Bankers' Hours(39)

I nodded. I was afraid to tell him about my conversation with Jessica. I  hadn't thought about being a romantic before, and now that I knew I  was, I didn't want Tristan to think I regretted our haste.

He turned back to the road and drove on. "You know, this was only a  legal thing. If I'd had a choice to do it differently, I would have  showered you with romantic gestures. Flowers at work, dinner at the  inner harbor, maybe even a trip to New York to see a show on Broadway,  especially since I know you like that kind of stuff. I would have swept  you off your feet."                       
       
           



       

I reached over the console and placed my hand on his thigh. "Really?" I asked, choked up at the mere mention.

Tristan took the wheel in his left hand and stretched his right arm  around the back of my shoulders. "Of course, baby. My life's ambition  now is to learn what makes you happy and do it. Every day."

"Oh, my gosh," I gushed, rubbing my cheek against his arm like a cat  would. I disliked cats, yet I found myself acting like one. I probably  would have purred too. "That means a lot to me, knowing you'd even  consider it."

"Grant, that ring you picked out says quite a bit about you. I wish I  had a picture of your face when I slid it on your finger. You may not  realize it by my life now, but I've known a few flamboyant gays over the  years. I've heard about fashion and trends and the way people dress to  reflect who they are inside. Sometimes it's to cover up what they don't  want others to see, whether that's dressing loudly to hide the fragile  person on the inside or dressing conservatively to reflect a calm  demeanor, or any combination of those types. With you, I had some time  after you picked out that ring to look at it and think about what it  meant to you. I think you dress conservatively because you're like that  on the inside, but the pastel colors hint at your dramatic flair."

I snorted. "Dramatic flair? They're pastel dress shirts. I have nothing in sequins or neon."

"No, but you work in a bank. I think you wear what's appropriate there,  and you're not so frivolous as to buy a shirt with sequins when you know  you'd never wear it. I don't think you're flamboyant. I think you're  conservative, but with a desire to stand out a bit more than the guy who  wears a white button-down. You have six pink shirts, Grant."

"So? Straight guys wear pink."

"Straight guys don't pick out vintage-style engagement rings and sigh as  though marrying a prince. You're romantic, slightly effeminate, shy,  and a bit obsessive. And you're only just learning to stretch your wings  to be yourself. Am I right?"

"Yes," I relented. Why bother refuting it when he'd pegged me in one sentence?

Tristan turned down another street and continued, "I also watched a few  episodes of Glee on Netflix and listened to Meghan Trainor on YouTube,  so now I understand your musical tastes."

"You did?" I groaned. I almost held my breath, anticipating ridicule, but he made no rude comments.

Tristan said, "You and Claire are going to be great friends, I can tell."

I had to make sure. "You don't think I'm weird or too childish?"

"No, baby. You like what you like. If the song ‘Title' is any indication  of your opinion of sex and dating, then I get why you jumped at  marriage. As long as you let me hold you when you watch your shows, I'll  be happy."

"Yeah. Kind of." I was glad he hadn't cited "Lips Are Movin."

"You're adorable."

His caring smile warmed me all over. I could have melted.





OUR FIRST dinner as a married couple went well. I didn't spill anything,  and I didn't pull my hand away when the waitress stopped at our table.  We talked, and I truly enjoyed his company. It didn't hurt that he  smiled and rubbed his thumb over the back of my hand almost the entire  time. When the waitress suggested dessert, we both declined.





WE RETURNED to Tristan's house after dinner, and the surrealistic  feeling returned to my gut. This wasn't a date that ended with sleeping  together-this was a night to consummate the marriage. Would we? He  wanted to go slow, and I'd certainly freaked out enough to warrant  gradual progression, but we were married now. Shouldn't we make love  like other married couples?

I got out of the truck and followed Tristan up the steps. He stopped,  turned, and asked, "Are you all right? You didn't say anything on the  ride home. It's too fast, isn't it? You're having second thoughts."

I heaved a sigh, stepping up onto the landing with him and looking him  in the eyes. He had lovely eyes, so expressive and pensive. I explained,  "Maybe, but not really about the marriage as much as about tonight." I  paused, because it was difficult to ask. "Are we … ? Do you plan on having  sex?" I stuffed my hands into my pockets and looked down at my shoe,  scuffing it on the welcome mat.

Tristan chuckled.

I snapped my attention back up and squinted at him. I didn't understand what was so funny.

"You know, you're right," he said, descending the steps. He went over to the truck and hopped back in.                       
       
           



       

I opened my side. "Where are we going?"

"Your place," he said, turning the engine over.

The five-minute drive didn't give me much time to figure out why he  thought my house was any better than his for doing the deed. I didn't  know what I was doing either way. His place had a bigger bed. My place  was cleaner. His place was cluttered and chaotic. My place smelled like  vanilla and lavender.

He parked, and I got out and followed him up my own steps this time. He opened the door and went inside.

My couch was larger, and the pillows matched. I sighed.

Tristan came up behind me and squeezed my shoulders. He leaned in and  whispered in my ear, "We're here because you're more relaxed when we  are." He kissed my neck and turned me around. "I want you, Grant," he  whispered against my lips, licking them before planting a kiss. "But  you're still hung up on not being good enough, sexy enough, or appealing  enough."

"No!" I protested. "I'm … ." I had no real argument. He was right. I  slumped forward and rested my forehead against his chin. "Why do you put  up with me?"

"Because I find your insecurities endearing."

I laughed, but in that way people do when on the verge of crying over something ludicrous.

Tristan took my hand and led me toward the bedroom. "Come on, I have  some ideas." He started unbuttoning his shirt and kicked off his shoes  as soon as we entered. "Get undressed, but leave on whatever layers you  need to feel comfortable."

I nodded, feeling stupid for needing to keep layers on. At least he was  making a huge effort to respect my needs. I took off my shoes and set  them in their spot. I removed my trousers and hung them up. My shirt  went into my dry-cleaning sack. I took off my socks and put them in the  hamper. My undershirt. I paused, contemplating what I should do. I took a  deep breath. He'd seen my chest already. He hadn't run screaming, nor  had he laughed. He'd liked it. Tristan liked my chest.

I removed the undershirt and tossed it into the hamper. Only my boxers  remained. I turned around and found Tristan sprawled out on top of my  comforter, fingers laced across his stomach and boxer briefs bulging.  "You wore underwear," I mused, joining him on the bed. I reached out and  caressed the back of his hand.

"I did. For you." Tristan took my hand and held it. We sat there gazing  at one another for several minutes. I knew he wanted more, I could see  the lust in his eyes as he studied me, but he waited …  and waited. Then  he tugged gently on my hand, beckoning me closer.

"Should I lie down?" I asked.

"Only if you want to." I did, after fluffing my pillow, and Tristan  stretched out on his side next to me. "Give me your hand." I offered the  left, but he took my right and held it to his lips. He kissed the back  of my hand a few times, and then I felt his tongue slide over my  knuckles before he kissed them. Tingles shot down my arm when he did it  again. He opened his mouth and ran his tongue down the length of my  index finger before play-biting it. I jumped, but it hadn't hurt.

"What are you doing?" I asked apprehensively.

He grinned lasciviously. "It's called foreplay. I'm stimulating you."

"By licking my hand?" It seemed odd, but I had felt things stirring when those tingles shot down my arm.

He chuckled wickedly. "Yes, Grant, by licking your hand." He turned my  hand so my fingers faced him. He held my palm and then very slowly took  my entire forefinger into his mouth. I gasped in surprise. I felt his  tongue curling and swirling around it. Hot and wet, I felt the different  textures of his tongue on my finger, especially when he sucked it in  farther. The back of his tongue had larger bumps and ridges compared to  the smooth tip. I knew I'd puke if I had anything that far back in my  throat.