After a while he comes back and lies on his side, facing me. His eyes are still sleepy, and it’s obvious he wasn’t ready to wake yet. “What?” he mumbles.
“Nothing . . . feeling happy.”
He smiles sleepily. His eyes drift back closed.
I lean up onto my elbow and stare over at him. “How many women have you slept with, Tris?”
“Too many to admit to,” he replies, eyes still closed.
“Oh.” I think for a moment. What does that mean? How many is too many to admit to? Jeez.
“You wore a condom, though, right?” I frown.
“Yes, Anderson, I wore a condom. You don’t have an STD. Go back to sleep.”
I roll my lips to hide my smile. “You . . .” I frown as I try to articulate what I want to say. “You didn’t wear a condom with your girlfriends, though, did you?”
“Yes, I did, actually.” He shrugs. “Well, not my second girlfriend, but she was the only one apart from you.”
“Oh.” I frown. He has spoken of this second girlfriend before. “You loved her a lot, didn’t you?” I ask.
“Is this a Saturday morning or a Spanish fucking Inquisition?” he mutters dryly.
I giggle. “I want to get to know you. I’m going to ask you questions all day long.”
“Hmm.” He frowns, unimpressed, eyes still closed.
“You ask me a question now,” I say. “This is how we learn about each other.”
He reaches over, drags my body to his, and kisses my forehead. “I don’t care what happened to you before me. I only care about us.” He pulls me tighter and kisses my temple again. “Go back to sleep, Anderson,” he murmurs, eyes still closed.
I smile. I love him like this. All sleepy and docile. “I’m not tired. You go back to sleep. I’ll keep watching you like a stalker.”
“Hmm.” He snuggles back into his pillow, unfazed by my comment. “You’re a weird person.”
I lean up onto my elbow again and smile at the resting god in front of me. I’m not even joking; I would pay good money to watch this spectacular blanket show. “It’s okay, Tris,” I whisper. “I’ve only ever murdered two men in their sleep before. You’re completely safe.”
He opens one eye. “The fact that that even crosses your mind to say is somewhat concerning, Claire.”
I smile mischievously. “Shh, go to sleep, baby . . . nighty night.”
He smirks, realizing that I’m not going to let him go back to sleep. He flicks the blankets back, exposing his naked body. “I suppose you can help yourself,” he huffs, as if I am an inconvenience. “I am sleeping through it, though. Don’t expect any input from me.”
I laugh and kiss his chest as I work my way down his body toward his dick. “Yes, dear, whatever you say.”
We walk into the restaurant hand in hand. It’s nine o’clock on Saturday night, and we’re only just going out for dinner in trendy downtown Manhattan. What is this ulterior cool universe? I’m usually tucked up in bed about now, too exhausted to even read.
I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve come to the conclusion that when most people begin to see each other, it’s a date and then a sweet goodbye. Casual at first, and maybe after a while a sleepover once in a while. It’s slow and even tempered, and it builds over time. Tristan and I have done it all backward.
Our first meeting was a fight; then out of the blue he asked me out.
We met at a conference, had two hookups, then spent an entire weekend together. Then we didn’t see each other for six weeks, had another fight in his office—this time, over my son. Reconnected, had a week of mind-blowing lunchtime sex and another sleepover on my couch, had another fight, then didn’t see each other for another week, and now we are spending an entire weekend together again. It seems like we are all or nothing, but this time is different . . . we made a promise to each other of a possible tomorrow.
Being here in New York with him has been perfect.
We had a lazy morning, and he made me breakfast. Then we went for a walk and had lunch in a café on the edge of a park and read the papers. We’ve laughed and talked and kissed like schoolkids, made love, and had a late-afternoon sleep from which we didn’t even wake up until seven o’clock. No rushing, no timeline to adhere to with the