Lovely Trigger

  I couldn’t breathe in his arms. He wasn’t playing fair. He knew it and I knew it and still, I didn’t walk away. “We can’t keep doing this, Tristan. You can’t keep saying these things to me if we’re going to have any hope of staying friends.” There was more desperation than conviction in my words.

  “I can’t stop, Danika. Please don’t ask me to. Even if this is the set up for the fall of a lifetime, I still can’t walk away, and I can’t back off. Don’t you see? I feel alive now, and I can’t go from feeling this and back to nothing, back to getting by a day at a time, surviving, instead of gripping onto every second that passes, wishing that each day would never end. Knowing every day that you’re in the same building as me, that you’ll talk to me when I come to see you, that you’ll laugh for me, and make me laugh, and even, if you’re feeling very charitable, you’ll let me hold you sometimes, let me touch you, and even be inside of you. Don’t you see that I’m living on hope right now, and that hope is sustaining me like nothing else could? So I’m sorry, but I have to keep doing this. I’m not strong enough to stop. I never was. Like I said, you were always the strong one.”

  My eyes were shut by the end, my lips trembling. “Oh Tristan, what are we going to do?”

  “Whatever you want, sweetheart. Whatever you allow.”

  I knew I needed to leave, to get out of that house before it went too far, but I didn’t have the strength to try to break free of his arms just then. They weakened me, not with their strength but with their tenderness.

  I let him hold me for a very long time, but sometime in the night, I did find the strength to get up and leave.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  DANIKA

  Tristan was either suddenly very interested in one of the Vegas gallery’s featured photographers, or he’d found a new approach to getting me to spend more time with him, because he set up a private showing after hours in the gallery the following Thursday.

  I’d been putting him off, so I tended to think it was the latter. The alarming thing about that was my reaction to it. I felt giddy with anticipation even after all of the things he’d said that should have had me running in the opposite direction.

  It was the evening of my day off, and since I was the only one that handled showings like this, I found myself getting dressed up and coming in to work at nine p.m.

  I dressed seductively and not subtly so. This was not an outfit I could have gotten away with on a normal day at work.

  From ribs to knees, the dress was a fitted black sheath. The only immodest thing from the chest down was the slit that run high up one thigh.

  The top, though, was completely out of hand. It was made up of cream silk, with a neckline that plunged so deep, I never could have worn even a strapless bra with it. The sleeves were gathered, and hooked onto my shoulders lightly, nothing but a prayer holding them there. And the material was very fine, so the slightest breeze would have my nipples popping to attention.

  And there was something much bigger than a slight breeze heading my way that very second.

  I came into the gallery and began to set things up, knowing Tristan was just minutes behind me.

  I tried to move about like everything was normal inside of me, but that was a lie.

  The deepest throbbing had taken root in the pit of my stomach. It was persistent, staying with me, day and night.

  Awake or asleep, I couldn’t escape the fact that my body had straight up turned on me.

  It was the most delicious sort of agony, to be constantly throbbing from within. Every single one of my senses had been brought to life.

  He arrived, got one look at me, and became very formal, almost stiff.

  I was taken aback, because without even so much as a kiss on the cheek, he asked to be shown some specific photographs in the current featured collection, as though he’d done research on it. His interest in the art seemed genuine, like that really had been his reason for arranging this torturous meeting.

  And that’s when I knew that I hadn’t thought this meeting was anything more than a charade, not for one second had I even considered it.

  I was not a good sport about being so mistaken. And the state my body was in, which was unequivocally his fault, only antagonized the matter.

  The throbbing inside of me, which had been bad enough when it was contained within, slowly, insidiously, was spreading. One look at him, one slight feel of his presence sharing my same air, and that flimsy container broke.

  I tried to work with him as I would have worked with anyone who had scheduled a private showing like this, setting up the photos that caught his interest in what we called the black room, where we could adjust the lighting to best show off the range of colors in this particular photographers crystal imbedded paper.

  I set up one particular red canyon piece, doing a quick mockup of what the actual framing would look like. He sat on the long couch at the back of the room, and I backed in his direction as I played with the lights, illustrating how even the fading color tones could be brilliant.

  But that feeling, that throbbing, had made its way to my thighs, my breasts, my lips, my belly, until I could barely move without grimacing, and sometimes, even moaning out loud. Within a few minutes of being in his presence, I was willing to fold, once again, just for another brief taste of relief. It became not an issue of resisting him completely, but a matter of folding gracefully, and hopefully, to save my pride, to make it seem like his idea.

  But he hadn’t even coerced me. No seduction whatsoever this time. And that was so much worse.

  I acknowledged that some perverse part of me just had to know that he felt it too. I’d worn a dress open practically to my waist for him tonight, and he’d barely looked at me. Somehow, that was the fastest seduction of all.

  His indifference feigned or otherwise, undid me completely.

  “What do you think of this one?” I asked, moving to sit beside him as I adjusted the light in the room to play across the photograph. I started it on bright, then faded it to near dark, then repeated the process, showing how vibrant it could still look without full lighting.

  I sat too close to him. It felt like a desperate move, but I could acknowledge that I was desperate just then.

  He grunted. Grunted, like a caveman. It was bizarre, and I had no idea how to respond.

  “I’ll try another. I know you liked the red in this series. I have another with a beam of light in it that really plays with the color.”

  I stood, moving past him toward the door. He stopped me with a hand on my hip, then slowly turned me to face him, gripping my waist in both hands. I stared at him, breathing hard, but struggling not to show it. I was panting like I’d run a mile.

  It was insanity.

  He didn’t look up at me. It was still dark enough that I could just make out the top of his head. I tried to be quiet enough to hear if he was breathing like I was, but my heart was beating so loudly that I couldn’t make out anything beyond it.

  “Turn the light back on,” he told me, voice low and hoarse.

  I had to move away to grab the remote, my hands fumbling, trembling as I slid the lights back to bright.

  “Come here,” he ordered roughly.

  Some sarcastic remark tried to make its way out of my mouth, but the look in his eyes stopped any sound from leaving my lungs. I moved to him, my hands not so much clenching as folding in on themselves with the effort to keep from touching him.

  He had no such qualms, dragging me close to straddle him the moment I was back in his reach. He slid my tight skirt up to my hips, hauling me on top to straddle him. His hands were all over me, hungry touches that took a bit of everything, his ravenous eyes taking so much more.

  “How do you do that?” he whispered roughly. “How do you keep talking, keep moving around like you don’t feel it, too?”

  I shook my head, finally unfolding my fingers and digging them into his scalp, gripping at his silky hair.

  He moved my hips with his hands until my se
x was flush against his erection. Through my panties, and his pants, he moved us together, grinding against me until I moaned and shook.

  “Tell me you feel it and I’ll give you relief. Admit I’m not alone here.”

  I shrugged out of the sleeves of my top, leaving me bare from the ribs up. I arched my back, my breasts pushed up high for him, like an offering. They were slightly fuller than they’d been all those years ago, and I wondered if he’d noticed. I was still in good shape, but I’d filled out a bit. I wasn’t dancer skinny anymore, and my breasts now overflowed a C cup. The curve of my waist was just as small as it had been, my stomach just as toned, but my hips had a slight curve to them now that wasn’t all hipbone.

  The way he took in the sight of me let me know that, whether he remembered enough to notice the difference, he appreciated what he was seeing.

  In fact, he was panting for me, desperate for me.

  I’d worn the dress specifically to do this to him. How could I have fooled myself for even a second that I was doing anything else?

  I watched his downturned face watch my upturned body. He was biting his lower lip, which made his dimples stand out starkly.

  His thick eyelashes cast deep shadows on his passion-slackened face, just the tiniest hint of his eyes visible to mine.

  But it was enough.

  I loved to see that look in his eyes, even if it did drag me back in time six years, to when I’d believed that love could conquer everything.

  He tongued a nipple, and I bore down on him, tilting my hips until his zipper was digging directly into my clit. It heightened the ache to the point of pain, but I couldn’t stop doing it.

  “Say it,” he mouthed against my skin, no actual sound coming out.

  “Yes,” I panted. I would have said almost anything just then to get the relief he promised. “I feel it. I need it. Now, Tristan.”

  He exhaled heavily against my skin, which made my entire body shudder in anticipation. It knew what was coming.

  Rapture, ecstasy, a few brief moments of forgetting everything in the world but what this beautiful man could do to my body, to my very soul.

  He reached between us, still sucking at my skin. His fingers brushed against me as he went for his zipper, and I rubbed against his knuckles, moaning as I hit just the right spot.

  He cursed, fumbling to free himself. He had to peel his mouth away from my skin and look at his hands before he finally pulled his stiff length out and up, shoving my panties aside so he could push straight into my entrance.

  I shifted my hips until he was sliding into me slowly. I was wet, but he was substantial, and it took some work to get him inside of me at this angle.

  Even when he’d worked himself all the way into me, he didn’t rush it, taking his time, pausing while I moaned and throbbed on top of him.

  He gripped my hips and began to move, lifting me high, until just the tip of him stayed inside, then jack knifed his hips up, thrusting deep again.

  So many sexy things still came out of his mouth as he had me. He wasn’t a ranter, not like me, except for during the act. As he took me, he never could keep a word in. Praises, curses, endearments, more cussing, more compliments. I soaked it up. Basked in it.

  I was too undone or too outclassed to do much but hold on. This was not a good position for me, with my bad knee, but you wouldn’t know it just then. Just then, he was taking the brunt of the weight, and I couldn’t have cared less about the discomfort that left in the mix.

  My body was there, oh God yes, it was, but I was not in it. I floated weightless somewhere, just a few feet above, as my helpless body got rocked.

  He propelled himself in and out of me, his hands and hips working in sync to fuck me, not fast, not slow, but hard and deep.

  His hands on my hips guided me until, at some point, they weren’t so much leading the rhythm as they were simply holding me together, bringing floating me back into my heavy, throbbing body right as it detonated, and rapturous waves of absolute pleasure lapped over me, into me, soaking every pore of my body.

  I lay limp against him and let my body and mind come back together.

  It wasn’t a peaceful union.

  Tristan and I were having some kind of a fling. With all of my determined denial, even I couldn’t call it anything else. I was letting it play out, barely resisting anymore. What else could I do? I would let him play with my heart, handle it like a toy, and when we were done, I’d hope that all we left this time were bruises. I didn’t let myself hope for even one moment that it could ever be more. This was more than friendship, sure, but it was temporary.

  Even if he was too blind to see it, I couldn’t see anything else.

  My limp was more pronounced when we finally rose from the couch and I began to move about, straightening up, keeping busy.

  Tristan noticed right away. “Fuck, Danika, did I hurt your knee?”

  I waved him off. “It’s just stiff. Stop fussing. Seriously.”

  He was impossible, as ever. He literally picked me up and carried me back to the leather sofa, rubbing at my knee like it was the cure.

  “I think I’m going to have another surgery on it,” I said quietly while he worked at it. Saying the thought aloud was the first time I’d acknowledged that I was even considering it.

  He paused, then continued the rubbing. “Well, that sounds encouraging. They can still do something? To improve it?”

  “Bev has been bugging me to try some new thing they’re doing. It’s going to suck. Physical therapy will take over my life again. But yeah, it sounds like they can do something. I’m sure it won’t be a huge difference, but better than this.”

  He couldn’t seem to look directly at me. “I’m glad you’re considering it. I promise to help with the physical therapy. I’ll go with you, make it less boring.”

  That made me so uncomfortable that I had to stand up and move away from him. “That’s a nice offer, but it’s really not something I want company for.”

  “I’ll change your mind about that, sweetheart. You’ll see.”

  It was a struggle not to snap at him. I had to compose myself before I could say very calmly, “Stop it, Tristan. I give an inch, and you just keep taking. This isn’t what you’re pretending it is. You’re not my boyfriend, and it’s not your job to—“

  “You’re right, I’m your husband.”

  He’d done it. He’d gone and flipped the psycho switch in my brain again. Just a few words, and I was reeling, my reason leaving me. Enter hair-pulling rage. “What did you say? Are you deranged? We got divorced, years ago!”

  “That wasn’t my choice then, and it isn’t now. You’re absolutely right that I’m not your boyfriend. This is not some trial period in a relationship, where I’m not abso-fucking-lutely clear on how I feel. I know what I want.”

  That did it.

  I was done. I walked into the bathroom, bolting myself in. I didn’t trust myself to continue with that conversation.

  I straightened my clothing and my hair, wiping the bits of mascara from under my eyes. I waited a very long time, calming myself, before I came back out.

  “I’m sorry,” Tristan burst out the moment I stepped out. “I was too pushy.”

  “You were out of line.”

  “Yes, that too. I’ll drop it, okay? Just don’t shut me out again. Not for this.”

  I nodded, too weary to put up a fight, when that fight would involve delving back into a subject that had the power to undo me.

  “Show me the rest of those pictures?” he asked, his voice all cajoling charm.

  Too late for that, my glaring eyes told him, but I nodded. I waved him back into the viewing room while I grabbed a stack of samples.

  My hands were shaking. What he’d said terrified me, but it wasn’t his fault. What had me shaking was the little thrill of joy, of hope that it’d sent through my system. I needed to get a grip.

  Tristan was far from done with his private showing, going through dozens of pictures, and finally s
ettling on a particularly stunning photo of a field of sunflowers, some fully bloomed and reaching for the sun, but with a small circle of flowers still stubbornly facing down. What was stunning about the picture, though, was the way the sun was washing over the more closed off blooms, as though giving them special attention, giving them another chance.

  I was handling the transaction, him standing silent behind me, when I spoke. “This picture is up to forty grand now, since it’s limited to one hundred editions. You really filthy rich enough to just drop that kind of cash like that?”

  “Not drop it, no. I just like it that much. I love the name of it. Makes me feel hopeful. I want it over my mantle.”

  I paused in what I was doing, my eyes scanning over the photos title, Second Chances.

  He was smiling, I could hear it in his voice, when he added, “And I could tell it was your favorite when you showed it to me. I figure I have a better chance of getting you to come back to my house, if I fill it with the things you love.”

  He’d hit his target with the opening salvo. That second part was just overkill.

  I finished up and got out of there, fast.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I was working, minding my own business the next day, when he texted me.

  Tristan: I’m at Frankie’s parlor. Come see me. Getting my yearly sobriety tat.

  I tried to resist that one. I worked for another hour and tried to pretend I wasn’t curious to see what was going on inside this very building.

  I went to the restroom, freshened up my makeup, tousled up my hair, fidgeted with my pale rose dress. It was lightweight and silky, with a clingy, belted shape, and one big ruffle at the hem that hit a few inches above my knee. I had a scoop neck, which was sexy, that hugged low along my sides, and shaped into a racer-back, which was sexier.

  It was hot and flirty, and I was happy I’d worn it, as I was about to cave and go see the man I’d worn it for.