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)
Zach was still. His pupils were so blown that Tristan could barely even see the gray irises anymore.
He yanked Tristan to him.
They didn’t make it to the bedroom. They did it right there, on the carpet in Zach’s living room, surrounded by the pictures of his family and his gorgeous fiancee.
It was the worst sex in Tristan’s life. He hated it and he hated Zach, hated the way the sex made him feel—frustrated, raw, and deeply unsatisfied, even after the spectacular orgasm that had him shuddering and digging his fingers into Zach’s bare back.
Afterward, Zach said into his neck, “I’ll have to get rid of the carpet now. And I liked this carpet. This is all your fault.” His voice was still raspy and a little dazed. “Your fault.” His lips were moving heatedly down the length of Tristan neck. Zach sucked hard on the skin above his pulse.
Tristan closed his eyes for a moment, fighting the lump in his throat. He opened them and let his hands fall from Zach’s back to his own sides. “Get off me.”
Zach didn’t move, sinking his teeth into his skin. It hurt. God, did it hurt.
“Get out of me,” Tristan whispered.
When Zach didn’t move—was he actually trying to push himself deeper?—Tristan shoved him off and got to his feet, a little unsteadily. His body hurt. He didn’t mind being fucked with little prep—he loved it rough—but, for some reason, this time he felt more bruised than he physically was. Without looking at Zach, he put on his briefs and jeans. His shirt was a problem. He wrestled with the buttons of the shirt, his fingers clumsy. It took several tries to get the first few pushed through their holes. “Fuck, fucking fuck—”
Zach pushed Tristan’s hands away and started buttoning up the shirt. Of course his fingers weren’t clumsy. Tristan watched those long, strong fingers make short work of it in silence. The silence was oppressive, like a living, heavy weight pressing in on his chest. Tristan hated it and hated Zach.
“Thanks,” he said, very politely, stepping back.
Zach just shrugged. As if he didn’t care at all. He looked like he had already lost interest in the conversation—him—and wanted to be anywhere but there.
“Bye,” Tristan said, hating himself a little for being unable to come up with something witty and scathing.
Something flickered in Zach’s eyes. “Goodbye,” he said tersely, turning away and reaching for his clothes.
Tristan left.
Suppressing the urge to slam the door on his way out, he closed it quietly instead. He wouldn’t give Zach the satisfaction of knowing that he was…angry. Was he angry? Was the tight feeling in his chest anger? He had no reason to be angry. He had known all along this would end soon. It was just…it was just too abrupt. He hadn’t been ready. Just this morning, before driving him to the medical, Zach had spent fifteen minutes kissing him over and over, as though he couldn’t get enough. And now—now, nothing. It was just too sudden. That was why he felt so off-balance; that was all.
“Hey, are you going inside or leaving?”
Tristan lifted his head.
A tall guy was smiling at him. After a moment, Tristan recognized him from the photo. This was the brother who looked a lot like Zach, except his hair was black. Just like Zach’s, his facial features were striking rather than classically handsome. He had a different build, though: his body was lean rather than muscular. He must be in his early twenties.
The guy held his hand out. “Nick Hardaway.”
Tristan clasped it briefly and put on a smile. “I’m—”
“Tristan DuVal,” Nick said, flashing him an attractive grin. “A Chelsea player and Zach’s current victim.”
“Not anymore.”
Nick’s gray eyes swept over him, excitement flashing through his face. “You mean you recovered? About time!” At Tristan’s startled look, Nick gave him a smile and winked. “A Chelsea fan since I was a kid. How am I doing so far? I’m trying so hard not to make a fool of myself.”
Right. Zach had mentioned that one of his brothers was his fan.
Tristan smiled, letting his public mask slip into place. After five years in the spotlight, it was like a second skin to him now. It wasn’t even a lie most of the time. He liked being the center of attention. He liked being liked. He liked being admired and adored by fans. It was truly easy.
“Chelsea fan?” Tristan said with a smile. “Your brother must hate you.”
Grinning, Nick waggled his eyebrows. “Which one?”
Tristan chuckled. “That bad, huh?”
“Yup. I’m the black sheep of the family.” He shuddered dramatically and, leaning to Tristan’s ear, said in a conspiratorial, horrified voice, “They’re all Gunners.”
Tristan’s laugh was cut short when the door opened behind him.
“What are you doing here?” Zach’s voice was very cold.
Tristan tensed. Nick turned his head, his easy smile transforming into a puzzled frown. “Nice to see you, too, big bro. Who took the jam out of your doughnut? This is still my home, as you keep telling me.”