"Hey," he answered, offering a small smile as Cade rose from the chair and sat beside him on the bed.
"How are you feeling?"
"Okay, a little sore."
"You can't take more painkillers for another hour or so."
The attentiveness spurred another rush of warmth through him, and he realized that he really enjoyed being cared for like this.
"How long was I asleep?"
"About three hours."
"Oh, wow. Okay." A few heartbeats passed as he searched for a smooth, casual transition to the discussion he wanted to have, but when the words finally materialized, they were a lame, "How are you?"
Dark eyebrows inched closer. "Me? Fine. Why?"
"I don't know. I just thought maybe we should talk about what happened."
"Did I do something you weren't comfortable with?" Cade rushed to say, his face fraught with concern. "You could have used your safe …"
"No, no, it's not like that," Tristan blurted. "Everything was fine. Good. Amazing, actually. I just thought we should talk, like, in general."
"You always want to talk," was the grumpy, mumbled reply.
"And you never do."
It was clear the other man was not going to react beyond a pointed glare, so Tristan probed further. "Was it … I mean, how was it for you?"
Features softening, Cade admitted in a low, raspy voice, "It was perfect."
Tristan flushed as he remembered hearing the words while incoherent with lust, and emboldened by the admission, asked, "Doyou want to do it again?" at the same time Cade said, "We probably shouldn't do it again."
"What?" they both said in unison.
"Why should we not do it again?" Tristan demanded as his heart plummeted.
"I don't know. Because I should be doing my job. Protecting you. This isn't professional."
"Are there ethical guidelines for vigilante assassins, then?" he couldn't help but quip.
"Shut up."
He studied Cade's clenched jaw, angled away from him, clearly tense with worry.
"You are protecting me. I'm safe here. You said you liked it, and so did I. We're both consenting adults. What's the problem?"
"I don't know," Cade hedged, unable or unwilling to articulate his concerns.
A hint of shame clogged Tristan's throat as he struggled with the apparent rejection. Even though he didn't agree with them, he tried to understand and accept his protector's reservations about his breach of professionalism, but a familiar, ugly feeling of not being good enough squeezed his chest. Tamping down the sting of insecurity, he mentally shook himself with a reminder that he was a mature adult who could handle being turned down.
"Well, if you don't want to do it again, that's fine, but if you change your mind, I'm game."
"Okay, but Tris, we're not going to be here forever. We could get a lead on your sister any time now."
The words crashed over Tristan like an icy wave, and he flinched, disgusted with himself.
What kind of self-absorbed asshole was so invested in his next dicking-down that he would set aside his sister's plight so callously?
