I laugh and he sends me a rueful grin, his hands dropping to his sides. The smile fades and then he’s just staring at me, making me hyperaware of the fact that I’m here. In his room. Just the two of us.

Alone.

“So.” My voice is artificially bright and I twirl around so my back is to him. I can’t deal with the way he’s watching me. Having him so close, all that potent energy coming at me in thick, heady waves is screwing with my brain. My gaze locks on the giant king-sized bed with its silvery blue comforter and dark brown leather headboard. It’s a luxurious bed. Simple yet masculine. Comfortable looking. A bed. And we know why I’m here. It’s not to take a nap.

My knees wobble at the mental image of Tristan and I wrapped around each other in his bed and I mentally tell myself to get my shit together.

“So…what?” he asks, his deep, slightly rough voice sending a ripple effect across my skin.

“Do you bring lots of girls to your room?” I ask, tensing in preparation for his answer. I’m sure he brings tons of girls up here. I imagine these walls have seen and heard things I couldn’t begin to comprehend.

“I don’t bring any girls to my room,” he says, so carefully I turn to face him once more, my mouth hanging open.

“Wh-what do you mean?” Oh God, I’m stuttering. This can’t be happening.

“I’ve never believed any other woman I’ve met is worthy to see my bedroom,” he says, his gaze never wavering. “Just you.”

My cheeks go warm. What is he even saying? And God, the way he’s looking at me. I can almost feel his eyes touch my skin as they wander all over me. “Tristan,” I chastise. Like a dummy I can’t come up with anything else to say.

“I fucking love it when you say my name.” His voice is fierce, so is his stride as he starts walking toward me. “Say it again.”

What in the world…

“Tristan!” I start to giggle, confused by his sudden shift in mood.

“I’m serious. It makes me crazy when you say it.” He stops in front of me, so close I could reach out and touch him. Or he could touch me—and I want him to make the first move. I’m not feeling capable enough tonight. Besides the ball is in his court.

I clear my throat, wondering if it’s best if we cut the evening short. “Maybe we should—”

He cuts me off. “I knew if I brought you up here I’d never want to let you leave. The thought of you naked, in my bed…it twists me up inside. I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off of you.”

Oh. Wow. My face feels like it’s on fire. “Stop, Tristan,” I say weakly. His words are doing things to me. Making me feel…almost crazed with wanting him.

A little growl sounds from low in his throat. “From the first moment I saw you, I can’t think about anything else. I’m like—I’m fucking Romeo over here.”

Wait a minute. What he’s saying—his words sound familiar?

“I fantasize about your lips.” He touches my face, his fingertips running down my cheek, skimming across my mouth before his hand drops. “Your perfect, pink lips...”

Giddiness explodes in my chest. “Oh, my God.” I tackle him hard so he has no choice but to brace himself as he grabs hold of me around my waist so we both don’t topple to the ground. “You’re quoting fucking Harry Goldenblatt to me!” How much Sex and the City did he watch by himself?

Tristan dips his head, the smile on his face so genuinely sweet I’m breathless. “Charlotte’s my favorite.” He kisses me, the touch of his lips on mine making me immediately want more. “You remind me of her.”

“Well, you don’t remind me of Harry at all.” Charlotte’s second husband on SATC was a bald, sweating mess of a lawyer who loved Charlotte with his entire being. They were the cutest couple ever.

Tristan is a hot hunk of man flesh who uses and discards women like they’re Kleenex. Until…me? This is hard for me to wrap my head around but somehow, he likes me enough, is attracted to me enough, that he wants to reveal himself to me, bit by bit. Real bits.

Every new glimpse I get makes me like him even more.

“I feel his pain though,” Tristan murmurs, his mouth on mine once again, stealing my words, stealing my breath for the quickest second before he breaks the kiss. “I want you so bad, it’s fucking killing me.”

I set a trembling hand on his cheek, overwhelmed at his words and the gesture behind them. He watched my favorite TV show because of me. For me. That he would quote some of the sexiest dialogue I’d ever heard—I wanted to jump bald, sweaty Harry Goldenblatt the first time I watched him make that brazen, impassioned speech to Charlotte—touches me.

Such a small thing, really, but it means so much. It means he cares.

And that is the one thing that’s turning me on more than anything else.

Tristan takes my hand from his cheek and kisses it, just before he yanks me close and devours me. There’s no other word to describe how he’s kissing me. It’s all consuming, his lips sealed over mine, his hand cradling the back of my head as his tongue explores my mouth. I kiss him back just as feverishly, desperation clawing at my insides as I whimper low in my throat. Our tongues thrust against each other in a heated rhythm, over and under. Under and over. Again and again.

I break the kiss first to catch a breath and his hands are everywhere, all at once. Sliding over my body, along my sides, dipping beneath the hem of my sweater to touch my stomach. His fingers are like a brand. Scalding hot, yet making me shiver, my heart race, my head spin.

“This needs to go,” he murmurs, tugging on my sweater before he dives in for my neck, sucking the sensitive skin there just before he nibbles it. I close my eyes, my senses bombarded with all things Tristan. His hands skim up, stopping just below my breasts, his thumbs coasting up. Along the lace trimmed cup of my bra, then touching my bare skin. I suck in a breath, goose bumps rising and I feel him smile against my neck before he lifts his head.

“What are you hiding underneath here?” The little half-smile teasing his lips makes my heart flutter. He is so incredibly beautiful. Just looking at him sets my head spinning. Having his hands on me while I’m looking at him?

I’m surprised I’m still standing.

“Take off my sweater and you’ll see,” I tease, my voice this throaty dare I’ve never heard before. I sound like a total sexpot.

Clearly Tristan likes it from the heat that’s flaring in his gaze. He grabs the hem of my sweater and slowly pulls it up, his teeth sinking into his lower lip the last thing I see as he tugs the sweater up and over my head, sending it flying across the room.

“Jesus,” he breathes, his gaze locked on my chest. I don’t have much. If a guy is attracted to me physically, it’s not because of my stellar rack. Sometimes I think that the lingerie collection was a way for me to compensate where I lack by wearing expensive, beautiful bras and panties. “That bra is like…the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Well. I’m guessing he’s seen a lot of bras so I’m surprised.

He touches me carefully, like I might not be real as he settles those big hands at my waist and slides them up, over my ribcage, until they rest just beneath my bra. He cups me, tests my miniscule weight, can probably feel the padding that lines my bra but I don’t care.

I’m savoring this, the way stares at me, his gaze full of want.

Need.

A shuddering sigh escapes when his fingers play over the tops of my breasts, trace the delicate lace, smoothing over the silky black and white polka dotted cups. My nipples harden and my breasts are heavy, the bra suddenly feeling like a constraint.

“Did you wear this for me?” His smoky voice sends a shiver down my spine.