The sudden knock interrupts my typing. I secure the towel with one hand and reluctantly pull the door open with the other. Tristian is standing on the other side, posture loose and casual as his blue eyes sweep up and down my body.
He holds up a pink bag with familiar lettering on the side. His favorite lingerie shop. “I bought this before the new rules were made. I’d been saving it. For something special”
“Really.” Unlikely. I take it from him, anyway, just grateful to be saved. “Thank you.”
He props a hand against the jamb, gaze fixed to the top of my towel. “Need any help getting it on? I’m a master with a bra clasp.”
When he reaches out to finger the edge of the terrycloth, I bat his wrist away, giving him a sweet smile. “I’m sure you are, Tris, but I think I’ve got it.”
He lets out a deep sigh. “Very well. But I’ll be in my room if you get in a bind.”
“I’ll remember that.”
I let him step away before closing the door, refusing to fall prey to the wild flip in my belly at his heated stare. I haven’t forgotten that day in the living room. I’d never admit it to him—I can barely admit it to myself—but in some ways, he was right. Those long, lonely nights spent on the phone with Dimitri as we brought ourselves off. Thanksgiving in Daniel’s office, Killian’s hips punching into me. My going to Dimitri’s room that night, ready to give in.
I might just be the horniest person in this house.
A moment later, I have the new set laid out on the bed. It’s beautiful. The fabric is a pale blue—almost silver—with delicate lace and a tiny bow in the center. The back crisscrosses in a layer of intricate straps. The panties aren’t what I’m used to finding in my drawer, especially from him. Those are mostly thongs that are barely worth wearing other than covering my pussy for the tiny skirts they like me to wear. These are far from being the trashy underthings I’m used to suffering through.
This is the kind of lingerie a classy woman would wear.
The kind expected of a woman a Mercer would date.
Wondering what Tristian might have been saving this for, I dry off completely and put the bra and panties on, glancing at myself in the mirror. I’m stunned at how good the color looks against my complexion and how it feels almost painted on—like a second layer of skin. Somehow, Tristian knows every part of my body.
My phone buzzes on the bed, and blushing irrationally, I reach for it.
Lord T: How does it fit?
Lady: Perfectly.
Lord T: You sure you don’t need me to come check?
Lady: You wish.
Lord T: Sweetheart, you have no idea.
I stare down at my phone, the last message from Tristian left hanging, because yes, in some ways Tristian is the easiest.
But in others, he’s the most difficult.
It’d be so easy to fall into him. To let him steer me, control me. He’s not like Killian. Even if it’s at times misguided, Tristian only wants to take care of me. But there’s something about the way he’s always in control that makes me feel I’m teetering on the edge of a cliff. One false move and I’ll fall. The way he guided me and Killian the other night, drawing us from the edge of hot, rageful anger to the darkest, sexiest seduction…
That’s powerful.
He’s not physically imposing like Killian, or broody and dangerous like Dimitri, but he’s insanely confident, ridiculously rich, and absolutely in control, even when he’s holding a match in his fingertips, seconds from lighting a fire. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been under his heel before. That I’ve seen what he’s like when he crosses over the boundaries of sense. That I know what it feels like to be on my knees for him—because of him—forced by him. Tristian Mercer still seems almost too good to be true.
He makes me want to stop worrying about all that so I can just take and have, and that may be the scariest thing of all.
I just need to hold on to my own control here—at least a little. I look over at the skull on my dresser. It’s covered in rhinestones and glitters in the light. It’s also equipped with a camera tucked in the eye socket. Even after turning all the cameras back on, there are no open feeds in my room.
Not unless I enable it.
I feel a knot unwinding in the back of my neck as I pick up the skull. It’s a testament to how twisted this thing between us has become that turning off the cameras and locking Killian out hasn’t been an easy decision to endure. I don’t think I’ve allowed myself to admit what Dimitri had been trying to get me to face all those long nights on the phone. I might have secured my privacy and exercised my control.