Page 17 of Antihero (Tregam’s Fractured Souls #3)

I shut the frosted glass door to the refractory and immediately turn for the stairs, taking them fast but quiet.

When I burst into the first guest bathroom that I see on the left, Tristan isn't even pretending to know how plumbing works.

He's just sitting on the edge of the tub, not doing a damned thing. His convincingly stained blue coveralls are pulled down to his hips, so that he’s just in a white singlet.

The room is warm with the sun beating against it, streaming in through the single, tall window.

His bare, pale shoulders, corded with muscle, are on display, and his pecs are clearly visible through the thin fabric.

The hat is resting on the sink. His hair, the dye, faded to a light, warm brown, is pushed back as though he’s run his hands through it. He grins when I stand in the doorway and growl, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Plumbing?" he asks.

Oh, like hell. “‘A leak in the mains',” I mock. “Do you even know what that means?”

Tristan shrugs. "No less than he does."

"How long are you planning to stay?" I snap.

He pretends to think. "In this room? About until the screaming starts."

I cross the bathroom, looking down at him where he stays seated on the lip of the tub. "You need to leave, now."

"Why? Am I interrupting something?"

"Yes, actually. I'm fucking my way to a sugar daddy. Now get out and leave me to it."

He stands abruptly, towering over me. The way he holds me in his gaze, he could either strangle me or… something else. "You could be planning to fuck him. You could be planning to kill him. Either way, you're not gonna do either today."

My jaw works. "This doesn’t concern you."

"Come, murderess, we both know it does." He looms over me, something I can’t fight.

“Fine,” I say, suddenly feeling a little intimidated.

How mad is he about my last visit? I’d planned to go back, make nice, maybe try offering him a blowjob again.

But that was before he showed up here. “Another day, then—” My words get cut off, as is my retreat, when Tristan grabs my arm, tugging me back to face him.

“I’m not done with you,” he growls.

My heart does a little flip, fear and excitement mingling as he dwarfs me. His scent fills my senses, distinctly man, chopped firewood and something like rain.

“I know you’ve got a knife on you somewhere. Give it to me.”

I blink, vague notions of stabbing him and making a run for it. When I only stand, staring back into those angry green eyes, he smirks, which is somehow even more worrying.

Then he rips my blouse open.

I gasp as his rough hands find the skin of my ribs. Not in a sensual way. A searching one. He finds the small switchblade tucked against my hip.

I grimace as he holds the opened blade up between us. It’s far from my favourite knife. But I lost my favourite one while I was riding him, when I lost sense of everything except the bone-shaking orgasm I brought myself to astride him.

“Insurance?” he asks. But he’s not done there.

My breath catches, body flinching forward and pressing against his hard chest as his fingers clutch high on my thigh, roughly tugging my skirt up, finding my garter and my garrotting cord.

He looks just long enough to ascertain what it is, then tosses it aside.

The tip of the knife blade lifts my chin. “I guess you’re a little upset about the home invasion?” I suggest tentatively.

He turns, the knife still at my chin, forcing me to turn with him so that the small of my back brushes the sink. "You didn't ask for permission,” he murmurs, voice low. “If that’s the bar you want to set, Cutthroat, I'm happy to meet you there."

My legs already feel a little weak. Thoughts of Harry downstairs waiting for me to return, and me waiting to murder him, fade abruptly.

Tristan’s eyes linger on my mouth. He lifts his thumb of the hand that holds the blade, and he tugs my lower lip down.

“Such a nice mouth…” he purrs, sending my heart thumping in a whole new way, “Do you remember what I said would happen once I had a knife at your throat?”

He watches my face, taking in everything about my expression.

The widening of my eyes, the way my gaze flicks down his stomach, where the coveralls bunch up low on his hips.

I wet my lips. My reach for him is slow, waiting for his word.

No mistake, he’s the one in control here, and he’s more than a little angry at me.

I push the plumber’s wear a little lower, finding the base of his singlet, and the soft skin low on his belly.

Then he’s a hard, thick rod in my hand, and I watch him right back.

His hold on me doesn’t falter, but there’s a waver in his eyes, a darkening in his gaze, as I squeeze him just a bit firmer than necessary.

I consider waiting for him to order me onto my knees, then take myself there before he can decide against trusting me after all.

I want to taste him, to feel him quiver against my lips.

The knife follows my descent. Tristan never breaks eye contact.

A slight frown between his brows as I come down to the hard, cold tiles.

He’s still suspicious of me, which is fair enough.

That frown smooths abruptly as I close my mouth over his tip, sucking immediately and hard.

The flat of the knife presses cool on my cheek, and I don’t care about it anymore as I draw in more of him, slowly wetting him as far as I can before he hits the back of my throat and makes me gag.

His free hand tangles in my hair, pushing me back more than pulling me forward, like he’s resisting that.

But I can hear the raggedness of his breath, feel the way his hand shakes, his hips swaying forward as I draw him out slowly.

My knees complain, I feel runs forming in my stockings as I grip the base of him and swirl my tongue over his head.

“That’s enough,” his voice strains out, an order I don’t want to obey.

I look up at him again, defiant from this position of worship, and he uses my hair instead to draw me back up, depriving me of the taste of him. “Not enjoying yourself?” I ask, knowing full well he was.

“Shut up,” his answer is a grunt, as he pushes me back.

No sooner am I on my feet than they leave the ground again, my butt lifted onto the front edge of the antique sink.

Tristan pushes my knees open and comes close, tipping me backwards.

One warning look, then the knife leaves my chin, and I jolt when he fists his hands in the crotch of my stockings and tears them open.

“Jesus!” I gasp. I’m going to have no clothes left intact by the end of this encounter.

He tugs me back to the edge, and the knife clatters into the sink.

His hand winds into my hair to tilt my head back, exposing my throat to his teeth.

My breath catches, and rather than my skin being cool where my stockings are ripped, all I feel is hot and impatient.

I’m already panting, anticipating the feel of him. His hand cups me through my opened shirt, turning the lip of my bra down under my nipple. I let out a strained breath, face tipped to the ceiling, unable to see him. I can only feel him.

His breath is hot below my earlobe. I can feel it all the way down my chest. “Did sucking my cock make you wet for me?”

“Fuck you,” I breathe out, the last word turning into something else as he catches my nipple between his teeth.

“You did fuck me, Cutthroat, don’t you remember?” His lips brush my throat, counting my pulse through that contact. As though my silence is an answer, he jogs my memory. “I was injured, thanks to you. And you had the knife.”

Even if I hadn’t guessed it before, I’m now sure that this is payback. “This isn’t the place,” I breathe, though unconvincingly, as his tongue sweeps over my nipple, warm and rough, in contrast with the cool air on my now wet skin, when he briefly moves away. “If Harry hears something…”

“Then don’t make noise. Don’t come. That’s on you.”

“Fuck you,” I gasp again.

“Hm, slow learner.” When he pulls me off the sink, I’m almost disappointed, but that doesn’t last long.

Spun around, the front of my hips jammed against the basin, Tristan comes up hard against my back.

Our reflection tips away from me in the mirror as his hand on my throat tilts my head back against his shoulder.

My skirt, already ridden up, gets hitched even higher by his other hand, right before he tugs my underwear down over my ass.

I clutch his thick forearm against my chest, muscles like ropes under my touch.

My back arches as he taps my feet just wide enough for my underwear to dig into the outside of my thighs.

Tristan uses my own wetness to caress my entrance with the head of his cock, then he coos, “Here’s a reminder of why I’m here. ”

“Fuck, fuck,” I’m already chanting, struggling to keep my voice down while he slides inside me, the position, the angle, making me want to scream the words out instead.

“You’re gonna have to be quieter than that if you don’t want Harry to know.

” His breath rasps against the back of my earlobe, hips pushing deeper, making me bite my lip to keep the primal sounds in; with varying degrees of success.

The asshole’s hand is right under my chin.

He could cover my mouth, could make this easier for me.

But that’s not what he’s here for. Fingers tracing down over my hips, Tristan seems determined, in fact, to squeeze every last sound from me.

As he pulls my skirt even higher, his fingers find me just above the line of the basin, and wasting no time, he circles the spot that makes my knees shake.

His hips thrust in long, slow strokes, each time he’s at the deepest point, nudging, jamming me that bit firmer against the sink.

My heart stutters. Whatever self-control I’ve got left is unravelling.

“If you come, that’ll be really loud,” he muses.

“Tristan, please,” I nearly sob, teetering on the edge. With my head tipped back, I can’t do anything to arrest my volume. But I can’t stay on the edge, not for much longer.

He jams himself close, holding there, so that the only movement between us is my panting and his fingers still circling me.

“Because you asked nicely,” he finally says, when I’m about to combust. His palm comes across my mouth, our hips rolling as one, faster, and my cries muffle against his hand as I finally let go.

I jolt back against his thrusts, my body somehow going limp and rigid at once, nails biting into his forearm where it braces between my breasts.

By the time I’m coming down from the peak, his hand has slid back down to my throat, and I see myself, dishevelled and flushed in the mirror, then him over my shoulder, green eyes startlingly intense, as they meet mine.

He promises me, "You've got a war now, my murderess, and I might not kill you, but wherever you go, I'll know, and I'll stop you. Every time."

***

I don't stay in the house much longer.

Harry is unimpressed. I may not have screamed the house down, but anyone could guess what I’ve just done wih the ‘plumber’ when I walk back out of the bathroom, too much time later, stockings ripped at the knee and running high under my skirt, hair mussed and eyes glassy, almost feverish.

I find an excuse to leave, claiming illness.

Tristan is still there anyway, the bastard.

And he’s promised to always be there. But at least he’s not going to murder me.