3. Tristan

THREE

Tristan

It's another Friday night at Lush, and I haven't seen Dante since he cornered me in the cellar last weekend. He told me I'd figure it out, but I haven't. Except that, yeah, apparently I'm attracted to him.

I've had almost a week to come to terms with the idea that I might be … what, bi? Gay? It doesn't bother me, but I'm still confused. What am I supposed to do about it?

I don't even know how to date women. I sure as hell don't know how to date men. Do I even want to? Do I want to have sex with men?

I watched some gay porn as a kind of test. It got me hard. I started stroking myself. But I had to turn off the screen so I could play out a different scenario in my mind.

I pictured the cellar. I pictured Dante reaching into my pants to grip my cock. I imagined it was his hand stroking me instead of my own. I didn't imagine him fucking me because, quite frankly, that is way too far outside of my experience to imagine. But I came pretty fucking hard thinking about him jerking me off.

Shit, I can't think about that right now. I have a dirty martini to deliver, and I don't want to go walking through Lush with a hard-on. Especially with my boss here.

Not that Rafael would be likely to notice me. He's playing the piano. I don't know enough about music to be sure, but I think it's some kind of jazz take on something classical. It's fucking awesome.

Here's what I don't get: why am I not attracted to him? Objectively speaking, Rafael is extremely attractive. He looks like, I don't know, an underwear model or something. Everything about him is sexy, from his wavy dark hair to his teasing smile to the way he moves like everything's a dance. He's flashy too. Tonight, he's wearing black leather pants and a dark red corset vest over a blood red button down.

Maybe my reaction to Dante was a one-time thing. Well, two times. Three, I guess, if you count me jerking off.

And he was such an asshole! Cornering me like that? What a dick move.

Then he vanished.

It was a long goddamn night after that.

And he didn't come in on Wednesday or Thursday, our other open days. I'm actually kind of pissed off.

I know that's dumb. Not only is his behavior a huge red flag, we're not a thing. And I hated how dominant he was!

What made him think he could summon me with a look, or corner me, or do … whatever he did to my ear?

My dick had started chubbing as soon as I got over my shock in the cellar, but when he had his mouth at my ear, I got so fucking hard I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what I wanted. It was like he took over my body.

I guess it was just a game for him, one he apparently lost interest in. He's already forgotten me. Moved on. Such an asshole.

Fuck. I'm in the wrong part of the room. The dirty martini goes to the blonde woman with the strapless dress. A sharp turn would be obvious, so I continue on my circuit like it was deliberate, but Rafael's blue-gray eyes still flick up from the piano. I guess he's paying more attention than it looks like.

I somehow recover my cool and deliver the martini with the expected hauteur.

I'm just congratulating myself on getting my shit together when, fuck, fuck, fuck, he's here. How the hell does he do that? Is he a ninja? He's in his favored banquette like he teleported into it when I wasn't looking. He has one arm stretched out along the back of it.

It doesn't even occur to me to play it cool and return to the bar like I didn't notice him. I try to maintain an air of sophistication, but I do head straight for his table.

Tonight he's wearing a white shirt under his black waistcoat. He looks sharp as hell. I had forgotten some details of his face. He's got high cheekbones and a great jawline. He's leaner than I remembered. I think my impression of him was so much one of physical dominance that in my mind he became taller and bulkier than he actually is. Not that he isn't built—he is —but he's not a tank. He's … perfect.

"There's no red open," I tell him.

His head tilts at my sharpness. The corner of his mouth tugs.

"You're angry." He practically purrs it, like it pleases him.

"We can open something. It's not a big deal."

"Did you figure it out?" he asks.

I can feel my nostrils flaring. If I thought that I'd be soothed by him acknowledging what happened last weekend, I was wrong. I'm even more pissed than I was earlier. He twisted me up and vanished for six fucking days.

"I certainly didn't figure you out." I say it sharply, meaning it as an accusation, but somehow it feels more like an admission.

Something dark moves through his eyes. "Don't try."

"So what do you want?"

I asked that when he cornered me in the cellar. He wouldn't answer the question then, but tonight he says, "You."

I stare at him, utterly dumbfounded.

He asks, "Why are you having trouble grasping that?"

No one has ever, in my entire life, said that they wanted me.

Maybe that fact shows on my pathetic face because Dante makes a thoughtful sound and doesn't press the question.

I'm still staring at him. "You want to … with me?"

I skipped over the word, but he doesn't. "Yes, I want to fuck you. But it wouldn't be that simple."

At the word fuck, heat zips through my body straight to my cock. "I … what do you mean?"

His eyes flick past me. They harden. "We'll have to discuss it later. Go back to the bar, Tristan."

"What—"

" Now ."

I jolt at the sharp command, turning to obey before I can stop myself. Anger sears me, and I spin back. My arm twitches with the impulse to slam my tray on his table and force him to explain himself. Then I see Lorenzo-fucking-Capelli sauntering my way. Sauntering Dante's way, actually.

My heart leaps. Capelli is wearing a sleek, silvery-gray suit. The side part in his salt-and-pepper hair is razor sharp, and his ruggedly handsome face is all smug confidence.

A growl, an actual fucking growl, rumbles out from Dante. I glance at him. His eyes are locked on Capelli, then they flick to me in harsh warning.

I make a beeline to the bar, not even bothering with my usual studied walk. Holy shit.

Saylor gives me an annoyed look as I join her behind the bar. She's getting behind, and it's my fault. I make it up to her by mixing the Pisco Sour that just got ordered. She has a thing about egg whites.

While I work, I keep an eye on Dante and Capelli. Capelli hasn't sat down. He's speaking, and his face still has that smug look. Dante hasn't moved. He still has one arm stretched out along the back of the banquette. I can't see his other hand below the table. It almost makes me wonder if he has a weapon. He's certainly staring at Capelli with an intensity that makes the way he was staring at me look like affection. He's pissed. They're not friends.

And yet, they clearly know each other.

I pour bourbon, leave it neat, and slip out from behind the bar. I dig deep for all my practiced flair, determined to make the most of this performance.

When I arrive at Dante's table, he glares at me as I deliver the drink with studied poise. From Capelli, I catch the words, "so you might think about that, Adesso."

I turn to the man who is likely responsible for my brother's disappearance. He looks dirty. He feels dirty.

"Sir?" I prompt. "Can I get you something?"

I can practically feel Dante's eyes boring into me.

Capelli smirks. "Nah, kid. I'm not staying."

I dip my chin and have no choice but to leave. I make a circuit of the room, collecting empties and a fresh gin and tonic order.

Though he's still making the piano sing, Rafael is watching Dante and Capelli with something like steel in his eyes.

My heart is pounding with fear even though I'm thrilled. It was a good move getting a job here. I was right about this place. Of course, catching a few words of conversation is a far cry from learning anything about my brother, but still.

By the time I'm starting on the gin and tonic, Capelli's leaving. I glance at Dante and find his eyes locked on me. I shiver.

Rafael leaves the piano, turning on some recorded music. He joins Dante in the banquette, but they don't speak. Weird.

When there's a lull, I take my break. I need it. I'm so wired, and I have to calm down so I don't draw attention to myself.

The breakroom is an actual freaking lounge, complete with a leather couch and coffee table. The walls are painted a deep red, making a perfect backdrop for the sexy black-and-white photographs hanging against them. They're mostly of men. Hands. Throats. A turned head. Everything is half glimpsed. Saylor told me that Rafael took them. She says there are more erotic ones downstairs.

I shut myself in the bathroom, which is complete with a shower and a rack of nice towels. No expense spared even here.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Dante is right fucking there. Actually, he's by the couch, but with his dark eyes burning on me like that, it feels like he's a lot closer. The tumbler of bourbon is in his hand. He lifts it as though in salute, sets it to his lips, and downs it. I watch his throat as he swallows. How have I never noticed how incredibly sexy a man's throat can look when he swallows?

My heart skips when Dante sets the glass on the table by the leather couch. I eye the door, which he's closed. He shakes his head.

When he steps toward me, I take an instinctive step back into the bathroom. He grabs my wrist and yanks me toward him. I don't know exactly how it happens, but somehow, he gets me bent over the back of the couch. He smacks my ass.

"Hey!" I shout, instantly furious. "What the fuck!"

I try to yank up from the couch, but he has me in some kind of weird wrestler's hold or something. Where my ass cheek stings, a large, firm hand settles, massaging.

"That was very naughty," he rumbles at the shell of my ear. I shudder. For some reason, my cock is hard.

"I don't know what you're—ow!" I yelp at the second, harder slap. "Let me go, you fucking psycho!"

He slaps me again then soothes the spot. Tears spring to my eyes. I'm panting. I'm scared. And I'm so fucking turned on I don't recognize myself. What the hell is happening?

"Did you think there wouldn't be consequences?"

"For what ?" I gasp.

"Was it worth it, buying me a four hundred dollar drink just so you could refuse my command?"

"I didn't …" I trail off. Shit. I did buy him a four hundred dollar drink. That's coming out of my pay. Shit, shit, shit.

"Lesson one: don't buy drinks for men. Not for me, and sure as hell not for anyone else." His hand grips the back of my leg just below my ass. Electricity zips through my blood straight into my cock as his thumb presses in close to my taint. "Do you understand?"

I'm panting so hard that I'm dizzy. I can't answer him because I'm trying too hard not to moan.

"We'll come back to that," he says. "Lesson two is more important. When I tell you to do something, you do it."

He releases his grip on my thigh to slap me again. I cry out. What the fuck? What the actual fuck?

He soothes the sting. Then his hand glides along the crack of my ass. I gasp at the unfamiliar touch. Even through my pants and briefs, I feel his fingers slide over my hole. He presses along my taint then brushes my swollen balls through my pants.

"Fuck," I gasp. " Shit ."

"Mmm," he hums in a soft, deep voice as he massages my balls. I squeeze my eyes shut, shocked by the sensation, unsure whether I want him to stop or continue.

He takes a deep breath and draws back, releasing me. I sag against the couch.

"I can't go any further without a contract." His voice is raspy but tight. "Tomorrow," he says shortly, but I'm too overwhelmed to process any of that.

I don't look up as he leaves. Even when I hear the door open and close, I keep my face pressed against the leather. I just breathe. Then I stand up and return to the bathroom.