Page 39

CHAPTER 39

Birdie

I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep last night, but I slept like a baby. There was this weight I’ve been dragging with me since Aaron’s death aftermath, and Tristan helped me carry it when I let him in on the secret.

There is a heavier weight that has been pressing on my soul, rendering me breathless, lifeless, for so long. Blake.

The photos of his betrayal are a promise that weight, too, will be lifted off me. And when I got a text last night from Gia , from a new number because she lost her phone , I knew where Tristan was when he went out. He’s no longer conflicted about what needs to be done, and he’ll let Butterfly Man finish what he started before catching him.

My imagination runs to a violence-free life. No more walking on eggshells. No more fear or hurt. Just me, my books and peace. And maybe a man with whom I can feel safe again, a man who cherishes, respects and loves me for me with no ulterior motives.

Tristan’s face jumps in my head at the thought. I laugh at myself, dismissing the juvenile fantasy. We had a moment yesterday, but what he said after sentenced it to an end. He must avoid any distractions or temptations to gain the clarity he needs to catch my stalker, and I can’t agree more.

He may be trustworthy, respectful, unabusive—and I bet he’s going to blow my mind in bed after reading all my smut books—but I can’t allow myself to think of him as anything more than my bodyguard. Even after he catches Butterfly Man and neutralizes the threat , the demons of our violent pasts will always be in the way of any future for us together.

I wash away the sleep and get dressed to go down to my office. Tristan and I can’t have a thing, but the characters in my book can’t care less about our boundaries, and they are begging me for some quality steamy time.

When I open the door, it’s not Tristan or Marcus that’s on guard. It’s that young, blond man from the team whose name I can’t remember.

“Good morning, Mrs. Abel,” he says.

“It was, until you called me that. It’s Birdie. Just Birdie. Do you think you can do that for me, um…?”

“Gatsby…Brandon Gatsby, ma’am.”

“Can you do that for me, Brandon?”

He swallows, color rising to his cheeks. He’s one of those people whose skin exposes them no matter how hard they try. “Yes. I’m sorry, Birdie, ma’am.”

I’m making him uncomfortable—he’s making me uncomfortable, too, because he looks a little bit like Shane—so I wrap our conversation short. “Where are Tristan and Marcus?”

“Marcus is doing sweeps, and Tristan is in his room. He said he’d take over in a few minutes. Are you going to your office, ma’am?”

I was. Not anymore. Not with you. “I’m sure you’re more than capable of doing all the tasks you’re assigned, but I’ll wait for Tristan. No offense, but you remind me of someone I don’t want to be reminded of.”

His face blazes. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s his.”

I even my breath and knock on Tristan’s door. He’s taken the room adjacent to mine, where Blake used to sleep after I came out of the hospital. The two opposite rooms are shared among the rest of the team.

When Tristan doesn’t answer, I call out his name. Is he sleeping? As silence replies again, my hand drops to the knob. Brandon appears next to me in a split-second. “I must secure the room before you enter. It’s protocol, ma’am.”

Rolling my eyes, I step back. “By all means.”

Brandon does his job and comes out. “All clear, ma’am. Tristan is in the bathroom, showering.”

“Thank you.” For the unnecessary report and…visual. I clear my throat and step inside the room. Brandon nods once and closes the door behind me when he exits.

I haven’t been inside this room since Tristan moved in. Apart from a few rearranged chairs, it’s pretty much the same, except it’s meticulously kept. Blake used to make a mess worse than that of a pig. I’ve heard the Spanish profanities the housekeeping staff spat every time they came in to clean.

Tristan, on the other hand, is a neat freak. The surfaces are immaculate. The bed is made with military precision. There isn’t an element that’s out of place. Even the books on the nightstand are stacked too neatly, screaming untouched. If I didn’t know he was a reader beforehand, I’d think those books were solely decor.

I run my fingers along the spines—classical philosophy and psychology texts mixed with my novels. So he does have other interests beside smut .

Sitting on the bed edge, I grab The Nightingale’s Whispers, Tristan’s favorite book of mine. Does he annotate his reads or highlight the quotes? Dogear the pages or use bookmarks? Curiosity peaks through me as I flip through the pages and find the book as immaculate as the room.

“That’s weird.” Or not. Many readers like to keep their books in pristine condition. Given the cleanliness level of this room, it’s normal he’s one of those readers. Unexpected, when he has all those quotes learned by heart, but normal. I guess I’m just disappointed I’ve missed out on some secret insight into what he truly loves about my work.

I put the book back. My fingers glide up the sheets on the side where I think he sleeps, and a smile creeps to my face. Does he sleep fully clothed? In underwear? Nude?

My skin tingles as my author mind seeks all the details to build his character in depth. It’s inevitable that one day I’ll write Tristan in one of my books, if not in my current WIP. The woman in me, too, demands answers, for non-book related, NSFW purposes.

I direct my gaze toward the bathroom door, hyper-aware Tristan is fully naked in there right at this moment. A reckless part of me wants to sneak in, to get the full picture of what he has under his suits, to know what it means to be ravished by Mr. Morra, my off-limits bodyguard, especially when his scent has seeped from the sheets and lingered on my fingertips, and one whiff at them makes me throb in all the right places.

Heat rises to my cheeks. Get a grip . This is your bodyguard, nothing more . He serves a purpose and goes on his way. He’s not an option. Never was. Never will be.

To distract myself, I picture Blake sleeping in this bed. God, I want to smash his face, break his bones to make him feel a shred of the agony he’s been causing me. Did he bring Gia here, too, to fuck while I slept the pain off in the next room?

Rage ripples through me in waves. An image of Blake’s face covered in blood in his car with a needle stuck in his arm flashes in my head. Nothing is going to extinguish the fire in my chest but his and Gia’s death.

I jump to my feet, the need to leave this room urgent. My steps echo over the sound of the water running in the shower. I raise a fist to knock on the bathroom door but stop midway when Tristan groans in Spanish.

“Reagan… La tengo parada sólo per ti… Sí…ah… Chúpame la verga.”

I freeze, my raised fist hanging in the air as Tristan’s muffled voice carries through the door. His words flowing in a low, heated rumble. I can’t make out exactly what he’s saying, but the tone leaves little doubt as to the nature of his thoughts—and what his hand is doing—now.

I should leave and pretend I never heard a thing, but my feet remain rooted to the spot. Even my ears disobey me and strain to make out more words, more of that hoarse need in his voice that sends unbidden thoughts ricocheting through my mind.

There’s power in standing here unwatched while he’s indisposed, giving voice to his fantasies, the secrets he’s been hiding from me. He moans my name over and over, Reagan, not Birdie, and it does something unholy to me. Hearing my real name groaned in the pain that chases after pleasure, in that sinful voice, adds more to the forbidden indulgence.

Reagan, the woman he’s known before he became her protector, is the center of his madness. The fruit he would never taste. The sin for which he can’t atone.

On their own accord, my fingers caress the doorknob. Bathroom lights spill from the cracks, and I realize all this time the door has been open. My heart skips a beat. Does he know I’ve been here listening to him?

He mumbles something in Spanish followed by my name and another moan, answering my question. He’s too engrossed to notice my presence. Slowly, I open hell’s door without so much of a knock.

I blow out a shaky breath and watch it dissipate in the humid air. My gaze is drawn to the shower stall itself. The glass is opaque with steam, but I can make out Tristan’s silhouette, broad, powerful and dangerously beautiful, behind the haze.

He leans back his head, his behind pressing against the glass, allowing for a gorgeous, clear view of his toned, very naked ass. I’ve never seen so much of a full arm of his body. Other than that one time I saw him in gym shorts, he’s always formally dressed around me. Now…

I marvel at the rippling muscles and throb with each groan he releases in need. His shoulder rocks as he works harder on himself. His panting accelerates against the streaming water. And I watch. I’m playing with fire, but I’ll enjoy the burn.

Then, my name straining out of his lips, he turns.

Our gazes lock. He sees me, and I see everything. In that fractured moment, before his expression morphs from naked vulnerability to an inscrutable mask, I see the longing, the self-loathing, the warring hope and hopelessness swirling in those intense eyes. His unresolved demons.

He doesn’t try to cover up. The hand that has been rubbing pleasure out of him closes the water.

Tension and silence hum in equal measure between us. He takes one step back and squares his shoulders, his eyes, shameless, never leaving mine, as if he’s saying, “Here I am. Look closer. See it all. Enjoy the view.”

Images of him naked, on top of me, under me, behind me, crowd my brain until heat pools between my thighs. His eyes darken, as if he crawled inside my head and saw every dirty, forbidden scene playing about him. He pushes the door open, his hand leaving a print on the steamy glass, and comes out.

The thick air clears bit by bit, revealing the whole picture. I fill my fantasies about him with the missing details while he’s standing a few feet away from me, staring right at me. The angry sinews that bulge out of his flesh. The scars of the wars in which he had to win. Too many to endure yet survived. Three visible tattoos. One on his chest right above his heart— Monarca wrapped in butterfly wings. Another on the side of his perfect abs—an open book on top of a cobweb, and ‘ One shattered rhythm. Two sides of a broken heart.’ written underneath. It’s the same tattoo the protagonist in The Nightingale’s Whispers has. The last one I see is on the plain surface above his erection.

His hardness demands my attention, distracting me from reading those inked letters, and while my eyes widen at the mischievous glint of the rings adorning the crown and the shaft, they’re more eager to decipher that tattoo. It’s in Spanish.

“You are the sin scorched onto my soul’s darkest covenant.” He translates for me, and it feels like a confession.

“When did you get that?”

“Right after I read it.”

“That’s from my first book, Tristan.” It was published six years ago. “How long?” I rasp. “How long have you been doing this?”

“This?”

“Fucking your fist thinking about me.”

He steps closer, and my heart thuds. “Long.”

I swallow. “Since you started reading my books?”

He takes another step towards me and shakes his head.

“How long, Tristan?”

“When I’m baring myself and the truth naked before you, don’t you dare lie to me. You already know how long, Reagan. At least, suspected.”

He’s been having forbidden fantasies about his teacher. Like Aaron. “This is sick.”

“You of all people can’t say that. Imagination isn’t sick. There’s no right or wrong when it comes to what goes on in our minds.” His brows furrow. “I’ve never acted on my dark desires for you. I’ve never so much uttered a single word about them to you. Even now, when I’m desperately aching for you, when you’re standing so close but never close enough, I keep my distance.”

His voice drops. “But you’re right. I am sick.” He tilts his head and lets his male gaze sweep me from head to toe. “So are you.”

“Me?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” His hand wraps around his erection and tugs. “Standing in my bathroom, watching instead of leaving, fucking me in your head.” His lower lip curls under his teeth as he starts rubbing himself. “Tell me you don’t wanna watch me finish. Tell me you don’t wanna hear your name on my lips when I break.”

I do…and more. I want to know if his muscles are as firm as they look, how his skin tastes as I lick the water droplets that get to touch him while I don’t, how rough his scars will be under my fingertips, how the rings of his piercings will feel inside of me, if they will rush my orgasm, if they will prolong the pleasure, what kind of sweet nothings he’ll whisper, what other sounds he’ll make when he breaks .

I’m thirty-four. He’s twenty-seven.

He used to be my student. I was the teacher he had dirty thoughts about.

I’m his client. He’s my bodyguard.

It’s wrong, but I can’t stop staring at him touching himself in front of me.

Rugged breaths tear from him and mingle with mine in the shadowed space between our bodies. Reason is a distant, mocking whisper lost in the roars of our hearts. His eyes blaze with primal hunger, scorching me with a look that threatens to undo every stitch of restraint still binding me.

You’re married, and Blake is still alive. If he finds out before Butterfly Man gets him…

Just like that the haze of temptation lifts off my brain, and I’m brutally yanked and thrown into the violence of reality. I drag myself to the door. “I have to go.”

“Don’t go. Please.”

Staring at the door, I shake my head. “I can’t, Tristan. What you said yesterday… That quote, it’s about fighting and sacrifice, not succumbing to selfish desires.”

“ This is me trying to fight. I need to clear my head, to take out everything that’s there other than protecting you. So please…help me.”

“If Blake finds out and uses it against me—”

“He can’t. He’ll never find out. Besides, there’s nothing he can use here. We’re not doing anything wrong. You aren’t doing anything wrong. You don’t even have to look at me. Just tell me, if this was a scene in your book, how would you write it?”

The question unlocks something in me, a torrent of words and imagery clawing their way out of my head. I close my eyes and urge myself to walk out of here, but not one fiber of me is willing to obey.

“Please.” His voice lowers in a prayer that asks for damnation. “Just this once. I’m begging you.”

He was right. I knocked on hell’s door, but it wasn’t a demon that opened it for me. It was the devil himself.

I exhale a breath I’ve been holding for so long. “I want to wrench open the door and stride out of that inferno of tantalizing dangers, but the need in his plea chains my feet. Does he know I can’t resist when a man begs? Is he telling me what I need to hear to get his way? Or is his beseeching genuine?”

“After my father’s death, I promised myself I’d never beg anyone for anything again. Today, for you, I broke my promise. Only for you, I’d beg. Only for you, I’d go down on my knees.”

Oh God. My head tilts back as I let out another heated breath. “He’s driving me crazy with those words. I nibble on my bottom lip, unable to erase the image of him hard and straining behind me. His low and gruff moans as he touches himself are so delicious. Will he make the same sounds if it’s my fingers that are wrapped around him? My lips? My arousal?”

He groans a curse, heat rolling off him in waves and clashing against my back. Against my best judgment, I twirl and stare at him.

“Dark desire smolders in his tormented gaze, more frightening in its intensity than violence itself. His jaw clenches as he works faster, harder. Then his gaze, brazen, possessed, forged in hell, widens as it devours my body.” I watch as he hungers over me. “His face says it all. He’s never wanted anyone more than he wants me. It’s taking him every ounce of restraint not to pounce and take me like the animal he is. But it’s not our time. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

“It makes me want you even more. It makes you want me even more,” he says between his shaking breaths.

“He’s right again. I crave him,” I say, forsaking all shame, and hop to sit on top of the vanity counter. I hike up my skirt, in my head his hands are doing the job, and spread my legs.

“Holy hell,” he rasps.

“His stare dips to the view I’ve allowed. He must have imagined spreading me wide countless times. Does it live up to his expectations?”

“What the… Your underwear. It’s soaking, for God’s sake.” He runs a hand through his wet hair. “This is torture.”

“Then let me put you out of your misery.” I hook my fingers in the elastic of my panties and push them down to my ankles. Then I slide my feet out of them and let them drop on the floor.

“You!” He snarls at the sight of me naked underneath my skirt and lunges forward.

I gasp, fear and arousal roiling inside me. Is this where I burn?

He stops an inch away from me and bangs his palm against the bathroom wall. “How is this putting me out of my misery? I can feel the heat coming from your pussy, Reagan. My cock is only a couple of thrusts away from taking what it’s always craved.”

“And yet you can’t touch me, not until I tell you to.” I lean in and whisper, “Maybe not even then, my protector.”

He shouts in pain and slams his palm again multiple times against the wall. His eyes squeeze shut as he sucks in a breath through his teeth. Then he picks up my underwear and narrows his gaze at it. When he peers back at me, he smirks. “These are mine.”

A gasp escapes me when he sharply inhales my scent out of the fabric, and then his tongue darts out and, slowly, licks the wet spot staining it.

As if he’s eating me, I squirm. But no. I’ve started this game. I can’t let him win. If there is no redemption, no absolution from the demons we embrace in the shadows, then I’ll savor the chaos. If he’s the devil, then I’m his queen.

Instead of pressing my thighs, I spread them wider. Then I slither two of my fingers between them. “You can’t come until I do.”

His face twists with rage. “You can’t do this to me.”

I rub my clit. “Watch me.”

He does. He stays still, growling and cursing both of us to hell and beyond, until my fingers are covered in my orgasm.

“Your turn,” I whisper.

Eyes pinned to my wetness, he balls my panties in his fist and raises them to his nose and tugs at his hardness.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

I approach his ear. “Good boy.”

His rugged groans of pleasure rasp against my neck as his climax spurts hot and sticky on my inner thighs.

“As he marks my flesh with his release, I burn my name through the woven depths of his soul, a mark never to be erased.” I hold his gaze. “Mine.”