There’s a bite to her flavor, a crispness I can’t place but tastes familiar. The tip of her tongue glides along mine, and I taste her more fully.
Some sort of liquor. Not cognac. Not bourbon. Something.
With every ounce of self-restraint I can muster, I stop. “Have you been drinking?
Daphne’s hazy blue eyes open as they drop down to my lips. “Yes,” she lets out with a soft pant.
Her eyes find mine, where all she’d be able to see is the black mesh I’d glued over the eyes of my mask. One of her hands relaxes, and her shoulder lifts. Her fingertips graze along the edge of my mask where metal meets skin, and I jolt.
“No.”
“But—”
“No, Daphne.” I shake my head and step out of reach. I don’t know if I can trust her. I want to, but it’s risky.
No one apart from my siblings knows the truth about my identity—the man behind the masks. Letting Daphne in is too much, too soon, like spoiling your appetite before your last meal on death row.
“Tristan?”
Something in my chest tugs, pulling me towards her like a magnet.
“Not yet.” It’s a promise to her and to myself. If I can trust her, I will. No hiding. I know, logically, I have enough evidence to damn us both if she ever went to the authorities—but this isn’t about rules and all that law-and-order bullshit. No.
This is personal.
“Not yet,” I repeat, so quiet I barely hear it.
She gives me one small nod, then steps closer, embracing me as she cushions her cheek against my chest.
I press a soft kiss on the top of her head, the astringent smell of her fancy shampoo biting in my nostrils. Pulling upthe neck gaiter with one hand, I scoop her up bridal style with one arm as her arms wrap around my neck.
Damn, I am not going to think about the symbolism behind that right now.
Careful of Hawkeye bouncing around on the floor like we’re playing a new game, I slowly carry Daphne back up the stairs, ignoring the Glock. I’ll get it later.
I settle Daphne on top of her cheap Target bedsheets, the fabric scratching my knuckles.
Her family’s wealthy—they were rich before her dad became the President—the kind of rich where people called themselves ‘comfortable’. She comes from money. She has a job and no debt. So, why does her bedroom look more like a prison cell than a place for sleep?
The questions burn in my brain, but I shove them back. She’s had a scare tonight. She needs rest. And I need time to dig through the dark web for answers.
Hawkeye leaps up onto the corner of the bed, his tongue lolling out as he glances up at me, silently asking for permission.
“Can he stay?” I ask, nodding towards our puppy as I tug the covers down from under Daphne’s body.
“I’m a dog-in-the-bed kind of person.”
A small chuckle escapes. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
She shimmies out of her robe and discards it on the floor. And all humor disappears.
The purple satin clings to her breasts, full and round as her nipples pucker in the air conditioning. The fabric rolls over the soft swell of her stomach until it dips down to the apex of her thighs.
Jesus Christ, if she hadn’t been drinking tonight, I’d be kicking Hawkeye out of bed and burying my head between Daphne’s thighs to taste the rest of her.
“See something you like?”
The tease in Daphne’s voice sends an ache straight to my fucking balls. They’re going to be bluer than a Smurf tomorrow.
