Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 303(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 303(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
“Ah,” Tristan said, looking at him from under his eyelashes. “So you kissed me because you were annoyed. It makes so much sense now.”
“I didn’t kiss you,” Zach all but gritted out. His body almost pressed against Tristan’s. Almost.
“No, of course not,” Tristan said. Someone was breathing hard; he hoped it wasn’t him. “You just bit me. You bit my lip and let me lick yours.”
Zach’s Adam’s apple moved. “You annoyed me.”
“I don’t know about you, but I don’t bite people’s lips when they annoy me.” Tristan licked the corner of his dry mouth. They were so close now he could feel Zach’s breath on his lips. “Are you annoyed at me now?” His voice came out all wrong: it was supposed to sound like a taunt, it was supposed to piss Zach off, but instead it sounded like an invitation. God, he was breathing and trembling like he was in the middle of sex and the only place Zach was touching was his neck! This was ridiculous.
“Why are you doing this?” Zach said hoarsely, glowering at him with glazed eyes. His fingers tightened around Tristan’s neck. “You can’t want this, either.”
“I don’t,” Tristan agreed dazedly. “I don’t want this.” Push him away. Kick him out. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t move. “I don’t,” he whispered again, his hand reaching up to bury in Zach’s thick brown-gold hair. “This is all your fault.” His shaking fingers dug into Zach’s nape as Zach’s lips almost brushed his. Zach’s stubble scratched his chin. “I hate you,” he murmured already into Zach’s mouth—
And then they were kissing—if that could be called kissing at all, more like attacking. Zach ravished his mouth with wet, deep kisses, with a ferocious hunger that weakened Tristan’s knees. In one quick shove Zach had him pinned, trapped between the door, his hard body and Tristan’s own desperate, pressing need. God. Zach’s tongue plunged into his mouth, sweeping inside and plundering, owning, and Tristan was kissing him back, heedless of the sharp metallic tang of blood that mingled on their tongues. The flames that were burning in his blood erupted into a sudden inferno, and he was lost, only distantly aware that he was gasping and grinding helplessly against Zach’s hip, his hand fisted in Zach’s shirt and his mind blissfully empty beyond a formless depth of want, and desire, and carnal need. So much need.
Moaning into Zach’s mouth, Tristan slid his hand between them and grabbed the bulge in Zach’s pants. Zach shuddered and bit his lip with a groan, his cock pushing against Tristan’s greedy hand. God, he wanted this. Wanted it in, deep and hard.
“Fuck me,” he heard himself beg. Was it really his voice, shaky and pathetic? “Please fuck me.”
Everything stopped. The kisses stopped. Zach went rigid.
Zach tore his mouth away, his chest heaving, his eyes stormy. “No.” He all but shoved Tristan away from the door and then he was gone.
His knees buckling, Tristan slid down to the floor and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the shivers of want still racking his body. Anger, embarrassment and humiliation burned at his insides.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Chapter 8
When Tristan was five, his mother took him to a big house in the suburbs of London.
Memory was such a fickle thing. Tristan didn’t remember a lot of things that happened more recently, but he did remember that cold, rainy evening with perfect clarity. He remembered the chill seeping into his small body as he stood, clutching his mother’s thin hand. She was shivering, her grip on his hand painful. Tristan thought she was scared. He was scared, too.
“I’m cold,” he complained.
“Hush. You’ll be warm soon,” she said before coughing violently. She let go of his hand to cover her mouth. She always did it, as if he couldn’t hear. As if he was stupid.
Tristan averted his gaze for the minute it took before her coughs subsided and the sound of her breathing became less scary. A gust of wind blew into his face, almost knocking him off his feet and temporarily blurring his vision. He hated this.
“I wanna go home,” he muttered, even though he hated their home: the tiny, cold room that was crawling with things.
Sighing, his mother turned and leaned down so they were eye to eye. Her face was gray, thin and ugly, her eyes dull with pain. Tristan hated her face, too. She used to look so different. She used to be the most beautiful woman in their neighborhood. The illness made her ugly and Tristan hated it and hated her.
“Baby,” she said hoarsely. “Remember you used to ask about your dad? This is his home—one of his homes. You’re going to live with him now.”
Tristan’s eyes widened. He glanced at the big house. “Dad?”
“Yes,” she said, taking his hand again and pulling him toward the house. “He’s—he’s a very important person and he can give you anything you need. He’ll—he’ll take care of you.”