Page 34 of Honey Cut
I feel like I’m missing some kind of chess backstory. “Why not?”
“I’m not good at chess,” Tristan admits sheepishly at the same time Mark says, “He plays like a soldier.”
It comes out petulant, almost childish, like a schoolboy complaining that a companion is no fun, but there’s a fondness in the shape of Mark’s mouth as he looks at Tristan.
“Although if you’d like me to beat you at chess, I’ll happily oblige, my knight.”
There’s a flush across the bridge of Tristan’s nose now, and he shakes his head. “No, sir. I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Well, then I suppose I’ll have to play Isolde.” Mark works open his tuxedo jacket, his fingers deft and strong on the button, and both Tristan and I watch, hypnotized for a moment.
I rip my gaze away. “I should change,” I murmur.
If we can’t get Tristan to stay, maybe I can at least give the two of them a moment together.
Mark sits at the table and starts placing the pieces on the board, sliding them to the precise centers of their squares. “You’ll need help unfastening your dress. Tristan, why don’t you help Isolde with that before you go?”
He’s not looking at us, but we’re both looking at him, hands at our sides, completely wordless. For a brief instant, I am utterly frozen by the brazenness of it, the high-handedness. Thepointlessnessof it, because why wouldn’t Mark,my husband, unfasten my dress for me? Why ask Tristan?
Unless Mark knows.
Unless he suspects.
But it doesn’t seem like a test of fidelity—Mark isn’t watching us with jealous eyes; he isn’t paying attention to us at all. He looks like nothing more than a man who is impatient to play chess.
Still, though, this is a farce and imperious and impolite, and I’m about to tell Mark that he can unhook my dress himself when Tristan steps behind me.
I will my face not to move, my body not to react to his nearness, but then he brushes the tails of the ribbon around my neck over my shoulder, and goose bumps erupt all over my arms. I am so grateful that Mark is still occupied with the board and its pieces, and I give a short urgent prayer that Tristan is quick.
The bodyguard’s fingers are warm as they search out the first hook on the back of my dress, pressing as they work the hook open. He must have undressed me two or three times a day on the yacht, peeling wet swimsuits from my skin, unbuttoning silk blouses to expose my breasts, yanking down my leggings to get at my cunt. But never has it felt as indecent, as sexually charged, as it does right now, with his hands opening my reception dress while my husband sits just a few feet away. My husband, who used to fuck him. My husband, whom he’s still in love with.
Maybe this wasn’t meant to be a test for me at all, but a test for Tristan instead. A way for Tristan to prove how dutiful he’ll be, even after Mark has married someone else.
And that is more than impolite. That’s fucking cruel.
I can hear the catch of Tristan’s breath as the last hook is released and the dress sags down to show the top of my slip. I catch the bodice before it drops past my breasts, and Tristan carefully finds the ribbon ends hanging over my shoulder and smooths them down my spine.
His touch lingers there, between my shoulder blades, and I don’t move, and how can I still be getting wet between the legs when Mark isright there, when the reason Tristan can’t touch me is close enough for us to see the small scar arrowing into his brilliant hair?
For a wild moment, IwantMark to look over at us. I want him to see Tristan’s hands on me and the goose bumps on my skin and the small trembles we’re both trying so desperately to hide.
It’s a stupid, intrusive thought.
Tristan’s hands drop, and I hear him step backward, the solid step of someone who is used to marching in time. Right now it sounds like a retreat.
I turn to face him, partly, holding my dress to my chest.
“Thank you,” I say, the words coming out civil and collected, like my nipples aren’t achingly stiff behind the loose bodice of my dress.
The flush across Tristan’s nose has spread to his cheeks, and his lower lip looks bee-stung, like he’s been biting it.
“You’re welcome,” he says, his voice tight. “And congratulations to you both.”
And then he leaves without looking back, the door closing behind him with a slam. I turn back to see Mark staring at the now-closed door, his expression unreadable.
But when he looks at me, at the way I’m holding the dress to my body, I see the subtle work of his throat.
“Go change,” he says. “I’m ready to play now.”
