Bankers' Hours (24 page)

Mel chuckled. “By doing all the wrong things too many times. When do I get to meet Mr. Carr? Or is he changing it to Mr. Adams? You could hyphenate it too. Were you thinking of hyphenating?”

Too many questions at once—I nearly choked on my water. I coughed to make sure I could breathe and then answered, “I haven’t thought about it. But… Grant Carr has a pleasant ring to it, don’t you think?”

Mel agreed, “Yeah. If you did Adams-Carr, then people might mistakenly hear ‘Adam’s car’ and be looking out the window for a Volkswagen or something.”

I giggled. “That would be bad. I’ll have to ask Tristan. This weekend is out, because his daughter visits every other weekend. I’m pretty sure Saturday is her visit.”

“Are you nervous?”

“No, not really. I’m worried for Tristan because she’s going to be upset. He told her last weekend she could come to the ceremony. Now it’s done, and she’s going to yell at him, I know it.”

“You realize what this means, don’t you?”

“What?”

“You’re the stepdad. You have a kid, Grant, a teenaged kid. You need to make sure you always side with Tristan, or discuss things privately when you disagree. Maintaining a solid parental front is best when dealing with teenagers. My advice: never get in between Tristan and his daughter.”

“Why?” I asked innocently, wondering how Mel had gotten so knowledgeable when he didn’t have children.

“Because you’ll alienate Tristan if you do, and give his daughter more power than she deserves as a child. She’ll try to work you in order to get her way, thinking you’re the weak one, but you should always talk things through with Tristan, especially if she tries manipulation. Never let her think she’s in charge.”

“Wise words from a single person,” I said.

“Maybe—but I have two sisters, one brother, three half sisters, and two stepbrothers, don’t forget. My gigantimous family has taught me a thing or two.”

The truth dawned on me. “Oh, right. I’ll listen to you from now on, Obi-Wan.”

Mel laughed. “You better!”

“Listen, my break’s over. I gotta go. I’ll talk to Tristan and see if we can have you over for dinner next weekend or meet you at a restaurant.”

“Okay, sounds good.”

We both said good-bye, and I cleaned up my trash before heading back out to my station. Work picked up after lunch, so the rest of the day went by swiftly. One customer noticed my diamond ring and only said congratulations. It made me feel less nervous about wearing it facing front. I knew I shouldn’t be embarrassed to show it off, but part of me was still tentative. I knew I’d feel more confident in time.

I LEFT
my pinstriped shirt on, because I hadn’t gotten it dirty, and leaving it on reminded me of our marriage that morning. Tristan arrived, and we were off to Olive Garden.

In the truck, he said, “I called Claire. She was upset at first, but after I explained why, she calmed down. I told her we’d promised to have something in the spring, and she was pleased.”

“Yeah, I talked to Mel. I texted my mom and she was fine. Jessica was pissed she hadn’t been there, so we definitely need to plan a spring wedding. I’d like to wear a white tux, if you don’t mind.”

He stopped the truck at a light and turned to regard me. He gave a slight grin. “A tux, eh?”

I nodded. I was afraid to tell him about my conversation with Jessica. I hadn’t thought about being a romantic before, and now that I knew I was, I didn’t want Tristan to think I regretted our haste.

He turned back to the road and drove on. “You know, this was only a legal thing. If I’d had a choice to do it differently, I would have showered you with romantic gestures. Flowers at work, dinner at the inner harbor, maybe even a trip to New York to see a show on Broadway, especially since I know you like that kind of stuff. I would have swept you off your feet.”

I reached over the console and placed my hand on his thigh. “Really?” I asked, choked up at the mere mention.

Tristan took the wheel in his left hand and stretched his right arm around the back of my shoulders. “Of course, baby. My life’s ambition now is to learn what makes you happy and do it. Every day.”

“Oh, my gosh,” I gushed, rubbing my cheek against his arm like a cat would. I disliked cats, yet I found myself acting like one. I probably would have purred too. “That means a lot to me, knowing you’d even consider it.”

“Grant, that ring you picked out says quite a bit about you. I wish I had a picture of your face when I slid it on your finger. You may not realize it by my life now, but I’ve known a few flamboyant gays over the years. I’ve heard about fashion and trends and the way people dress to reflect who they are inside. Sometimes it’s to cover up what they don’t want others to see, whether that’s dressing loudly to hide the fragile person on the inside or dressing conservatively to reflect a calm demeanor, or any combination of those types. With you, I had some time after you picked out that ring to look at it and think about what it meant to you. I think you dress conservatively because you’re like that on the inside, but the pastel colors hint at your dramatic flair.”

I snorted. “Dramatic flair? They’re pastel dress shirts. I have nothing in sequins or neon.”

“No, but you work in a bank. I think you wear what’s appropriate there, and you’re not so frivolous as to buy a shirt with sequins when you know you’d never wear it. I don’t think you’re flamboyant. I think you’re conservative, but with a desire to stand out a bit more than the guy who wears a white button-down. You have six pink shirts, Grant.”

“So? Straight guys wear pink.”

“Straight guys don’t pick out vintage-style engagement rings and sigh as though marrying a prince. You’re romantic, slightly effeminate, shy, and a bit obsessive. And you’re only just learning to stretch your wings to be yourself. Am I right?”

“Yes,” I relented. Why bother refuting it when he’d pegged me in one sentence?

Tristan turned down another street and continued, “I also watched a few episodes of
Glee
on Netflix and listened to Meghan Trainor on YouTube, so now I understand your musical tastes.”

“You did?” I groaned. I almost held my breath, anticipating ridicule, but he made no rude comments.

Tristan said, “You and Claire are going to be great friends, I can tell.”

I had to make sure. “You don’t think I’m weird or too childish?”

“No, baby. You like what you like. If the song ‘Title’ is any indication of your opinion of sex and dating, then I get why you jumped at marriage. As long as you let me hold you when you watch your shows, I’ll be happy.”

“Yeah. Kind of.” I was glad he hadn’t cited “Lips Are Movin.”

“You’re adorable.”

His caring smile warmed me all over. I could have melted.

OUR FIRST
dinner as a married couple went well. I didn’t spill anything, and I didn’t pull my hand away when the waitress stopped at our table. We talked, and I truly enjoyed his company. It didn’t hurt that he smiled and rubbed his thumb over the back of my hand almost the entire time. When the waitress suggested dessert, we both declined.

WE RETURNED
to Tristan’s house after dinner, and the surrealistic feeling returned to my gut. This wasn’t a date that ended with sleeping together—this was a night to consummate the marriage. Would we? He wanted to go slow, and I’d certainly freaked out enough to warrant gradual progression, but we were married now. Shouldn’t we make love like other married couples?

I got out of the truck and followed Tristan up the steps. He stopped, turned, and asked, “Are you all right? You didn’t say anything on the ride home. It’s too fast, isn’t it? You’re having second thoughts.”

I heaved a sigh, stepping up onto the landing with him and looking him in the eyes. He had lovely eyes, so expressive and pensive. I explained, “Maybe, but not really about the marriage as much as about tonight.” I paused, because it was difficult to ask. “Are we…? Do you plan on having sex?” I stuffed my hands into my pockets and looked down at my shoe, scuffing it on the welcome mat.

Tristan chuckled.

I snapped my attention back up and squinted at him. I didn’t understand what was so funny.

“You know, you’re right,” he said, descending the steps. He went over to the truck and hopped back in.

I opened my side. “Where are we going?”

“Your place,” he said, turning the engine over.

The five-minute drive didn’t give me much time to figure out why he thought my house was any better than his for doing the deed. I didn’t know what I was doing either way. His place had a bigger bed. My place was cleaner. His place was cluttered and chaotic. My place smelled like vanilla and lavender.

He parked, and I got out and followed him up my own steps this time. He opened the door and went inside.

My couch was larger, and the pillows matched. I sighed.

Tristan came up behind me and squeezed my shoulders. He leaned in and whispered in my ear, “We’re here because you’re more relaxed when we are.” He kissed my neck and turned me around. “I want you, Grant,” he whispered against my lips, licking them before planting a kiss. “But you’re still hung up on not being good enough, sexy enough, or appealing enough.”

“No!” I protested. “I’m….” I had no real argument. He was right. I slumped forward and rested my forehead against his chin. “Why do you put up with me?”

“Because I find your insecurities endearing.”

I laughed, but in that way people do when on the verge of crying over something ludicrous.

Tristan took my hand and led me toward the bedroom. “Come on, I have some ideas.” He started unbuttoning his shirt and kicked off his shoes as soon as we entered. “Get undressed, but leave on whatever layers you need to feel comfortable.”

I nodded, feeling stupid for needing to keep layers on. At least he was making a huge effort to respect my needs. I took off my shoes and set them in their spot. I removed my trousers and hung them up. My shirt went into my dry-cleaning sack. I took off my socks and put them in the hamper.
My undershirt.
I paused, contemplating what I should do. I took a deep breath. He’d seen my chest already. He hadn’t run screaming, nor had he laughed. He’d liked it.
Tristan liked my chest.

I removed the undershirt and tossed it into the hamper. Only my boxers remained. I turned around and found Tristan sprawled out on top of my comforter, fingers laced across his stomach and boxer briefs bulging. “You wore underwear,” I mused, joining him on the bed. I reached out and caressed the back of his hand.

“I did. For you.” Tristan took my hand and held it. We sat there gazing at one another for several minutes. I knew he wanted more, I could see the lust in his eyes as he studied me, but he waited… and waited. Then he tugged gently on my hand, beckoning me closer.

“Should I lie down?” I asked.

“Only if you want to.” I did, after fluffing my pillow, and Tristan stretched out on his side next to me. “Give me your hand.” I offered the left, but he took my right and held it to his lips. He kissed the back of my hand a few times, and then I felt his tongue slide over my knuckles before he kissed them. Tingles shot down my arm when he did it again. He opened his mouth and ran his tongue down the length of my index finger before play-biting it. I jumped, but it hadn’t hurt.

“What are you doing?” I asked apprehensively.

He grinned lasciviously. “It’s called foreplay. I’m stimulating you.”

“By licking my hand?” It seemed odd, but I had felt things stirring when those tingles shot down my arm.

He chuckled wickedly. “Yes, Grant, by licking your hand.” He turned my hand so my fingers faced him. He held my palm and then very slowly took my entire forefinger into his mouth. I gasped in surprise. I felt his tongue curling and swirling around it. Hot and wet, I felt the different textures of his tongue on my finger, especially when he sucked it in farther. The back of his tongue had larger bumps and ridges compared to the smooth tip. I knew I’d puke if I had anything that far back in my throat.

He started bobbing his head as he licked, which sent more tingles through me. He switched to my thumb and sucked on it fervently. I was breathing harder, so his tactic was working. I reached down with my other hand and grabbed myself through my boxers.

He stopped abruptly. “No,” he instructed, shaking his head. “You don’t get to touch it.”

“But…,” I pleaded. “You’re killing me.”

He chuckled again. He so enjoyed torturing me. “That’s the goal. When you’ve had enough and you need to come, tell me what you want me to do.” He returned to my hand and drew two fingers to the back of his throat, sucking wildly.

I gripped the sheet next to me. My cock was throbbing with need. I felt it pulsing, begging me with tiny involuntary movements. Little Adams Junior wanted what my fingers were experiencing. Little Adams Junior needed the same enthusiastic attention Tristan was giving my fingers. He opened wider and took in three fingers, and that’s when I lost it.

I arched my back and desperately moaned, “Please suck me.”

Tristan released my hand and reached for my waistband. I was already pushing my underwear down. He helped and then took ahold of my leaking cock. He didn’t even pause for a second; he merely took me all the way to the back of his throat, to the root. I cried out and slapped the mattress, struggling to catch my breath as he moved his mouth up and down on my erection.

Instinctively, I grabbed the back of his head and rubbed his scalp as he ministered to my need. His tongue slid around my shaft as he bobbed his head. I felt him fondling my testicles, so I spread my legs and groaned. I was so close. His mouth was hot and wet, and I was going to fill it with my cum any minute, and he was going to take it. I thrust upward, feeling the tip of my dick jam hard against his throat. His muscles convulsed around me, and I thought he might choke and pull off, but I had no time to consider Tristan when my balls, right then, let loose and exploded. Wave after wave of tingling electricity radiated outward from my groin to every little nerve in every extremity. I shot and shot, dumping buckets into Tristan’s throat. I felt suction and realized he was swallowing my juice.