16. Dante

SIXTEEN

Dante

Tristan is so fucking angry with me, maybe the angriest he's ever been. The plug interested him or he would've fought me earlier. He didn't dig in his heels until he saw the door. Until he saw the people.

Fuck the people. Why should he care about these assholes waltzing around the banquet room with their champagne glasses? I don't think he actually does. He only cares about performing his act to control the kind of attention that he receives, which generally means minimizing it. He thinks I've made that harder for him.

He's wrong though. He was nervous, hung up on the idea that he doesn't belong here. Now he's not thinking about that at all, and every hint of self-consciousness is gone. He's focused on me, and that's what I want.

I fucking love his attention. I love when he's furious with me. I love when he's desperate for me. Right now, he's both—and I haven't even started fucking with him. He has no idea what I have in my pocket.

Of course this little game isn't just for his benefit. I need something to focus on so I don't lose my shit here. And there is nothing I'd rather focus on than Tristan's perfect ass.

Not just his ass. I love his face too, especially when he's glaring at me like he is now as I hand him a glass of champagne. That glare is pretty glassy. He's aroused as hell. His cheeks are flushed. His lips are parted.

Those lips. Just the right shade of pink. Just the right shape. I feel a sudden, overwhelming urge to kiss him. Really kiss him. Lips, tongue, teeth. I want to devour that mouth.

What the hell is happening to me with him? The idea of kissing usually makes me want to throw up. I can't even watch it in movies.

"So this is a hospital fundraiser or something?" Tristan asks, watching the city's rich mingle and congratulate themselves.

I settle against the wall and pretend to sip my champagne. "So it seems."

Tristan gives me a sharp look. "What does that mean?"

I'm shocked that he can think critically enough to catch my sarcasm. Either that plug isn't big enough or he's just that damn smart. It pisses me off that he doesn't seem to regard himself that way. We're not done with that topic.

"It means that everyone is here to raise money for expanding Mercy Hospital—because they'd rather have that happen than see clinics go up in their gentrified neighborhoods."

"Is that why you're here?"

"No."

That's all I give him. I won't tell him the truth, which is that I'm here because I caved when my mother pleaded with me. I'm here because I haven't seen her in over a year, and it's easier to see her at something like this than somewhere more private.

And here she comes.

I don't realize I've tensed until Tristan gives me a look then follows my gaze to the approaching woman in a black silk dress and sparkling diamonds. Her light brown hair, untouched by gray, looks like her natural color, but who knows. I don't see her that often. But there's no way a woman in her late fifties looks thirty-six without dermal fillers.

"My mother," I mutter and straighten from the wall.

"Oh, shit."

Tristan takes an instinctive step backwards. I put my hand against his lower back, just above his ass. He glares at me, remembering that he's pissed.

I soak that into myself and let it ease the churning in my gut.

My mother does her best to maintain her polished smile, but I can see the strain in it. I can see the unhappiness in her eyes. Her hands tighten on her clutch as though she's holding herself back from touching me. She knows it wouldn't go well.

"Dante," she greets me.

"Hello, Mother. This is Tristan. Tristan, this is my mother, Natalie Adesso."

Her eyes jump to him. She knows I'm gay, but she's never seen me with someone. She smiles at him, "Hello, Tristan, it's so nice to meet you."

"You too, Mrs. Adesso."

"Please call me Natalie."

When Tristan shifts uncomfortably, I ask, "How are you, Mother?"

Her smile is genuine, if a little sad. "I'm … yes. I'm so happy to see you."

She rocks toward me. I know she can't help herself, but I can't help myself either when I growl at her. She rocks back, correcting the movement.

"Are you … well?" she asks, like nothing just happened.

Anger spikes. That's how it always is. Nothing just happened.

I can't answer. I can't handle it. I shouldn't have come here.

Tristan touches my wrist, and I'm shocked, utterly shocked, that I don't wrench away. In fact, I'm able to take a breath. I'm able to say, "I'm fine, Mother."

Her eyes are locked on Tristan's fingers curled around my wrist. He notices and lets go.

"So what have you been doing?" she asks.

Fuck, this is agonizing. It would've been kinder to refuse to come. She must hate this too.

"Just business," I say.

She smiles a little. "You're just like your father." She winces, instantly realizing it's the wrong thing to say. "I should go rescue him from the Board of Directors. I left him surrounded. Come say hello, if you get a chance."

"I will," I lie. Then I lie again, "It's good to see you, Mother."

"You too, Dante. Thank you for coming. Nice to meet you, Tristan."

"You too, Mrs. Ad—I mean, Natalie."

When she's gone, Tristan says cautiously, "She seems … nice."

"Yeah," I say sourly. "She's nice."

Then I see my father across the room. He sees me too. We both look away and pretend it didn't happen.

Nothing happened.

Nothing fucking happened.

My skin is tight and itchy. I'm too hot. I'm buzzing. I want to scream. At my father. At my mother. At everyone here.

Instead, I take Tristan's glass from him and set it on the tray of a passing server. He frowns at me, but he'll be grateful in a second. Well, maybe not grateful, but he'll understand. If he's able to think. I reach inside my pocket and hit the button on the remote.

Tristan's body convulses. By some miracle, he stays silent, but he bites his lip. His eyes fly wide, then he gives me a look of absolute fury. The storm inside me calms. I smirk at him as I turn the vibration off.

"You fucking prick," he grits out.

"You can stab me later."

"Count on it."

I grin and let the staff usher us toward our table. When Tristan settles in his chair, a little shudder goes through his body. I lost my erection when I saw my mother, but it's coming back.

I've made sure I'm seated next to Jon Evers, a real estate developer who's in negotiations with Lorenzo Capelli's construction company. If I can turn him against Capelli, maybe get him to hire Noah instead, he'll be the third one this year.

But I can multitask. I periodically turn on the vibration. It's on its lowest setting, but it still makes Tristan's back arch. Under the table, I clamp my hand on his thigh. His muscles are tight. He's trembling.

My dick hardens further as I nod along with Evers while he complains about zoning. I turn up the vibration.

Pain slices white hot into my forearm. I almost react to it. Well, I do react, actually. I turn the vibration up again.

I've almost persuaded Evers to meet with me more formally at my office later this week when Tristan yanks the knife free. He gets up from the table, pulling out from under my hand, and hurries away.

I turn the vibration off. Excusing myself, I follow Tristan through the banquet hall. We're not the only ones on the move, but a lot of eyes follow us. Mostly me. I knew Tristan would be the better actor. Even with the state he's in, he has a practiced invisibility. He slides through the hall with quiet subtlety.

I, on the other hand, am tracking him like a fucking animal. There's no subtlety in my body language. I might be invisible in a dark alley, but not here.

I was never good at faking. I can only manage it for short periods, and only because I know that everything I'm locking away will have a chance to be unleashed.

My parents should be grateful to Noah instead of hating him. What they wanted, for me to pretend that nothing happened, that two years in hell could be shut away behind a locked door and cease to exist, was impossible.

I can either choose my outlet and somewhat control how I unleash myself, or shit will just happen. Like the night I almost killed my father.

Noah understood that. The day I turned eighteen, he was waiting outside my parents' building. He saved my life. He probably saved a lot of other lives too. Sort of. The body count is still about the same, but at least the rules dictate which bodies.

The rules with Tristan are different. That's a different outlet. A different part of me. One that's also fucked up. It's not like I don't know that.

That's why I need rules. That's why I needed him to sign the contract. That's why he has, through his safe word, the final word. The ultimate control.

But that's all I can offer him, that with that word I'll stop. But until that word crosses his lips, he's mine.

I'm both thrilled and furious that he's trying to escape me now. My cock is rock hard. It shouldn't be too obvious in these pants, but I don't actually care if it is. All that matters right now is catching Tristan.

I've closed a lot of the distance between us, but he still gets through the doorway ahead of me. I almost break into a run, but I hold back until I reach the hallway—then I really chase him.

At the sound of my footsteps, he breaks into a run. He reaches the bathroom ahead of me. I can't let him get that door locked, so the instant he throws it open and darts inside, I hit the button on the remote.

My dick jumps when he cries out. I easily catch the door before it shuts. I find Tristan on the floor.

"Fuck you, you fucking prick!" he snarls at me from his curled up position.

I turn off the vibration and lock the door. It's a private bathroom, low lit and spacious, empty except for us.

I hook an arm around Tristan's middle and haul him up. He doesn't fight me as I yank off his jacket then haul him toward the sink. He half collapses against the counter. He's trembling there, his eyes sheened with frustrated tears, as I reach around him to undo his pants. I clamp a hand on the back of his neck as I yank them and his underwear down. Blood drips from my under my sleeve onto his neck.

I admire the base of the plug sitting flush against his hole.

"I hate you," he gasps as I twist it inside him.

"Why?" I ask. My cock is raging for sex, but I'm calmer now, calmer than I have been all day, maybe for several days.

He glares at me in the mirror. "Why do you think, you asshole?"

His anger doesn't stop him from moaning as I pull the plug slowly from his ass, watching, captivated, as his hole stretches hugely around the bulb of the teardrop. When I pull it free, his hole flutters. His body convulses. I set the plug on the counter, standing it up so he can see the slick, glistening thing that's been pleasuring him for the last hour and a half.

I want to finger his hole. It's sloppy with lube, so fucking tempting. But I need to answer his question first.

I haul him upright, hooking one arm around his torso, lightly holding the other at his throat. The mirror goes low enough to reflect back to him the sight of his own cock, stiff, flushed and leaking. It juts up in front of his crisp shirt and white waistcoat.

"I think you hate me because I see the truth of you, and I make you see it too. And it's hard to come to terms with the fact that what you really want, what you really need, is base and raw and fucking primitive."

Tristan's eyes are tormented, but they're dry now. He swallows hard. I feel it against my hand.

He doesn't want to believe me. That's fine. I can prove it.

I take my hand away from his throat to undo my pants and shove everything down, baring my stiff, aching cock. Then I yank his hips back. He bends over, clutching at the counter. His eyes squeeze shut as I set my cockhead against his slick, sloppy hole.

I wait. It's not easy. I want to slam straight into his tight heat, but I wait.

And he does exactly what I expect. He starts to push back. His hole starts to stretch around my fat tip. He's panting. He's shaking.

I've tortured him enough. I impale him with a single, hard thrust. He lets out a sharp cry and I groan freely, throwing my head back, reveling in the hot, slick grip on my cock.

Then I start to fuck him. It's rough and raw. The sound of my cock in his lubed ass is sloppy and filthy and perfect. His moans are punctuated by each hard thrust into his body. I'm grunting like a fucking animal as I rut inside him.

I catch a brief glimpse of myself in the mirror. My eyes are wild. My jaw is clenched. I'm fucking him with deep, brutal thrusts. But it's mostly Tristan I watch. He's taking me beautifully. Tears are streaming from behind his squeezed-shut eyelids. His mouth is open. His body is jerking with every thrust.

"Open your eyes," I tell him. He obeys me automatically. "Look how beautiful you are, look how fucking free you are." My words are punctuated with thrusts, with cries, with the perfect, filthy sound of my cock moving in his ass.

I haul him upright so he can see his own leaking cock. I turn us slightly so he can see mine as it punches up into him—and he starts to come. The upward spurt of his ejaculation, the sight of it leaping from the flared tip of his stiff cock, is so fucking erotic that I absolutely lose it. I slam him down against the counter and unleash myself on his ass. I'm coming within seconds, pumping hard and hot inside him as his ass fists my spurting cock.

My orgasm wracks my body with heavy pulses. I strain against him, my pelvis flush against his ass as I spill hotly inside him. Tristan moans as my pulsing cock milks the last of his orgasm from him.

Aftershocks have me shuddering against him, riding the bliss of my release. I feel so fucking good. Everything in me is quiet for a second.

I think I half pass out or drift off or something because when Tristan starts to slump, I jolt a little. His whole body is loose. He was so fucking good for me. He was perfect.

I start stroking the back of his neck, but it's not enough. I need more of him. I start to pull out, making him whine. When only the head of my cock is inside him, I grab the plug. I press it against his hole as my cock slides free. I love the way he reacts as I push the plug into him once more. I love his whine. I love the way his hole stretches to take the toy. I love that it holds my cum inside him.

I quickly fix my pants, then I dampen a towel and clean him up around the edges of the plug. I pull him up from his slump against the counter so I can clean his cock. He makes little sounds of distress as the cloth brushes his overly sensitized tip.

"It's okay," I murmur. "I'm almost done."

I drop the cloth on the counter and get his underwear and pants back up. I keep a hand on his hip as I clean up his cum. He blew so hard that it's everywhere. Then I toss the cloth in the bin and guide Tristan over to a padded bench. He's so out of it that he lets me pull him down crosswise onto my lap.

He's shuddering, his body rocking against me. He'll be hard again soon with that plug inside him. Holding my cum. My cock stirs at the thought.

"It's okay," I murmur again, holding him, enjoying holding him. His face tucks against my throat. For some reason, I like that too.

We stay there for a long while before either of us is ready to get up. I keep expecting a knock on the door, but it never happens.

Tristan makes a little sound of distress as he stands. He turns his face into me again. I pet his hair.

"We're going home. I'll take it out then."

He nods against my chest. Why does it feel so good?

I'm still dripping blood, which I've gotten all over his vest and shirt. I hand him his jacket so he can cover the mess.

At the sink, I take off my own jacket so I can wrap a washcloth around my bleeding forearm. He got me good.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I'll fix it at home."

"You're bleeding a lot."

"It's fine."

"You're not mad?"

"Of course not. You were well within your rights."

"You're so fucking weird."

"I know."

He snorts softly and starts cleaning my blood from the counter, like I cleaned up his cum. When he bends over to clean blood off the floor, he groans. I have to close my eyes as my body rocks with fresh desire. I want to touch him, but if I do, I'll start fucking him again.

He tosses the bloodstained cloth in the trash then fixes his hair. "Fuck, I look high," he says.

He does. His eyes are all glassy and dark.

"You look beautiful," I tell him.

He smiles a little. It's hesitant. He never quite knows what to do when I tell him he's beautiful.

I pull my jacket back on, covering the blood. I send Kenzie a text.

As we leave the bathroom, I see why no one has knocked on the door despite how long we were in there, despite the noise we must have made. Dominic Capelli is standing outside.

Lorenzo's only son is around my age. He's at least my size, handsome as shit, and an absolute prick.

"Have a nice fuck, faggots?"

A knife flashes in Tristan's hand. I catch his wrist, twisting him around and taking the steak knife from him.

It's not that Dominic doesn't deserve it, but I don't want Tristan involved in my shit with the Capellis. I slip the knife up my sleeve and tuck Tristan into my side.

I head down the hallway, calling back, "Don't slip on the cum while you enjoy your hand, Dominic."

"Fuckin' fag."

Tristan tries to pull away from me, so I let Dominic stew instead of punishing his filthy mouth. I'll deal with him later.

But it's more than that, I realize as I take Tristan through the grand, sprawling lobby. I don't really care about Dominic right now. I don't even care that I didn't finish working on the real estate developer.

All I want is to get Tristan home.