quick nod. My cheeks burn to know he sees me so clearly. "Too much, I'm afraid."

And he smirks.