VICTORIA’S VOCAL CHORDS froze when Tristan asked her what she wanted. She’d never been good at dirty talk. After the teasing, his light touch over her nipples—so much more sensitive than she remembered—the ache between her thighs begged for attention.

She covered his hand and pushed it lower, pressing his fingers through fabric and into her sex.

His chuckle rumbled through her back. “Lot of clothes in the way.”

“Too many.” Her breathy response barely reached her own ears.

He flipped the button on her pants and tugged down her zipper, the slid his hand under her slacks and over her panties. She thrust her hips to meet his touch.

He zeroed in on her clit, applying pressure through the lace, and grinding into her sensitive button.

Her breath came in short gasps, as he fingered her in time to the rocking of her pelvis. Orgasm rushed over her without warning, making her head light and her thoughts evaporate.

It felt good, but the ache at her opening still wanted more. To be stretched out. To feel his length buried inside her again.

“I want you in me.” She liked the tasted of the words.

He trailed his lips along the edge of her ear. “It’s going to be difficult to do that if you’re dressed.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, curious about the odd statement.

He wore a teasing smirk. “You said you didn’t want to be the one losing her clothes.”

“I said I didn’t want to be the only one losing my clothes.” She laughed.

“Oh.” He dragged the word out in mock realization, as he glided his fingers down the front of her shirt, undoing each button he encountered. He unhooked her bra, then tugged that and her blouse off her shoulders.

She shoved her pants and wrecked panties to the ground, before turning to face him.

The way he drew his gaze over her sent heat flooding across her skin. He’d shed his shorts, and was as naked as her. God, he was sexy.

“Come here.” He led her to the bed, and lay on his back. “I want to watch you ride me.”

She liked that. An audience of one, including hands-on participation. She straddled his legs, wrapped her fingers around his shaft, and hovered above him. Drawing the head along her slit, she teased them both.

The low groans that rumbled through his chest were as electrifying as his touch.

She lowered herself onto his length, moaning at the slow penetration, then slid up almost to the tip, before dropping down again.

He set the pace, hard and fast, and she lost herself in the rhythm of him slamming inside her.

He cupped her breasts, and the light touch on the hyper-tender nubs was enough to push her over the edge again. She clenched around him when she came, loving the thickness inside.

Tristan’s grunts grew faster, becoming punctuated bursts, and she knew he was close. He gripped her hips when he came, thrusting and then slowing to a stop.

A wave of weakness, pleasant and heady, washed through her, and she leaned forward to rest against his chest.

His hard hammered against her ear, matching the beat of her own. Words didn’t seem necessary. The way he trailed his fingers through her hair, and down her spine, tender and slow, spoke volumes.

She rolled to the side and snuggled against him, burning the moment into her memory.

****

“FIND ME IN THE KITCHEN when you’re awake.” Tristan’s soft voice tickled Victoria’s senses.

She smiled but didn’t open her eyes. Who knew sleeping next to someone could be so restful?

He brushed his lips over hers. “I’ll take that as an okay. I left you a shirt on the chair.”

She floated on that pleasant edge between asleep and awake as she listened to footsteps cross the floor. Rustling from deeper in the house dragged her the rest of the way to consciousness, and she stretched against the rapidly cooling sheets.

She forced herself to sit and let the blanket fall away. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the cabin bedroom. Last night actually happened. She was so used to putting on a show with sex, the same way she did everything else. It was all about appearances.

But with Tristan, that compulsion faded into nothing. The moment was about connecting. Feeling his fingers glide over her skin. The way he responded to her cues and requests. It was give and take, instead of just take.

As promised, there was a shirt draped over the back of the chair next to her side of the bed. One of his T-shirts. She tugged it over her head, letting the hint of his cologne wrap around her.

She didn’t have panties though. Not ones she wanted to wear after the abuse they took last night. Wicked playfulness surged inside. She’d just have to go without.

Victoria walked into the dining room area to find Tristan setting two bowls on the table. “Oatmeal,” he said. “I’m sorry it’s not fancier...” He trailed off when he looked up.

The way he drew his gaze over her body, lingering on her legs, the hem of the shirt, and then her face, sent heat rushing over her. “Oatmeal is great.” She kept her tone even, enjoying the appreciation in his gaze.

She crossed the distance between them. When she got closer, he snaked out an arm, wrapping it around her waist and drawing her in.

He traced his lips up the side of her neck. “You wear this better than I do.”

“That’s all a matter of opinion.” Her voice came out husky and deep.

“Nope. I’m right.” He glided his hand down her back, along the curve of her ass, and between her legs. “And nothing underneath.” He teased her skin before moving away again. “Even better.”

“If you start something, breakfast will get cold. You’d make me choose between sex and lumpy oatmeal?” She kept her tone playful.

“I can make more.” He moved his other hand to rest on her stomach, but paused.

Something about the gesture was almost too intimate. The way he looked at her, brow furrowed, said he felt the same. “We need to talk about this.”

It was true. “That didn’t end so well last time.” But the mood was lighter now. The air between them clearer. And they needed to figure out the basics at least, sooner rather than later.

“I’ll try and behave.”

“Me too.” She sat, ignoring the cold wood against her bare ass. “Do you know what you want? I mean, involvement-wise?”

“That depends on you.”

Despite the sincerity in his voice, the answer held an edge to her calm. Mostly because she still didn’t know what she wanted. “You’re not a whatever you want kind of guy. If you surrender control now, you’re going to regret it when you figure out the answer.”

Was she warning him, or herself?

“I’m trying to be amenable. Find common ground. Give me a starting bid and we’ll negotiate from there.”

“It’s not a real estate deal.”

“I realize that.” Some of the kindness faded from his voice. The warning was faint, but she recognized it as if he’d shouted.

“Tell me what you want from me. From us. How you want to be involved in our lives.”

He shook his head. “If I tell you that, you’ll shut me down faster than you are now.”

“Oh, God. You don’t want to force me into marriage so I can stay at home and raise your babies?” She tried to keep her question light, but traces of panic leaked in.

“You think that little of me?” He frowned.

“I don’t know you.” The frustration slipped out, but reality nagged, saying she had a better idea than she wanted to see, and what she knew wasn’t as bad as she made it out to be.

His nostrils flared and he let out a long breath. “Fine. Perfect world? I’d be involved equally. Financial support. Emotional support. Custody. The child is taught early on why we don’t live together. We don’t hide it, and you don’t shut me out.”

It wasn’t a bad proposal, but there was something about it that rubbed her wrong. She didn’t know what, though. “Progressive of you.”

“I’m not totally unreasonable.”

“And what happens when we don’t agree on a decision that impacts our child?” She was sliding toward defensive, and she didn’t need to be. Stubbornness refused to let her admit this could be as simple as he made it sound.

His face had slipped into that unreadable mask she saw with clients, and she hated having directed at her. “You have to be more specific. If they want Nike instead of Reebok, they can have the final say.”

“Way to trivialize things.”

“Way to set me up. You have something specific in mind, tell me.”

“Fine. School. Private.” It was a trap. She knew it as she said it. Mischa told her once that Tristan’s parents sent him to public school, despite the options, because they didn’t want him to think he was better than anyone else.

Lot of good that did, but he held the same belief he’d been raised on. “Public.” His answer didn’t surprise her.

“And since I can’t foot the bill for private school, now the conversation is over.”

“You’re looking for a way to shut me down. You don’t want this to be a negotiation.”

It was true. Why was she being stubborn? Because admitting he was being reasonable, seeing him as part of her future with her child, terrified her. Not because she was scared of him, but because of the unknown. Being a mother was scary enough. Walking into it with a man she didn’t willingly make the decision with, who only intended to exist on the fringes of their life, but still wanted to be involved...

How was she supposed to deal with that? “I’m trying to show you what kind of thought needs to go into this.” The kind she would have said she’d given the situation, before now.

“I’m starting to think you’re the one who hasn’t thought this through.”

She shouldn’t be annoyed he saw through her so distinctly, but it was easier than blaming herself. “I thought we were ready for this conversation. I guess I was wrong.”

“Then why are we even talking?”

Because she needed to be shown she was being irrational. She wanted to be talked into what he suggested. But she wasn’t letting him do any of that. “I need to get back down to the valley.” She stood with as much dignity as she could muster, pretending her ass wasn’t all-but on display.

“Let me give you a ride to your car.”

“No thanks. I’d hate to owe you.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re going to walk to your car, in heels, in twelve inches of snow?”

“I’ll call an Uber. It’ll cost me less than you.” What the fuck was wrong with her? She wanted to take the words back, but stubbornness and fear wouldn’t let her apologize.

She blinked away tears—anger at herself—and spun toward the bedroom. Apparently she still had some of that pride left over from her late teens. The same pride that dictated if the press was going to call her a drug-addicted whore, she’d prove them right.

Except this time, hers wasn’t the only life her decisions impacted.