I reach up and grab his face between both hands, turning him back to me for a hard, punishing kiss. I try to start it off sweet, but as soon as our mouths touch, Tristan takes over. He makes this sound that belies this falsehood of control. Tristan Vanderbilt is not in control of himself right now. He's not really in control of anything in his life.
He lifts me up and sets me on the edge of the counter. This might be a tour bus, but it's still got the same low counters that the Train Car had, putting me at just the right height to feel the hardness in his slacks pressing against my core.
With a small growl, Tristan turns his head away and buries his face in my hair.
“I want to fuck you so badly,” he murmurs, and I shiver, leaning my head against his. “But I can't.”
“Why not?” I whisper, because he's holding me so tight right now. I can just imagine us taking things a step further than we did in his room that day …
“Because I use sex like a weapon. I won't wield it against you.” He pulls away again, and this time, I let him go. “Trust me: the temptation is there.” Tristan looks back at me before heading for the door. “Looks like your dad is home.”
He hits the stairs as I groan, leaning my head back against the cabinets and cursing under my breath. My whole body's on fire right now, and my nipples are embarrassingly hard beneath the thin pink dress that Miranda dressed me in.
I take a moment to gather myself together, and then hop down, heading out to meet Charlie as he pulls up to the curb in his rusty Ford. I'm sure he'll be excited to see my five boyfriends hanging out at his house.
“Marnye,” he starts, eyeing the giant bus with a raised eyebrow. It's so long it blocks the driveway; Dad had to park on the street in front of the neighbor's house. “What's all this?”
“This is just a, uh, home away from home,” I say, smiling as I hold out a hand to indicate the giant silver and black monstrosity overshadowing our neighborhood. “I hope you don't mind that my friends stopped by for a bit …”
Dad smiles and reaches out to ruffle up my hair.
“I don't mind at all,” he says as I take his hand and squeeze it in mine.
“How was chemo today?” I ask casually, knowing that Charlie's resistant to telling me anything about his treatment. He doesn't want to scare me. What he doesn't realize is that I'm scared enough as it is.
“Just fine,” he replies, his baseball cap covering up his balding head. I hate it. It's not fair. Why does someone like William Vanderbilt get to beat his son and squandor his family fortune, and have his fat pulled from the fire at the last second? And why does someone like Jennifer Carmichael get to cheat on her husband, abandon her child, and then live a life of luxury without any health problems?
The world can be so cruel sometimes.
“Mr. Reed,” Windsor greets, coming out of the house with Zack on his heels. The former has no problem sauntering up to shake hands with my father while the latter … The shame on his face is reflected in Creed's. Zayd just looks nervous while Tristan's completely blank.
“Oh, right. Those friends.” Dad sighs, but we've been through this all before at last year’s birthday party, so it's not as big a deal as it was before. “Well, a friend of mine stopped by the hospital to say hi and brought me this huge grill pack. I suppose I could whip up some steak and chicken, maybe a few burgers …”
“Let us do the cooking,” Windsor supplies, stepping past Dad and grabbing the cooler from the back of the truck before Charlie can even think to protest. “You rest, and I'll bring you a cup of tea. I brought some loose-leaf varieties that were a gift from my great-grandmother.”
“You're such a nice boy,” Dad says, but then cringes slightly. “I mean, I guess you're all nearly eighteen, so I should say man.”
“I'm just thankful you allow me to date your daughter,” Windsor tells him, and I love how it just goes over everyone's head that Wind's 'great-grandmother' is the Queen of freaking England.
Dad smiles, but there's a faraway sort of look in his eyes, the same look he's had all week. I need to talk to him about the Isabella thing. He's a terrible liar, so if my suspicions are right, he'll spill the beans during a simple confrontation. But that's a good trait to have, right? To be a terrible liar? Better than being an expert.
“Everything okay?” I ask again, putting my hand on his arm. He pauses and purses his lips, nodding.
