Page 69 of Corrupt

I furrowed my brow. “Who?”

He rolled his eyes, as if I should know that one. “My ex, Oliver? My housemate Benji? The video you made me watch of their orgy before you pummelled him into the ground and robbed him.”

“Ah.” I winced. “Yeah…well, no. They had a shit batch cooked up by Ghost himself. Why the man’s in prison. Probably didn’t even hit the sides. All that orgy bollocks he probably did sober.” I glanced at him. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“And I didn’t pummel him or rob him, by the way. He bruised like a peach and shit himself the moment you walked away. I followed him to the cash machine, and he gave me the max he could get out. A grand. Then I told him if he ever came near you again, I’d rip out his throat.”

“That’s…oddly kind of you.”

“I can be nice.” I smiled.

“Though he’d have deserved it. For cheating.”

I didn’t respond to that. Couldn’t trust myself to. That line of conversation was heading somewhere I wasn’t ready to go. Somewhere sounding a lot like relationships and expectations. He might ask if we were exclusive. And even though I hadn’t touched anyone else since him, I sure as fuck didn’t want to hear if he had. Or face the sharp little twist inside me that didn’t want him to.

Luckily, Tristan steered the conversation back. “So this… it’s safe?”

“To take?” I nodded. “Safest out there. Best hit, too.”

Another stretch of quiet. Thick. Loaded.

Then Tristan stood up.

For a second, I thought he was leaving. Walking out of my flat, out of this moment, out of the last twenty-four hours. Instead, he turned to me and sank onto my lap as if made for the shape of me. And there we were, chest to chest, with his knees bracketing my thighs. Warm. Barefaced. Intent.

He kissed me.

And I grabbed him without thinking, sliding my hands up his back, under his shirt, finding skin to make every nerve in me jump. Soft. Warm. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be. Too fucking good. And yeah, if this was a goodbye fuck, I could take it. Lose myself in him for a minute. Pretend it wouldn’t follow me after.

But he didn’t kiss me as if saying goodbye.

Then he pulled back to kiss down my cheek, along my jaw to my throat, and his lips brushed my ear when he whispered, filled with pure seduction,

“What if I said I did want to take it?” He leant back, met my eyes dead-on. “With you.”

I swallowed. Hard. “I don’t take my own stash.”

“Why not? You said it’s safe.”

“It is. I had it tested. Tested again. And again. It’s clean. Pure. Brand-new line Cormac wants moved.”

“So why not test it yourself?”

I dragged a hand over my face. “Fuck, Tricky. What are you doing?”

He reached for his shirt buttons, undid them all, then slipped it off, tossing it aside, and grabbed my face in both hands. He kissed me again. Deep, hungry, certain. And Christ, I felt it. The spark. The heat. The way he fit me too well. But I also knew what Mandy did to people. How it loosened everything. Muscles, fears, tongues. And Pretty Poison? Stronger. Cleaner. Sharper. I didn’t know what it could do to me if I was already halfway gone for him sober.

Tristan pulled back, breath warm against my cheek, and reached for the foil packet on the table, sliding a finger under the seal.

I grabbed his wrist and the packet in the same motion. “You’re not taking it.”

He froze, eyes wide, chest rising and falling against mine. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what this meant to me. He wasn’t being dismissed. I was saving his life. And I flipped the foil over in my hand, brushing my thumb across the embossing. The logo gleamed. Two mirrored Ps, twisting like a snake eating its tail. Whoever designed this shit knew exactly what they were doing.

Tristan swallowed. “What if I begged?”

“Fuck’s sake.” I scraped my hand back through my hair. “You realise what you’re asking to do?”