After I exit the underground at Holland Park, I turn right onto a tree-lined street with huge Victorian townhouses hidden behind tall gates and high hedges. Megan and I stalked the address online and found out how much he paid for it. Actually, Megan stalked the address and made me guess. I went big at five million and she laughed and said you couldn’t buy a ham sandwich with five million in that area. In fact, I needed to add on another fifteen million, which is what he paid for it seven years ago. It’s loose change considering it’s nestled in the exclusive W8 Kensington Palace, one of Britain’s most expensive postcodes. Megan asked me to keep an eye out for Madonna.
Hold on a second…I recognise this street. The Uzbekistan Embassy beside Maria Garcia’s residence stares down at me, and I shake my head. So he really did make an unnecessary round trip just to talk to me?
I turn the corner onto a private street. A burst of giggles erupts in my belly as I walk past each tank of a house in turn. I can’t believe he stayed the night in my house-share; no wonder he was so keen for us to stay in his house. The street is decorated with intimidating neighbourhood watch signs, and I begin to wonder if snipers are watching me. Driveways are lined with more luxury cars than the Grand Prix.
Number twelve—this is his. I gawk at the three-storey townhouse that screams of stinking rich.
Holy shit.
I flatten down my skirt. I’m wearing a black leather skirt, a loose woollen sweater that reveals a shoulder on one arm, and ankle boots. The target is ‘effortless chic.’ I’ve opted for minimal hairstyling and make-up after the epic contouring fail on the first date.
A petite brunette answers the imposing door.
“Oh,” I say, confused. “I must have the wrong address.”
“Elena?” she asks with an accent I can’t quite place.
My heart rate kicks up a notch. Is this his mother? That doesn’t sound like an Irish accent. I didn’t have my glasses on at the hotel the morning of his mum’s birthday.
Tristan comes to the door in socks and a torn T-shirt, and I try to ignore the way his muscles look underneath. His lips part in a grin.
“Hi.” I shift awkwardly.
“You should have let me get you a car,” he says as I step into the high-ceilinged hallway. He takes my coat from my shoulders and leans down to kiss my neck. He’s a full head taller than me so my eyes are parallel with a thick chest.
“Elly, this is Natalia.”
Phew. Not his mother.
Natalia and I exchange pleasantries.
“Nice skirt.” His eyes roam up and down my bare legs as if Natalie isn’t in the hall. “I like leather.”
My eyes widen. Does he have to look at me in such an overtly sexual way in front of Natalia? She could probably write a book on Tristan Kane’s sex life.
“Whoa!” I exclaim, my eyes roaming the hallway. “Your house is the same style as the Uzbekistan Embassy! It’s beautiful.”
He shrugs sheepishly. “Nice, isn’t it? It’s the same architect that designed the Embassy.” He turns to Natalia. “Do you want to head off?”
When she nods and leaves the hallway, I feel slightly relieved.
“My housekeeper and saviour,” he explains.
“Thank God,” I say. “I thought she was your mother.”
He laughs and pulls me to him. “Don’t say that to my sister Charlie if you meet her. She says the same. Also don’t say it to my mother who sees Natalia as a threat.”
My cheeks burn at the casual suggestion of meeting his family.
He holds me still in the hall for a minute, staring at me with a smouldering gaze that instantly gets me flustered. “I’ve missed you,” he says after a beat.
“It’s only been forty-eight hours,” I reply breathily. The longest forty-eight hours of my life.
He wraps his strong arms around my waist. He leans down, his legs widening, and presses his body to mine, bringing his lips to mine. I feel his growing hardness between my legs and respond by pushing my tongue against his. Every kiss is so damn sexual. A kiss is never just a kiss with Tristan.
“I couldn’t wait any longer for that,” he says as he breaks the embrace.
My cheeks heat up even further.
“Priorities. I need to feed you first. Would you like a tour, Elly?”
“Yes, please.” I nod. “I feel like I should be paying for the tour.”
He laughs. “Come on, I’ll show you the basement first.” He takes my hand in his and leads me down the stairs. “It’s a listed period home,” he explains. “But I’ve spent years modernising it while retaining the Victorian period pieces like the fireplaces.”
I follow him through all four floors in awe. “How many rooms are there? I could get lost here.”
“Eight bedrooms, the living area, dining area, the study, gym, home cinema, and wine cellar.” He counts in his head. “Fourteen? Oh, my office. And the bathrooms, of course.”
I draw in a breath. The guy is so rich he’s forgotten how many rooms are in his house.
“Would you like some wine?” he asks.
“Sounds lovely.” I follow him into the kitchen. The house is intimidating me. At my house, he was just a hot handsome guy. Here, there are constant reminders of how successful Tristan is. It’s a kitchen designed for a Michelin chef team, and I have a feeling a few may have cooked here before.
An enclave in the kitchen leads to a bar area. “You must do a lot of entertaining here,” I say. Like every single woman in the online pictures
“Sometimes,” he replies nonchalantly. He hands me a glass of red. “This will go perfectly with dinner. Are you hungry? Natalia has made a beef bourguignon.”
“Starving.”
He takes two dishes out of a warming oven that could fit an entire cow, and I follow him into the dining area.
“Natalia can cook!” I say. I can tell just by the smell wafting through the dining room. I take a seat at the impeccably set table.
“I told her I was trying to impress a very special woman tonight,” he replies, setting down the food. “It’s gluten-free, dairy-free, and free of something else I can’t remember. I did some research, and it said that would be better for Crohn’s disease.”
My face heats. I can’t believe I disclosed my condition to him after a few glasses of wine. It’s not exactly the sexiest revelation, is it?
“That is the sexiest sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me,” I say, and it might be true. My eyes linger on his face. Is he always this considerate? “It’s a big house to live in all alone. Do you ever get lonely?”
“Daniel stays over at least once or twice a week.”
I nod. “It must be tough not seeing him all the time. Would you like more kids?” I add tentatively.
“Maybe.” His lips press in a tight line. “I never meant for this house to just be for me.”
Perhaps a conversation for another day. “How was your afternoon with Daniel?”
The grin reaches his eyes as it always does when he is talking about Daniel. “Fantastic. But exhausting. I have you to blame for tiring me out.”
You’ll be just as tired tomorrow morning. “Is it easy co-parenting?”
His grin gave way to a pained expression. “Not for me. Gemina holds all the cards.”
I wait for him to elaborate.
“I’m not Daniel’s paternal father.”
My eyes widen. I think about my hurtful comment at the drinks when I asked if his son looked like him. “I’m sorry…” I trail off, not knowing what to say. “Is that why you divorced?” I ask tentatively.
“Not completely.” He exhales roughly. “I found out about two years ago. She told me it was a mistake so I tried to make it work for well over a year. We went to counselling. We continued living as a family. In the end we couldn’t make it work.”
Fear trickles through me as I hear the thick emotion he tries to mask. I’m only chipping the surface of this. I’m not sure if I want to know the truth.
Baby steps.
I change the subject. “This is delicious. I can’t imagine eating meals of this quality every day. Eating in my house is stressful. It’s a queue for the kitchen, then when you do gain entry, half your ingredients are gone.”
His eyes crinkle. “I’m glad you approve, Elly.”
“How am I ever going to cook you a meal?” I muse. “If this is the norm for you. When was the last time you were in a supermarket?”
He starts laughing then looks serious. “Shit.” His brow furrows. “I can’t remember.” He has the grace to look a little embarrassed. “I have to be economical with my time. I spend at least twelve hours a day working, sometimes more.”
“Why are you interested in me, Tristan?” I study him. “What do I bring to the table?” I’m not talking about beef.
He frowns. “Is this a serious question? You’re intelligent, funny, and driven. You have a really mature head on you. In fact, Danny and Jack would say you are more mature than me.” He chuckles.
Then something in the way he looks at me changes.
“You take my breath away, Elly. I’m so insanely attracted to you, Elly,” his voice thickens with lust. “You know, I think about you every night.”
I close my eyes briefly. The pain in his eyes from earlier is still haunting me.
“I think about you every night, too,” I whisper. “When Frank the Shagger is at it, I close my eyes and think of you.”
He laughs. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment. I might have to buy you earmuffs.” He nods to my empty plate. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, sweetheart. Natalia will be happy. Is your Crohn’s okay?”
I frown. What a way to dampen the mood. Moving from his bad ex-wife to my bad bowel isn’t how I planned the conversation to go. I need to move us to the next course. I push my chair back and slowly walk to his side of the table.
He leans back in his chair.
Keeping my gaze fixed on him, I peel my lacy thong down my legs, then step each leg out of it.
He leans back further in his chair, watching the show.
I lift my sweater over my head so that I’m standing only in my leather skirt and red lacy bra.
His thighs spread as a ridge forms in his jeans.
Without speaking, I step between his legs, unbutton his jean button clumsily, and then pull down his zipper. When I push down his boxers, his erection juts upwards, thick and ready.
“You want it?” he asks hoarsely. “Take it.”
My knees drop to the floor between his thighs. I wrap my hands around the base of his shaft and push his cock deep into my mouth.
He groans and places his hand on the back of my head fisting handfuls of hair.
I yelp as he tugs too hard.
‘Sorry,’ he says, watching me from above.
With both hands wrapped around him, I suck him from the top to the base, thrusting him in and out of my mouth. I speed up, making him hit the back of my throat every time.
“Elly,” he moans.
Before he can climax, I withdraw him from my mouth. He grunts in response. Tough, I’m in control now.
I rise from my knees and wrap my legs around his hips, lowering myself down so I can grind myself against his length. I’m going to come just from rubbing myself against him.
“Sit on it,” he says, growling. “Stop teasing me.”
I want to have the willpower to tease him longer, but I’m too horny to last. With a sharp movement, I impale myself down onto his erection, crying out as I forget his size.
That’s the spot.
At this angle, I can force him deep. My thighs flex around his hips, and I move up and down, controlling the rhythm to my own enjoyment.
My fingers lock possessively around his square masculine jaw. I’ll never get over how handsome his face is, it’s why I can’t make myself last. His gorgeous thick dark locks flop over his forehead and he stares up at me with such adoration, I whimper.
“I’m not going to last if you keep doing that,” he says through clenched teeth, holding my hips with an iron fist.
“It’s fine,” I murmur. “I want to feel you come inside me.” With every thrust, I slide further into oblivion. This man is going to be the undoing of me.
My chest presses against his, and I can’t tell if his heartbeat or mine is racing or both.
My core clenches tighter each time I drive him into me, making his groans louder and more urgent. My body is in control now, not my head.
“You feel so good,” his voice is thick and heavy as I ride him. His head jerks back in pleasure. The tempo of our breathing quickens together as I buck so hard I’m close to falling off him. He blows out a final hiss of breath and erupts inside me, holding my hips tight in place.
He stays inside me for a long time, both of us reluctant to move.
Finally, I lift myself off. “I’m going to clean up,” I say, my voice hoarse.
I stumble to the master bathroom on shaky legs. I’m definitely taking a dip in that tub before work tomorrow. No wonder he smells like money. The soap is the type of soap they attach to the walls in luxury hotels so people don’t steal it. I chuckle to myself.
This bathroom is every IBD sufferer’s wet dream.
