I choke out, because now I'm certain he's joking again. I push away from him, and he lets me go, watching with glimmering hazel eyes as I press my back to the wall between him and Tristan.
The king of Burberry Prep is not a happy little ruler in that moment.
"You son of a bitch," Tristan snarls, and Windsor grins.
"Son of a princess, actually. Great-grandson to a queen. Let's get that part right at least. You might be ‘American royalty’"—Wind makes derisive little quotes with his fingers—"but I actually am royalty." He smirks. "Tenth in line to the throne, prestigious enough to be important, but not close enough to it that anyone cares what I do. I have my own money, my own life. If I want to date a poor, American girl, I can. What about you? Are you even allowed to like Marnye?"
Tristan steps forward, and then he turns to look at me. To his credit, he controls the angry sneer on his face, and cools his expression, flicking his tongue out to lick the edge of his lip as he looks me over.
His eyes come to rest on my face, and then he's turning to me, grabbing me by the hips and setting me on the edge of the sofa table. He brings both hands up and tangles his fingers in my hair, pulling me in for another kiss.
Seriously, at this point, my mind is gone, spinning away into oblivion. I'm just a ball of emotion with no logicality left.
That harsh yearning inside of me spirals into a crescendo as Tristan sweeps my mouth with his tongue. His kiss is as sharp and cold as he is, but it's threaded through with white-hot molten fire. If I can melt that outer steel of his, and dig down to what lies beneath … he'd be a fucking firestorm. His fingers grip my hips on either side, digging in just enough that it both hurts and feels good at the same time.
I'm reminded of winter formal, and that night on the boat. "Just remember that Creed isn’t the only one that’s interested." The way he kissed me then, and the way he's kissing me now … are the same.
It wasn't all bullshit, was it? The way I felt like I belonged when we all sat together at the table? That was real. It was real. It was fucking real.
Tristan pulls back, and puts his forehead to mine, breathing hard.
And then he jerks away like he's been burned, storming across the seating area toward his room.
He's running away.
"Stop." Just that one word from me. I don't even have to shout it. The meaning is clear enough in that single syllable.
Tristan pauses and glances back at me, pupils dilated, the gray of his eyes burning like barely banked embers.
"What?" He sounds like he's about to snap. He definitely needs time alone to decompress, that's for sure. But not until he answers my question.
"Are you interested? A kiss isn't an answer. I want to hear it in words." I lift my chin and Tristan turns around, nostrils flaring with anger. He closes his eyes and glances away like he's in pain.
"I've already taken on my father's wrath for you, forsaken my family fortune, isn't—"
"Not an answer." My heart is beating so fast, and I can feel the other guys watching me carefully. I stare him down and I wait. Lizzie isn't far from my mind in that moment, but all I can do right now is start here, with a simple answer to my question. If he is interested in Lizzie, that's a choice he'll have to make on his own. If he cares about her then … he has to decide that. I can't force him.
"Yes."
Just that one word.
It feels like a challenge.
"Shame. I was looking forward to a challenge.”
He said that to me, once upon a time, the very first day we met.
Looks like he's going to get what he wanted.
"The five of you …" I start, still sitting on the edge of the sofa table. "You're going to have to fight for me if you want me. But not with fists or bets or bullshit. I mean you're going to have to let down your barriers, and spend time with me."
"Marnye," Zack starts, voice soft, but I hold up my hand. I'm not done. My cheeks are flaming with embarrassment, and my body's on fire in a way it's never been before. If I don't get this out now, I