Chapter Eleven

Tristan switched off the engine. “Let’s leave everything in the car and go and see the state of the place. I’ll just unfasten the ropes around the tree so we can shut the car windows.”

Heath got out and tussled with the rope on his side. “Don’t run away, tree. We’ll sort you out tomorrow.”

Tristan smiled and rolled his eyes. When he unlocked the front door, the lack of a beeping noise told him the alarm hadn’t been activated. It was irritating that Grant hadn’t set it, but hopefully that was the only aggravating thing. It really hadn’t crossed his mind that Grant might have done something to the house. When Tristan flicked on the lights, everything looked fine. The place was warm and didn’t smell as if anything had died.

Heath stood at his back. “Is everything alright? No missing Picasso?”

“Everything looks okay.”

“Except you already have a tree. Why didn’t you tell me?”

I tried to. “Because you wanted that one. We can have two trees.”

“Three?”

“If you like.”

“Four?”

“Now you’re pushing it.”

“Don’t tell me if there’s a horse’s head in the bed. Even a toy one.”

Tristan snorted. “You’ll hear me scream if I find one.”

“I’ll start bringing things in while you check.”

Tristan looked in every room on the ground floor before he went upstairs. He didn’t know why, but now he had a sinking feeling in his stomach that Grant had done something. He looked everywhere except for the bedroom he and Grant had shared, and nothing had been disturbed. Though he did notice the presents he’d bought for Grant and hidden in the guest room wardrobe had gone, minus the labels and bows that had been left. Bastard.

When he pushed open the final door, he groaned. Bloody hell. As much as he might have hoped Grant wouldn’t be vindictive, he realised now that he hadn’t known him at all.

There was black paint everywhere, all over the bed, the walls, the wardrobe doors, the curtains. It had been thrown rather than daubed. Tristan knew where the paint had come from. There had been a tin in the shed. He’d bought it to use on the decking but never got around to it. The alarm clock on Grant’s side of the bed had gone, so had a painting they’d chosen together in Italy. Tristan picked his way carefully across the splattered carpet and gingerly pulled open the wardrobe doors. No paint in there though Grant had taken his clothes.

“Shit!” Heath gasped from the doorway.

Tristan turned to look at him. “Yep. You were right.”

“There’s a horse’s head in the bed?”

Tristan couldn’t quite manage a laugh.

“Pick your way back to the door so you don’t get paint on your shoes,” Heath said. “We can sort this out. It’s not gloss paint, which is something, but we need plenty of bin bags and lots of hot soapy water.”

“I’ll just close the door and we can sleep in the spare room.”

“Let’s sort it now. And you should contact Grant and tell him you’ve called the police.”

“I don’t want—”

“I know, but take some pictures and make him fucking squirm.”

Tristan nodded. Once he’d taken pictures he went down to the living room. While Heath was sorting out cleaning materials, Tristan called Grant.

When he didn’t answer, he tried Grant’s father.

“Tristan. How are you?”

“Very irritated with Grant, actually, Richard. Is he with you?”

“Yes…” There was a mumble of conversation. “He says he’s made his feelings clear. He doesn’t want to talk to you, that you need to accept his decision.”

Arsehole. Rewriting history. Tristan clenched his teeth. “I’m just sending you a few pictures to show you what he’s been up to.”

A few moments later, he heard Richard gasp.

“I’ve just arrived back at my house to discover this mess.”

“My God. You surely can’t think Grant did this? Why would he? He turned you down.”

“He’s not told you that he came to see me at my brother’s flat a few days ago and told me he did want to get married?”

Silence was his answer.

“The house was locked up. This isn’t some random home invasion. Grant’s taken his belongings, even taken the Christmas gifts I’d wrapped for him which seems rather churlish, and left only the bedroom we shared in this state. To be honest, I’m tempted to call the police.”

“No, please. Let me talk to him for a moment. Hold on.”

Tristan couldn’t hear what was being said. He wouldn’t call the police but Heath was right, why not put the fear of God into Grant?

“Tristan? Grant says he came to London and found you living with a man called Heath. That was very quick, or has it been going on for some time?”

Tristan tightened his grip on the phone. “After Grant had shown his amusement at my proposal, I went to stay at my brother’s flat to give Grant time to remove his things from here. Unbeknownst to me, Heath had been given permission to stay in the flat by my brother’s girlfriend. That was when we met. Grant and I are done, and no matter what tale he tells you, he turned me down and when he told me he’d changed his mind, I turned him down. It’s done. We’re over. Who I’m with now has nothing to do with him.”

“I see. Well, I hope this won’t interfere with our possible business arrangement. I’m still very interested in your company. There could be benefits for us both.”

“I think Grant has put an end to that.”

“Don’t be too hasty. Our families go back a long way. Let’s meet up in the New Year. And please don’t speak to the police. Let me know how much it costs to put everything right and I’ll… Don’t lie to me, Grant! I can see what you’ve done. You’re an idiot… Sorry, Tristan. Let me just leave the room.”

Tristan waited.

“Is he using again?” Richard asked.

How do I know if he ever stopped? “He was the night of your party.”

“Right. Well, I can only apologise for his behaviour. He would have been lucky to have you. I hope you have a good Christmas and please meet me in the New Year.”

“Thanks. I’ll think about it. Have a good holiday.”

The call ended and Tristan sighed. He’d talked himself out of Richard’s investment but he’d probably meet him. It wasn’t the guy’s fault his son was a liar and a vindictive arsehole.

He went upstairs and found a pile of clothes outside the bedroom door. Heath’s clothes. When he pushed open the door, he found Heath in just his tight boxers and a pair of vinyl gloves. His heart jumped.

“Impressed?” Heath asked.

“Always. Though the gloves are a bit of turn off.”

“Not with me. The room.”

Tristan peeled his eyes away from Heath’s arse. The curtains were down, the walls were surprisingly better than he’d hoped for, everything but the bottom sheet was off the bed and the wardrobe doors were free of paint.

“Wow,” Tristan said.

“You could put the duvet, curtains and stuff in the washing machine. They might be okay. They’re in those bin bags. The walls will need repainting and the carpet professionally cleaned but it’s not as bad as it might have been.”

Tristan grabbed the black bags. “I’ll bring up your case and my stuff and we can sleep in the other room. Then I’ll give you a hand.”

“No need. It’s almost done. Well, as much as I can do. Do you want to go and eat? I promised you a meal in the pub.”

Tristan glanced at the snow battering the window. “Shall we have that curry we bought instead?”

“Fine by me.”

“I’ll deal with that.”

Tristan set a load washing in the machine, put the meal in the oven with the timer on, then carried their stuff upstairs. He unpacked in the spare room, hung up a very creased tux, which he’d need to get dry-cleaned, and took his toilet bag into the bathroom. Heath came in and switched on the shower.

“I should have done all that cleaning,” Tristan said.

“I didn’t mind doing it.” Heath stepped out of his boxers and stood under the water. “Though there is some washing you can do. Bits I can’t reach. I could do with a hand or two.”

Tristan smiled and stripped off.

It was the beeping of the oven that eventually pulled them off the bed. Tristan tugged on his jeans and ran downstairs. Heath came down a few minutes later, dressed, and carrying a T-shirt for Tristan, which he handed to him.

“Much as I could stare at your lovely abs all day, and those delicious dimples in your lower back, I don’t want you to see me drool. You might go off me. I can’t take the risk.”

Tristan smiled. He pushed a bowl of rice and chicken tikka masala towards Heath, along with a fork. “Beer?”

“Yes, please. Couch or table?”

“Couch.”

Tristan took two beers from the fridge and opened them. Then he switched on the tree lights and went to sit next to Heath.

“Tomorrow, can we decorate the outside tree?” Heath asked.

“I can deny you nothing.”

Heath wailed. “Why did my mind go blank the moment you said that?”

“I doubt that will last long.”

“So true, Sarcastic One. I’m already making a list of what I want.”

“Ah. Should I set some boundaries?”

“Not if you want to have fun too.”

Tristan was instantly swamped with heat.

Not helped by the curry. Was there more spice in it than normal?

Heath was still eating his when Tristan had finished.

Heath gaped at him. “Did you inhale that?”

“I was hungry. Want me to light a fire?”

“Does it require rubbing two hard things together?”

“Matches are quicker.”

“Speed isn’t everything. But yes, I’d love a fire.”

Tristan had left the stove ready to light so it didn’t take long before the logs were blazing behind the glass. He moved the empty bowls to the dishwasher, shifted the washing to the drier and put another load in. When he went back to the living room, Heath was curled up on the couch with his eyes closed. Tristan settled next to him and leaned over to press his face into the junction of Heath’s neck and shoulder. Lust played a fast tune up and down his spine.

Heath groaned.

“I wondered if you’d fallen asleep,” Tristan said.

When Heath turned, Tristan saw his eyes were glistening. He took hold of Heath’s hand. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Tristan frowned. “Clearly that’s not true.”

“No. That’s what’s wrong. That nothing is wrong, apart from the mess Grant made of your bedroom. It’s all…” Heath swallowed hard. “You. This place. The food. The snow. Christmas. The fire. Our tree. Everything is…perfect, which makes me think something will go wrong. Sorry. I’m an idiot. I told you I was too negative. I’m fucking looking for problems and I can’t help myself. It’s what I always do.”

“I don’t think that’s true. You chose that tree. You saw the issues with it but still wanted it.”

“I felt sorry for it.”

“I know.”

“That doesn’t mean I buy bruised fruit.”

Tristan bit back his smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“I’m not a perfect fruit or a perfect anything. Every relationship I’ve had has ended badly for me. I can’t help but look at the common denominator. There’s obviously something wrong with me. I fuck things up. It’s what I always do. So, it’s just a matter of time.”

“It’s not.” He rubbed his thumb over Heath’s hand.

“It’s like we both fell overboard from a cruise liner but we managed to get into a little boat and I should feel safe but I know it’s only temporary and I can’t see past that and it spoils everything and even knowing that doesn’t stop me fretting.” He sucked in a breath.

Tristan pulled him down so they were lying side by side, pressed against each other. Heath buried his face in Tristan’s chest.

“Give yourself a break, Heath. No one just coasts through life. It’s full of hiccups and worries. Some are bigger than others. You’ve had more than your fair share. But for the next few days, you don’t need to be concerned about anything. We’re warm, we have plenty of food, sixteen thousand mince pies and almost as many condoms.”

Tristan felt Heath shaking as he laughed. He curled his fingers on Heath’s back and stroked his skin. Under his T-shirt, he was warm and soft.

“No more worrying,” Tristan whispered. “Make the most of what you have, and remember you have me.”

Heath was already moving in, brushing his lips against Tristan’s and moments later, they were kissing as if they were going to get torn apart at any moment: mouths open, tongues teasing, hands clutching at each other. Tristan ran his fingers up Heath’s spine, then down to the waist of his jeans, sliding one hand under the material onto his arse while Heath gulped and groaned against his mouth and grabbed at Tristan’s shoulders.

If Heath had any worries, Tristan hoped they were now buried. He pulled Heath in so their hips were tight together, and they writhed and rutted against each other. So good. Too good. The friction made Tristan want to come, yet not want to come.

Heath moved his head and grabbed a shaky breath, his eyes glazed. “You make me forget everything.”

“Good because you think too much. Just let go and feel.”

“Can I have one thought first?”

“Only one.”

“Let’s go upstairs.”

“Good idea.”

Heath fell off the couch as he tried to get up. “Ouch. Don’t laugh. All the blood in my legs has rushed elsewhere.”

Tristan reached out to pull him up. Their lips were so close that Tristan breathed in the scent of beer as Heath exhaled and desire curled in his stomach.

“Did I tell you how turned on I am that you taste of beer?” Tristan whispered.

“Did I tell you how turned on I am by a guy who likes that I’ve been drinking beer?”

Tristan smiled. “Upstairs. Now. Run.”

Heath ran.

Tristan caught up with him in the bedroom and propelled him onto the bed. Heath’s groan into Tristan’s throat vibrated through his body. Tristan’s cock throbbed, yet all he wanted to do was kiss. He’d forgotten how much fun kissing was. Do not think about Grant. But they’d never kissed like this. He and Heath clutched each other, snogging like teenagers. Mouths open, mouths closed, they were either consuming each other in a greedy binge or teasing with whisper-soft caresses that were gentle yet so full of feeling, that Tristan’s heart ached. He kissed Heath’s neck. Heath licked his ears. Tristan nibbled the line of Heath’s chin. Heath sucked at his throat. And all the time, it was as if a high-intensity storm was building inside him.

They touched from ankle to chest, toes curling together. Heath’s hand was inside Tristan’s jeans, wrapped around his cock. Tristan’s hips bucked at the caress; he couldn’t help it. His own hand found its way back onto Heath’s arse and then Heath was the one bucking.

“Clothes off,” Tristan blurted, then hissed as Heath nibbled his collarbone.

Somehow, they managed to get naked while still kissing and fondling each other. Tristan slid down to lick the head of Heath’s cock, and Heath tensed, his moans getting louder.

“Oh God, God, God…” Heath panted.

Tristan curled his fingers around Heath’s angular hipbones and took him deeper into his mouth. Heath was gasping and groaning, moving restlessly beneath him as Tristan sucked and licked.

“Does my cock taste of beer?” Heath gasped.

Tristan almost choked as he laughed. Not beer, but his mouth tingled with the tang of salty precome and musk.

A few more deep sucks and Heath let out a strangled cry. “No more or I’ll come.”

Tristan pulled off and a moment later, Heath had Tristan’s cock in his mouth. Now Tristan was the one moaning and gasping. Something about the way Heath was doing this made Tristan feel he’d been shortchanged every previous time. Heath was energetic and exuberant, laughing and gagging, then laughing because he gagged. Tristan’s gaze kept shifting between Heath’s mouth and his eyes. Both mesmerised. The glint of mischief in Heath’s expression, the way Tristan’s cock disappeared into that wet mouth, and reappeared glistening… Tristan was desperate to keep watching, but if he did, he was going to explode.

Was that such a bad thing? He wanted to fuck Heath but maybe Heath wanted to fuck him. Then the warm mouth had gone and Tristan opened his eyes to see Heath looking up at him, chewing his lip.

“Condom? Lube? Handcuffs?”

Tristan produced condom and lube. He wasn’t sure which way this would go. He had his answer when Heath didn’t roll the condom over his own cock. Tristan pumped lube into his palm and carefully dragged his hand up and down his length. Heath moved onto his front with his thighs spread wide and his backside tipped up. Tristan had to clench his hand around the base of his cock and push down to stop himself spilling at the sight of him.

“Want to give me some lube?” Heath asked.

“I’ll do it.”

Tristan pressed a slick finger into him and Heath gasped and bore down.

“You make my heart ache,” Tristan whispered.

Heath was breathing heavily. “Not a cardiac arrest sort of ache, I hope.”

“It would be a good way to go.”

Heath turned his head to glare at him. “One—you are far too young to have a heart attack. Two—do you want me to blame myself for your untimely demise? Three—think of what it would say online! And four— Oh God, I’ve forgotten. Arggh.”

It didn’t take long to work up to three fingers and the moment Tristan brushed his prostate, Heath arched his back, clenched his fists on the pillow and gave a long cry.

“Please! Now.”

Thank fuck. Tristan pressed against the entrance to Heath’s body and once the muscle barrier let him in, he slid all the way home until his balls were up against a firm arse.

“Are you in?”

“Fuck off,” Tristan said with a choked laugh.

Heath might have been bottoming but he was doing much of the pushing back, and the slap of their bodies as they came together wound Tristan tighter and tighter.

Heath was muttering and crying out and Tristan managed to get a hand under Heath to his cock to bring him off at the same time. He wrapped his hand over Heath’s and as he felt the wetness in his fingers, Tristan came too, white light blazing in his head before blackness took over. They slumped together, Heath turned his head and Tristan kissed him.

This isn’t just a rebound.

This isn’t just a Christmas fling.

I can’t let him go.