10. Tristan

TEN

Tristan

I wake alone. For a while, I just lie there. My ass is sore. I was fucked three times last night. That fact is so strange to me. I experienced intense orgasms while another man pounded his cock in my ass. Not just another man. Dante. Dante fucked me roughly, dominantly, almost possessively. I fought him on it. I stabbed him. He wouldn't quit. He bulldozered past my boundaries, and I loved it. Is there something wrong with me?

I'm getting hard just thinking about it. Is that okay?

Does it even matter? No one cares what I do. Who's going to judge me except myself?

I sit up and look around the room. It's huge. Pretty sparse though. There's no furniture except the nightstands. No dresser because there's a walk-in closet. A sliding glass door opens onto a little patio with a single lounge chair, and I can see there are steps down to a level below.

When I throw the sheets aside, I spot a bloodstain on the white cotton about where Dante's leg would have been. I get up and use the bathroom, noticing that he's cleaned everything up. There's a pair of black warmups and a white t-shirt on the counter. I put them on. They're too big but not unmanageable.

I leave the bedroom, which is part of the loft. It looks out over the living room, which is flooded with daylight. There's only one other room on this level, and I can hear the sound of typing coming from it. I go to the open doorway and find myself peering into a tidy office.

Dante is working at a computer. He looks serious and focused, and I enjoy my brief moment of looking at him while he's not looking at me. It's different to watch him when his gaze isn't dominating me. He's very attractive. Masculine but refined. In his black t-shirt, he looks the slightest bit rugged, especially with the shadow of a beard.

"Good morning," I say when he looks up.

"Afternoon," he replies.

"Oh. I spose so."

"Let me finish this, then I'll make breakfast."

"Okay."

I leave him alone because I can tell he wants me to. I go downstairs. The kitchen has been cleaned. The sandwiches are gone. The knife that was embedded in the floor is gone, though there's a gouge in the hardwood. The cum I shot all over the side of the island is also gone.

I'm still staring at all of it, thinking about what happened here, when I hear Dante on the stairs. I hear him because he lets out a small but unmistakable sound of pain.

I frown as I watch him limp down the stairs. Last night, I was mostly shocked that I'd done it. But now, seeing him in pain, I feel bad.

"Don't look at me like that," he says as he reaches the bottom. "It's fine. It's just the stairs that are hard."

"I'm—"

" Don't apologize. That's not a thing we're going do."

When I take a noisy, irritated breath, he looks amused. He doesn't limp as much once he's off the stairs. He goes into the kitchen and starts making coffee.

"Sit down," he says as he gets the machine going.

For some reason, I sit in the same chair I sat in last night. The cum I leaked all over it is gone, of course, but my cock plumps again at the memory. It was all so unapologetically filthy.

As he starts getting out ingredients, he asks, "How bad is it?"

"How bad is what?"

"Your ass. Are you bleeding?"

My face flushes. "No."

"Good. We still won't fuck until tonight. I know you're sore."

"I'm fi—"

"No one can get fucked like that without being sore."

I decide to change the subject. "You cook? I thought rich people had private chefs."

"I don't like having people in my place."

"Oh."

I squirm uncomfortably. Does he want me to leave? I can't tell. He just starts chopping vegetables.

"What are you making?"

"Omelets."

"Do you want help?"

"Are you a good cook?"

"No."

"Then you should just stay out of the way. The coffee's ready though."

Relieved to have something to do, I go to look for a mug. I'm behind him. In his kitchen with him. It's a weird mixture of distance and intimacy. When I can't find the mugs, he comes to help me. I want him to touch me, but he doesn't. He gets out two large, dark gray mugs and sets them on the counter.

"Do you want me to leave?" I ask.

He looks angry, threatening. "No. You can't leave."

"I just feel like …" I cross my arms. "Like you don't want me here."

I'm not sure what I'm seeing in his eyes until he swallows hard and says, "I do want you here. This … I'm not good at this. It's hard."

I instantly relax. It's vulnerability I see in his eyes. I've never seen it in him before, so I didn't recognize it. He's struggling.

I'm not usually a warm person myself, but my hand seems to have a mind of its own as it reaches out and covers his. He jumps a little. He almost pulls away. Then his hand turns, his palm meeting mine. He stares at our hands almost in confusion. He grips mine like he's testing it.

I let him explore it. When he pulls away, I let him go. He swallows hard again. He's frowning.

And I thought I had trouble with human interaction.

He pours coffee into the mugs. I'm not surprised when he drinks his black, and he apparently anticipates me as well because he gets out the cream and sugar without me having to ask.

Somehow, Dante multitasks well enough to have toast ready at the same time as my omelet. It makes me strangely happy when he slides it to me. I think it's the nicest thing anyone has ever made for me.

"Oh fuck," I mutter around a mouthful.

"Good?"

"It's fuckin' killer."

He smiles, obviously pleased. He's cooking his own now. He sips his coffee while he fiddles with the heat on the stove. God, he's attractive.

"What?" he asks when he notices me watching him.

I admit, "It's just weird to me, being attracted to a man."

"It doesn't seem to bother you though. Some people freak out."

"Other men you've been with?" The question comes out of fucking nowhere and so does my irritation.

He flips his omelet and studies me. He doesn't press me on the question, but that almost makes it worse. He's thinking about it, like he's figuring out what it means. But even I don't know what it means, and I want to move on from it.

"I need to go back to my place later. I'll have to change. I have work tonight."

"Kenzie will take you because I have to go into the office, but you'll actually be packing up your things to bring them here."

When I stare at him uncomprehendingly, he clarifies, "You're staying here now."

My heart skips. This is big. Huge. And totally unexpected. I hedge, "I thought you didn't like people being here."

"That's different."

"Oh. What if I don't want to stay here?" I'm not sure how I feel about this.

He plates his omelet and fixes me with his dark, intent gaze. "Then you'll have to say your safe word. Otherwise, it's happening."