Uncut (Unexpected Book 4) (39 page)

M
ason Bradley decided to fumigate my apartment, which I appreciate. The number of spiders began to creep me out the moment I killed number thirty-seven. For the week I’m staying at Matt’s place. Coincidentally, my two boyfriends are in town. A rare occasion, as both are too busy. For Tristan, October through December is a heavy season filled with events. Matt’s company is filming the pilots for the fall lineup and some movies.

“Anybody home?” I lift my gaze as Tristan steps into the house. “Hey, my beautiful butterfly, how are you?”

I look down at my phone screen to check the time. Eleven. I narrow my gaze, waiting for some sort of explanation. This is my working space and time while he and Matt are working. His left arm is behind his back and his silly smile draws me to him.

“We wanted to share lunch with you.” He grins then shows me his hand. He’s holding a plush owl and a paper bag. “I found this at the store next door and made me think of him and your new obsession with collecting owls.”

A couple of Sundays ago, when we had dinner at Matt’s parents’ house, I discovered why he’s fixated with owls. His siblings have been calling him an owl for years. A nocturnal man. It’s fitting, perfect. The connection solidified that we were meant to be together. Now I’m buying owls often.

“I like what you’re wearing.” His fingers trace my naked back. I try to recall what Dr. Biedenstein and I spoke about last session. I’m seeing her twice a week because I’m working hard to break myself from the past. For me. For them. My body is getting hungry for their touch. Frightened about the outcome, each time we hug or touch I want more than what I’m willing to do, but also fearful of taking a step that will make me want to drink. It’s hard not to desire them. Like now, my crochet top only stops at my midriff. The touch of his fingers on my bare skin makes me sizzle with desire.

I close my eyes, imagining what it would be like if his fingers travel north, and my nipples tighten as my lower part clenches with desire.

“Coop.” I let the four letters out with a soft breath.

His forehead leans against mine, and as I open my eyes, his are filled with sadness, desire. I want to replace that look with joy. His hand tightens around my back. The other weaves his fingers through my hair, resting on the nape of my neck. My heartbeat gains momentum, pounding hard. And I dare. I place my mouth on his, parting my lips for him. He doesn’t wait. His tongue takes charge, deepening the kiss, frantically searching for something within me that I want to give him. Our breaths become labored, my skin heats with every second that passes. And I let them. I let my hands explore him—his torso, his face—and I hope this never ends. My head pounds, my heart is about to break through my chest, and nothing else exists at this moment for us. If only Matt was here, I’d be complete.

Where did that come from?
I have kissed them both separately, but as this becomes more heated, it’s as if there is a burning need to have Matt here.
With us.

As I finally come down from the high, I break the kiss. It’s not fear, it’s . . . I want them both before I take another step.
Is that how it will always be? Is that how this will work?

I want to make sure that I want to do it. Our panting is the only sound around the apartment. Telling him that I love him feels insignificant to what my heart is sensing at the moment. My emotions go beyond anything I thought possible.

I open my eyes, our gazes lock, and I want so much more. “Coop,” is the only word that comes out.

“Butterfly, we’ll wait, I swear.” He kisses the side of my neck, and envelops me tighter. As if trying to fuse us into one person.

I’m about to promise him something, anything so he’ll continue to touch me as my skin is desperate for it, but the buzz of the intercom makes me jump. The sound doesn’t startle Coop at all.

“Why would he ring the bell?” Coop releases me, walking toward the kitchen.

“He?”

“Matt said that he’d try to take a break, but couldn’t promise much. I’m hoping it’s him.” When he arrives in the kitchen, he turns on the monitor and checks the lobby camera, but only Joe, the concierge, is there. “Weird, should I call Joe and ask what he wanted?”

“No, I’m sure he signed for a package or something like that. It happens.”

Matt:
Be there soon, save me some food.

“You’re right, he’s coming.” I grin, because even though I have to catch up with my jewelry making business on my day off, I’d rather spend it with them. Chris likes to close the office on Wednesdays, and opens half a day on Saturdays. It gives options to those who can't be there on weekdays.

“Let’s feed you. I brought Thai food—Panang curry for my lady.” The doorbell rings before he can add what else he brought. I just hope he brought Pad Thai and I can steal some of it.

There’s a knock on the door. “Tristan.” A woman’s voice follows the knock.

“Fuck!” That growl doesn’t sound good at all. Coop drops my hand and opens the door.

A couple stands outside the door. The bony woman with short dark hair and a condescending sneer studies me. I do the same. With her primp, tailored skirt suit, she could be a taller, brunette version of Hilary Clinton. The distinguished-looking man next to her is clearly an older version of Coop. Grayish hair, hardened eyes. Unlike his son, clean-shaven. The couple could easily pose for a Country Club ad—a Brookstone catalog.

“Mother, Father, what are you doing here?”

Fuck. His parents.

M
y mother called me several times since Victoria visited, and last week after Fey threatened me. Father only emailed me with a threat:
It better not be true. You’re moving back to Connecticut at the end of the year and putting that ring on Victoria’s finger soon.

I ignored him, the same way I’ve avoided Mother’s calls. At the moment my life is complicated enough. Taking the tightrope to cross to the other side and find happiness is a fucking hard task that I can’t handle when they are constantly breathing down my neck.

“What are you doing here?” I repeat, as their gazes rest on my girl.

I snort when I look at her. They’re going to eat her alive. Her wavy hair is all over the place. Yesterday she colored her tips a deep pink, which is just right for my colorful woman. But not for the Coopersons. Her knitted top barely covers her torso, revealing the inscription of the tattoo on her right side. She’s wearing tiny shorts highlighting her long legs. The ones covered in paint, glitter, and gunk from whatever craft she’s been working with today.

“To talk some sense into you.” My mother lets out a frustrated sigh, as she shoots daggers at Thea. “The Hudsons are worried that our plans are taking longer than anticipated.”

“Merge with them, Father. You don’t need me for that. We’re in a different era. Marrying someone for a business is simply stupid.”

“Tristan Benoit, it’s time for you to grow up.” My mother’s icy voice is directed at me, but her eyes stare at Thea. I step in front of Thea, taking her hand. “First you moved to that place where wannabes live, thinking they’re better than us. But they have no pedigree. Now you’re here among . . . hippies? Your attitude exhausts me. You went out, opened those bars, but now it is time to come home and have a real job.”

I love my mother. She sounds like a snobbish bitch, but most of the times, when I see her, I remember the woman that raised me. The one who kissed my scrapes when I fell, who clapped and celebrated every milestone I reached. The same that taught me the simplest tasks, and how to laugh. We laughed so much. Until I had to grow up, become a man. Then I was my father’s responsibility. She changed too. Nothing was ever the same between us.

“He's a successful man.” Thea steps out of my protection and extends her hand. “Thea Dennis.”

Mother stares at her extended hand. “I see.” She flips her attention toward me, ignoring Thea.

“Mother,” I warn her, pulling Thea to me, kissing her creamy skin. “I’d appreciate if you’re nice to my girlfriend.” Then glance at both. “Mother, Father, meet Agatha Dennis. My girlfriend. Thea, meet Viviane and Charles Cooperson. My parents.”

A bright shade of red colors blossoms on Charles Cooperson’s face.

Mom barely glances at her, her eyes set on me with a menacing warning. “You can’t possibly think that this is all right, Tristan. Look at her. She looks like you dragged her out of a strip club.”