R. Lilley - Lovely Trigger

He took me into his closet to try to find me a T-shirt.  I froze in the doorway, staring inside.

With just a towel clutched to my chest, I stared at his closet for the longest time.  It was huge, and much stranger, it was full. Long lines of suits, a wall of ties, racks upon racks of dress shirts.  There was only one small space allotted for T-shirts, and the wall of shelves that held his folded jeans wasn’t much bigger than the section allotted for ties.

“Holy shit.  What happened here?  This is not you.”

He looked sheepish as he ran a restless hand through his hair.  “I have a dresser.”

“Huh?”  I made a face.  “Explain that to us poor people.  A dresser?”

“For the show, there’s a lady that does my shopping, puts clothes together for the act.  A stylist, I guess.  She put this closet together, as well, for all of the events associated with the casino.  An extensive wardrobe is part of the job, I guess.  So you got that part right, this is not me.”

He snagged a T-shirt down from where several were folded, and I dropped my towel, going for it.

He held it out of reach with a smile.  “I just rethought the whole giving you clothes idea.”  He tossed the shirt over his shoulder and reached for me.  He kissed my forehead softly while he cupped the back of my head, gripping my hair; he turned my body so he was behind me, then prodded me forward.

“Grab my wrist,” he told me, and I reached my arms up and behind, gripping the hand that held my hair.  This exaggerated the arch in my back, and he stroked his other palm up my torso, gripping a breast as he led me into the bedroom.

He walked me up to a strange, dual arched leather bench.  It was about six feet long, with one arch that reached three feet high before it sloped down low then rose into another arch that was maybe a foot shorter than the other one.  It was a narrow bench, as well, and I didn’t imagine for a second that this wasn’t for a reason.

I gave it a squinty-eyed look.  “Okay, I give up.  What is that thing?”

He walked me directly to the rounded edge of the higher side.  He pushed me forward until I lay with my ass was pointed straight up, and my feet dangled off the ground.

His hand still held my hair, and I still had a tight grip on his wrists.

“It’s called a Tantra Chair.  In case that doesn’t describe it well enough, let me put it this way: We are going to clock in some hours on this chair.  Days.”

I wriggled, the position alone a turn on, with my hips flush to the soft surface of the chair.  Of course, having Tristan naked behind me was more than a little responsible for getting me wet and ready for another round.

I couldn’t share with him that I’d forgotten what it was even like to have a sex marathon.  I’d only been with Andrew in the years between, but I doubted many men could put in so many rounds, like Tristan.  The man was superhuman.  I’d always known it, but having this, and losing it, made it even sweeter the second time around.

He kept my hair gripped tight as he played against my entrance with his tip.

“Sweetheart, here’s how it’s going to go.  You aren’t going to come until I tell you to.  No matter how unbearable, you will hold back until I give the word.  Also, don’t move your hands until I say to.”

I bit my lip, shutting my eyes tight as he sank in deep.  He started moving right away, but so slowly, so leisurely that it was torturous right off the bat.

I was already primed.  What I needed was another hard fuck.  I told him so.

He chuckled, kissing my back, his lips playing over my tattoo.  “Let’s be clear; you are far from in charge here.”

As though to illustrate his point, he gave me a few rough, jarring rams before he went right back to that infuriating pace.

He palmed my left breast and kissed my back as he maintained that smooth as hell and torturously unhurried rhythm.

This went on for so long that I was mewling, then cursing him loud and vehemently.

His reaction to that was to laugh against my back.  “I already got you off twice.  I must be spoiling you, if you’re this greedy for a third round.”

“I know you’re good for more than three, you sadistic bastard,” I told him.

I got a few rough jolts for that one, and as soon as I realized that taunting him would get me what I wanted, I began to insult him in earnest.

It backfired.  Badly.  He pulled out of me completely, letting go of my hair.  I tried to take back every insult, but it was too late.

“Relax your hands,” he told me, and when I did, he lined them up straight at my sides, twisting my arms just enough to face my palms up, then pulling my arms high and far enough behind my back to hold them taut.

I felt him kneel behind me, still holding my hands captive, and start to eat me out from behind with the most teasing little strokes of his tongue.

My feet arched up, and I hooked them until they were crossed behind his head, resting on his nape.  He began to plunge his tongue deep, using my captive hands to move my pussy on and off his busy tongue.

I was close, and I told him so.  He pulled back, and I felt him stand.  He tugged at my arms, pulling me back onto his cock, and started up the slow pace from before.

I bounced my hips and started to beg.

He took pity on me, working into the pace I wanted, needed.  “All right, sweetheart, you can let go.”

I came hard, convulsing, shaking, clenching on his cock as I felt him grinding hard as he followed me.

I was so limp after that round that he had to carry me to bed.

I passed out, sated and content in a way that had been lost to me for as long as Tristan had.  Even with the touches of drama, it was the best day I’d had in as long as I could remember.

I met him offsite, at a restaurant near Tropicana and Pecos, right next to a huge gun store with the biggest shooting range in town.

It was a great little Italian joint that I’d have bet money was run by the mob.  The place was open twenty-four seven, and it was always completely dead except for a few overweight Italian guys that chatted quietly in the corner.  One of them, the owner, would almost always stop by our table to make sure that we’d enjoyed our meal, giving a long speech about taking care of his customers.

Super mob vibe.  And come on, this was Vegas.

The food was so good that I kept coming back, regardless.  Bev and I had a bi-weekly lunch date there, rain or shine.

Usually, Andrew and I met up at one of the restaurants inside the casino, but I didn’t think that was a good idea at the moment, for obvious reasons.

Not because I was hiding it, but more because I didn’t want to deal with any potential drama because of it.

Okay, maybe I was hiding it a little.  Though I wasn’t doing anything wrong.

I told myself that firmly and repeatedly.  Somehow, it didn’t help.

We met for lunch a few times a month, even post breakup.  That’s just how we were.  I thought we’d always be good friends.  Andrew was just that type of guy.  Even if he’d rather not have been broken up, he respected my decision.

He never resorted to dirty tricks or Troublesome smiles to get what he wanted from me.

Of course, he didn’t have those in his arsenal.

In fact, Andrew didn’t have an arsenal.

That had always been my favorite thing about him.  Too bad it hadn’t been enough.

It was hard to sit across a small table from him and not make comparisons to a certain tattooed bad boy.  Impossible, actually.

And it was hard not to feel guilty at just how unflattering those comparisons were for poor Andrew.

I ordered a salad, Andrew ordered lasagna, and we picked at our food while we waded through some stilted conversation.  It wasn’t usually like this.

I felt like shit for even being there.  I should have canceled, but I’d been too stubborn to admit to myself that my life couldn’t just keep going on as usual.

“So are you seeing anyone special?” I asked, feeling way too hopeful about it.  The day he moved on would be a big weight off my conscience.  I knew I’d broken his heart, and though it’d been several months since all of that had gone down, I still felt bad about it.

He winced slightly.  “I’m still carrying a bit of a torch for you, if you hadn’t noticed.”  There was no censure in his tone, just honesty.

That was so much harder to face.  I looked down at my plate.

I thought I’d been clear for a while now, but apparently not.  Had I inadvertently been stringing him along?  It had never occurred to me before, but, of course, I hadn’t been sleeping with someone else before.

That thought threw me, the part about someone else.

Tristan being the someone else was just off.  It felt wrong to even think it.

I knew why, too.

He was the someone, so he could never be the else.

This was the else, my morbid mind told me.

The last six years have been the else, and poor Andrew was just another casualty in the Great War of T&D.

Dear Andrew had been on a no percent survival suicide mission, and he hadn’t had a clue.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” I told him as gently as I could.  “Carry a torch for me, I mean.  You’re a great guy.”

“Uh oh,” he said with a sad smile.  “That sounds ominous.”

“You are.  You’ve been wonderful to me, patient and kind, but I was broken long before I met you, and I’m afraid that neither you nor I ever did have the tools to fix me.  I’m just beginning to see that.  I’m sorry I wasted your time; sorry I hurt you.  Truly I am.  We are good as friends though.  I’ll always have the utmost respect and fondness for you.”

He looked much more broken up by my words than I was ready to deal with.  “It wasn’t a waste of my time.  Falling in love never is.”  He covered his face with his hands.  “I didn’t know you felt this way.  I thought you just needed more time.  More space.  Is this coming up for a particular reason?”  His hands dropped, and his solemn eyes met mine.  “If I may be blunt, is there someone else?”

Still there was no censure in his tone, only a gently wounded concern.

I flushed, feeling ashamed at my insensitivity.  I should have told him sooner.  “I have been seeing someone.  I can’t say if it’s serious, or even has the potential to be.  It’s a very complicated situation.  But—“

“It’s Tristan Vega, isn’t it?”

That took the steam right out of me.  “How did you know?”

“It was always him, wasn’t it?  I knew,” he said emotionally.  “I knew there was someone that had your heart, something that always made you hold back from me.  I should have realized we were doomed, after that first time, when you locked yourself in the bathroom and wouldn’t stop crying.  Obviously I knew there was something wrong, but I didn’t know it was hopeless.”

He paused for a long moment, regaining his composure.  “You shouldn’t be sorry, and you shouldn’t feel as though you’ve done something wrong.  I know you tried your best to love me.  We just never had a shot, huh?”

I shook my head, wishing I knew better how to comfort him.  I could tell he was in pain, and I hated that I was the cause of it.

“That time we saw him at the red carpet last year.  Christ, I should have seen it coming then.  I could tell you weren’t over each other.”

“Was I so obvious?”  The thought was alarming, to say the least.  At times, it’d seemed that my pride was all I’d had.  Had even that small comfort, that I’d kept my feelings hidden, been denial on my part?

“You weren’t, no.  You have always been remarkably good at hiding your feelings.  It was him.  He wasn’t hiding a thing.  He looked at you like, I don’t know, like he couldn’t even breathe at the sight of you.  I could tell he’d been your lover, and I admit to being jealous, but still, I had to feel for the guy.

And the way he looked at me, well, he barely glanced at me, but when he did…I’ve never had that much animosity aimed in my direction in my entire life.  I know it sounds crazy, but I think he wanted to attack me.  Like, bodily attack me.”

That didn’t sound crazy.  That sounded like Tristan.

I wondered briefly if I should warn him that it was a very real possibility, if they had a run-in in the future.  Tristan wasn’t half the hot head he used to be, but the way he felt about Andrew might just cancel out all of his newfound self-control.