13. Tristan

THIRTEEN

Tristan

"No," I say as Dante holds up another overpriced t-shirt. His eyes narrow. Seeming to realize that I'm just going to veto everything in this ridiculous store, he decides to do what always does: whatever the hell he wants.

He ignores me as I stand sullenly at the end of a rack. I hate everything about this. I wouldn't have even agreed to set foot in this offensively expensive place if I'd realized we were here to shop for me .

Dante lets the attendant take his selections back to the dressing room. Her high heels click across the polished floor.

Dante comes to loom over me. He's only a few inches taller than I am, but he still manages to loom. We're both wearing jeans and t-shirts, but he's got a sexy-as-shit leather motorcycle jacket over his. Even without that, the cut of his clothes and the obvious quality, not to mention everything about his general vibe, shows that he belongs here. I don't.

It's different at Lush. I can play my role there because I have a role to play. Here, I'm obviously just the low-class … what? Not boyfriend. Piece of ass? I suppose that's what I am. And yet … Dante moved my things into his place.

As furious as I am about that, part of me is pleased. Not that I'm going to tell Dante that. And, yeah, I know that's insane, but that's par for the course here.

Dante whispers in my ear. "You're going to come back to the dressing room, or we're going to make a scene in this store."

I shiver, both at his nearness and at the threat. Someone else might bluff about something like that, but Dante doesn't make idle threats.

I go with him to the dressing room. At least there we'll have more privacy to argue.

The dressing room is nothing like the thrift store dressing rooms I'm used to. Instead of glaring overhead lights, distorted mirrors, and walls so close you can't get into a shirt without banging your elbows, this dressing room looks like it belongs to a movie star.

"What's the fucking problem?" Dante asks as soon as the door closes behind us.

"This isn't my kind of place."

"Your work wardrobe suggests otherwise."

"That's different."

"Why, because you stole all those things?"

I jolt. How the hell did he figure that out? "I didn't—"

"How did you manage that without coming into a place like this?"

My eyes dart around. What if there are cameras in here? "Maybe we could discuss this another time?"

"Relax," he says, as though he isn't grinning wickedly. "Try on the clothes."

"No."

His nostrils flare. He's getting pissed. But I'm angry too.

I say, "We wouldn't need to be here if you hadn't thrown out half my clothes."

"I'm replacing them."

"That's not the point."

He stalks toward me. I back away until I hit the wall by the door. The clothes—beautiful, expensive clothes that, yes, I love and, yes, are far better than what he discarded from my apartment—are hanging a mere foot away.

Dante cages me in, his hands planting on the either side of me. His dark eyes bore into mine. "So what's the point?"

I stare right back. "You fucked with my things."

"I didn't break the rules."

"Bullshit."

I'm tempted to remind him that he backed down last night after talking to Noah. I still don't know who the hell Noah is, but he's obviously important to Dante. He also, obviously, has some control over Dante. I'm shocked to think that anyone has any control over him.

I'm also shocked, given that dynamic, that Dante gave me Noah as my emergency contact. No wonder Kenzie reacted like she did when she saw his name on the contract.

I'm desperate to know about Noah, but I don't want to bring up the power play I made last night. I still can't believe I called a total stranger at 4 a.m., but it was better than the alternative. Using the safe word was out of the question, and I didn't want to give in. It was mostly a matter of principle. I couldn't let Dante get away with what he'd done.

When I realized this morning that he'd actually thrown out some of my clothes, all my anger came rushing back. So here we are.

"Fine," he grits out. He grabs the clothes, opens the door, and tosses them out. I gape at him, shocked that he would do that in a store like this. Then he locks the door and cages me against the wall again.

My heart skips when he unbuttons my jeans. Blood flows to my cock as he slides my zipper down. Is he actually going to fuck me in this dressing room?

He bends like he's going to kiss me, but instead his teeth close gently on my throat. I barely swallow down the moan that tries to escape as my cock thickens.

His hands glide under my t-shirt. His thumbs brush my nipples as he bites my throat harder. My body arches into him. A sound of pleasure rumbles from him, vibrating against my throat.

He draws back to push my shirt up. As I pull it off, he sinks to his knees before me. He pulls my pants open and watches as my cock swells against the navy fabric of my briefs. Then he unties my shoes. He tugs them off. I let him. On a certain level, I'm horrified by the thought of him fucking me in here. On another, I'm strangely thrilled.

I can't believe how quickly I've come to crave having his cock in my ass.

Maybe I should be angry with him for leaving me tied up for so long last night, for edging me until I was begging. But I loved it. The way he took control of me. The way he possessed me. The way he made me come.

When my feet are bare, he tugs my pants down. By now my dick is a hard rod, pressing against my underwear.

"Hmm," he murmurs as he squeezes my ass. "There's something about this I don't like. All this fabric."

His hands slide around to my groin. He traces the outline of my cock. My hips press forward with a mind of their own.

He gazes up at me. His dark eyes are seductive. "Don't you think there's something wrong with this picture?"

" Yes ."

His smile is wicked, and I love it. He tugs my underwear down. My cock springs out. As he pulls my underwear off, our reflection catches my eye. It looks like a seduction by the devil. Dante is on his knees but wholly in control. His gorgeous face with that wicked, knowing smile, is inches from my stiff, naked dick. I watch in the mirror as Dante's mouth opens. His tongue extends and he licks the underside of my cock in a long, slow stroke.

Fuuuuuck.

I look down as he reaches my tip. His lips close on it and he sucks. My head thumps against the wall as my eyes roll back.

Dante is usually so aggressive, so dominant. I love that about him—I need that from him—but I love this too. His seduction.

Then he pulls a piece of red cloth from his jacket pocket. He holds it up. It's a lacy red thong. I stare at it uncomprehendingly. He grabs my ankle and pulls. I resist.

"I'm not wearing that."

"Yes, you are."

"Fuck no."

"You're not leaving this dressing room without wearing something I've picked. You refused the clothes, so you'll wear this instead."

My heart starts racing. "Fine, we can get a shirt or something."

"Do you see any shirts?"

Shit. That's why he threw them out. "You were planning this all along. You knew—"

"I didn't know what you'd do. You surprise me all the time, Tristan. But I was prepared, just in case."

A pathetic little part of me is pleased that I surprise him, but I can't give in to that.

"You can't make me wear that."

"I think I can. Because I think you'll prefer it to your alternative. But I guess we'll see."

I'm breathing hard. I'm getting more pissed by the second. But the fucked up thing is … my cock is still stiff as shit.

"So what's the alternative?"

"The alternative," he reaches up and grips my sac, "is me fucking you in this dressing so hard that everyone in this store hears how you moan and scream when my cock's in your ass. Then you can wear my cum instead."

The idea is absolutely horrifying, and yet a delicious shudder wracks my body. My cock twitches. When a bead of precum forms at my slit, Dante sweeps his tongue across it. Lust shoots down my spine.

As hard as I am, I'm not sure where I thought this was going. As hard as I am, I'm not sure what I want.

When Dante tugs at my ankle again, I let him lift my foot. He guides it through the leg opening. Then he does the other. He takes his time sliding the thong up to my hips. He parts my cheeks to settle the string in the crack of my ass. He tucks my balls into the front triangle of cloth. It's cut full enough for them to fit. It even stretches to accommodate my hard cock. This thong is meant for a man. But it's lacy and semi-sheer. Feminine despite its cut.

Dante stands and tugs me away from the wall. He turns me so I'm facing the mirror, with him behind me. I can feel the ridge of his cock through his jeans. His arms wrap around me, hands splaying possessively over my chest and belly. I stare at my reflection, barely comprehending the sight of myself in a lacy red thong with my cock swelling the front of it.

"Mmm," he murmurs near my ear. "Beautiful."

Is it? Am I? I feel so strange. So confused. At least, my head is confused. My body doesn't seem to be.

I jump when I hear footsteps clicking toward our door. "Sir?" calls a woman's voice from outside it. "Can I get you another size or style?"

"No," Dante replies, holding me still against my instinct to scramble. "Nothing worked out today. Another time perhaps."

"Yes, sir." I hear the sound of clothes being gathered up and shaken out, then her heels go clicking away.

Despite his words, Dante looks like everything worked out exactly like he wanted.

* * *

I shift uncomfortably in my seat on the café patio. I'm hyperaware of what I'm wearing under my jeans. My erection is gone, leaving my aching balls cupped by the red lace. The texture of the fabric feels strange against my dick, and I'm not used to having a string between my ass cheeks.

I don't look at Dante sitting across from me eating his steak and eggs. I focus on my pancakes. Every time I look at him, I see him standing behind me in the dressing room, his lips at my ear, his hands on my bare torso, and my hard cock stretching the semi-sheer red lace.

It's fucking with my head. I didn't like seeing myself that way. And yet, somehow, weirdly, I did.

"So how did you acquire your clothes?" Dante asks as he settles back, apparently finished with his meal.

I glance around. There are a few other diners on the shady patio, and people are walking by on the tree-lined sidewalk.

"No one's paying attention to us." Dante, like the asshole he is, sounds amused.

"Off the trucks," I reply quietly, hoping we can leave it at that.

"How'd you manage that?"

For the first time since we left the dressing room, I look at Dante fully. What I mean to do is glare at him, but what happens is that I notice his loose, very male body language, and I notice, by contrast, how I'm sitting. My legs are together and crossed at the ankles. My back is slightly arched. I don't usually sit like this. It's the fucking thong. It's shifted something inside me.

As if that's not bad enough, I'm getting hard again. It's so fucking confusing.

"Tell me," Dante insists.

I blink. It takes me a second to remember what he wants to know. Oh right. How I stole the clothes. Same way I stole my computer.

"Why do you want to know?"

"I'm extremely curious."

I want to refuse because I'm so angry with him, but there's something about the way he's looking at me, something about his attention, that brings the answer to my lips.

"I studied the stores and their shipping schedules. I found their weak points between their warehouses and storefronts. Goods are easily lost in transit and records easily changed."

I see him thinking through my answer and filling in a bunch of blanks. "You're a hacker."

"Not really, but I know a few things."

Dante smiles. I think it's only the second time I've seen a real smile on his face and, holy shit, he's gorgeous.

"You like that, huh?" I ask.

"I do."

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You have a very skewed sense of right and wrong."

"I know."

"You do?" I didn't expect him to agree with me. Most people find ways to justify the things they do.

"Yes. That's why I have rules."

"But you make the rules."

"Most of them, yes."

"But Noah makes some of them?"

Dante's smile is gone. His eyes are hard. He's thinking about what I did last night.

"Who's Noah?" I ask.

"All you need to know is that in an emergency—and actual fucking emergency—he will help you."

"He'll help me … with you."

I expect him to get angry, to threaten me with something. Instead, I watch some struggle play out in his eyes. Then he says quietly, "Yes."