R. Lilley - Lovely Trigger

The way he took in the sight of me let me know that, whether he remembered enough to notice the difference, he appreciated what he was seeing.

In fact, he was panting for me, desperate for me.

I’d worn the dress specifically to do this to him.  How could I have fooled myself for even a second that I was doing anything else?

I watched his downturned face watch my upturned body.  He was biting his lower lip, which made his dimples stand out starkly.

His thick eyelashes cast deep shadows on his passion-slackened face, just the tiniest hint of his eyes visible to mine.

But it was enough.

I loved to see that look in his eyes, even if it did drag me back in time six years, to when I’d believed that love could conquer everything.

He tongued a nipple, and I bore down on him, tilting my hips until his zipper was digging directly into my clit.  It heightened the ache to the point of pain, but I couldn’t stop doing it.

“Say it,” he mouthed against my skin, no actual sound coming out.

“Yes,” I panted.  I would have said almost anything just then to get the relief he promised.  “I feel it.  I need it.  Now, Tristan.”

He exhaled heavily against my skin, which made my entire body shudder in anticipation.  It knew what was coming.

Rapture, ecstasy, a few brief moments of forgetting everything in the world but what this beautiful man could do to my body, to my very soul.

He reached between us, still sucking at my skin.  His fingers brushed against me as he went for his zipper, and I rubbed against his knuckles, moaning as I hit just the right spot.

He cursed, fumbling to free himself.  He had to peel his mouth away from my skin and look at his hands before he finally pulled his stiff length out and up, shoving my panties aside so he could push straight into my entrance.

I shifted my hips until he was sliding into me slowly.  I was wet, but he was substantial, and it took some work to get him inside of me at this angle.

Even when he’d worked himself all the way into me, he didn’t rush it, taking his time, pausing while I moaned and throbbed on top of him.

He gripped my hips and began to move, lifting me high, until just the tip of him stayed inside, then jack knifed his hips up, thrusting deep again.

So many sexy things still came out of his mouth as he had me.  He wasn’t a ranter, not like me, except for during the act.  As he took me, he never could keep a word in.  Praises, curses, endearments, more cussing, more compliments.  I soaked it up.  Basked in it.

I was too undone or too outclassed to do much but hold on.  This was not a good position for me, with my bad knee, but you wouldn’t know it just then.  Just then, he was taking the brunt of the weight, and I couldn’t have cared less about the discomfort that left in the mix.

My body was there, oh God yes, it was, but I was not in it.  I floated weightless somewhere, just a few feet above, as my helpless body got rocked.

He propelled himself in and out of me, his hands and hips working in sync to fuck me, not fast, not slow, but hard and deep.

His hands on my hips guided me until, at some point, they weren’t so much leading the rhythm as they were simply holding me together, bringing floating me back into my heavy, throbbing body right as it detonated, and rapturous waves of absolute pleasure lapped over me, into me, soaking every pore of my body.

I lay limp against him and let my body and mind come back together.

It wasn’t a peaceful union.

Tristan and I were having some kind of a fling.  With all of my determined denial, even I couldn’t call it anything else.  I was letting it play out, barely resisting anymore.  What else could I do?  I would let him play with my heart, handle it like a toy, and when we were done, I’d hope that all we left this time were bruises.  I didn’t let myself hope for even one moment that it could ever be more.  This was more than friendship, sure, but it was temporary.

Even if he was too blind to see it, I couldn’t see anything else.

My limp was more pronounced when we finally rose from the couch and I began to move about, straightening up, keeping busy.

Tristan noticed right away.  “Fuck, Danika, did I hurt your knee?”

I waved him off.  “It’s just stiff.  Stop fussing.  Seriously.”

He was impossible, as ever.  He literally picked me up and carried me back to the leather sofa, rubbing at my knee like it was the cure.

“I think I’m going to have another surgery on it,” I said quietly while he worked at it.  Saying the thought aloud was the first time I’d acknowledged that I was even considering it.

He paused, then continued the rubbing.  “Well, that sounds encouraging.  They can still do something?  To improve it?”

“Bev has been bugging me to try some new thing they’re doing.  It’s going to suck.  Physical therapy will take over my life again.  But yeah, it sounds like they can do something.  I’m sure it won’t be a huge difference, but better than this.”

He couldn’t seem to look directly at me.  “I’m glad you’re considering it.  I promise to help with the physical therapy.  I’ll go with you, make it less boring.”

That made me so uncomfortable that I had to stand up and move away from him.  “That’s a nice offer, but it’s really not something I want company for.”

“I’ll change your mind about that, sweetheart.  You’ll see.”

It was a struggle not to snap at him.  I had to compose myself before I could say very calmly, “Stop it, Tristan.  I give an inch, and you just keep taking.  This isn’t what you’re pretending it is.  You’re not my boyfriend, and it’s not your job to—“

“You’re right, I’m your husband.”

He’d done it.  He’d gone and flipped the psycho switch in my brain again.  Just a few words, and I was reeling, my reason leaving me.  Enter hair-pulling rage.  “What did you say?  Are you deranged?  We got divorced, years ago!”

“That wasn’t my choice then, and it isn’t now.  You’re absolutely right that I’m not your boyfriend.  This is not some trial period in a relationship, where I’m not abso-fucking-lutely clear on how I feel.  I know what I want.”

That did it.

I was done.  I walked into the bathroom, bolting myself in.  I didn’t trust myself to continue with that conversation.

I straightened my clothing and my hair, wiping the bits of mascara from under my eyes.  I waited a very long time, calming myself, before I came back out.

“I’m sorry,” Tristan burst out the moment I stepped out.  “I was too pushy.”

“You were out of line.”

“Yes, that too.  I’ll drop it, okay?  Just don’t shut me out again.  Not for this.”

I nodded, too weary to put up a fight, when that fight would involve delving back into a subject that had the power to undo me.

“Show me the rest of those pictures?” he asked, his voice all cajoling charm.

Too late for that, my glaring eyes told him, but I nodded.  I waved him back into the viewing room while I grabbed a stack of samples.

My hands were shaking.  What he’d said terrified me, but it wasn’t his fault.  What had me shaking was the little thrill of joy, of hope that it’d sent through my system.  I needed to get a grip.

Tristan was far from done with his private showing, going through dozens of pictures, and finally settling on a particularly stunning photo of a field of sunflowers, some fully bloomed and reaching for the sun, but with a small circle of flowers still stubbornly facing down.  What was stunning about the picture, though, was the way the sun was washing over the more closed off blooms, as though giving them special attention, giving them another chance.

I was handling the transaction, him standing silent behind me, when I spoke.  “This picture is up to forty grand now, since it’s limited to one hundred editions.  You really filthy rich enough to just drop that kind of cash like that?”

“Not drop it, no.  I just like it that much.  I love the name of it.  Makes me feel hopeful.  I want it over my mantle.”

I paused in what I was doing, my eyes scanning over the photos title, Second Chances.

He was smiling, I could hear it in his voice, when he added, “And I could tell it was your favorite when you showed it to me.  I figure I have a better chance of getting you to come back to my house, if I fill it with the things you love.”

He’d hit his target with the opening salvo.  That second part was just overkill.

I finished up and got out of there, fast.

I was working, minding my own business the next day, when he texted me.

Tristan:  I’m at Frankie’s parlor.  Come see me.  Getting my yearly sobriety tat.

I tried to resist that one.  I worked for another hour and tried to pretend I wasn’t curious to see what was going on inside this very building.

I went to the restroom, freshened up my makeup, tousled up my hair, fidgeted with my pale rose dress.  It was lightweight and silky, with a clingy, belted shape, and one big ruffle at the hem that hit a few inches above my knee.  I had a scoop neck, which was sexy, that hugged low along my sides, and shaped into a racer-back, which was sexier.

It was hot and flirty, and I was happy I’d worn it, as I was about to cave and go see the man I’d worn it for.

An hour was as long as I lasted.  I told Sandra that I was taking lunch and hurried to the parlor as quick as my faltering step would take me there.