Bad Things (Tristan & Danika #1) (8 page)

Uh oh
, I thought.

 
My eyes narrowed on his as he pulled me flush against him, sliding one sneaky knee between mine.
 
“What are you doing?” I asked pointedly.

“Just feeling the music.
 
What happens on the dance floor, stays on the dance floor, and I really am just dancing with you, I swear.”
 

I can live with that
, I thought, moving against him, letting the music take me over for another intoxicating spell.
 

We danced close, but he still didn’t cross any lines.
 
We kept our lower regions very carefully apart, though our chests rubbed together more than once.
 
I didn’t know what it said about me, or my previous relationships, but I didn’t think I’d ever been more turned on in my life as I was just from dancing with Tristan.
 
My breath came out in little pants, every inch of my skin overheated, and not just from exertion.
 

“You’re absolutely positive that you don’t hookup?
 
Not even one really awesome night together before we settle down to being friends?”
 
His voice was a rasp in my ear that made me shiver from head to toe.
 

I shook my head with no hesitation.
 
It wasn’t that I wasn’t tempted; I just knew that I would feel like shit in the morning, if I did something like that.
 
I wasn’t someone who could handle sex without commitment.
 
I never had been.

“I’m positive,” I said into his ear.

“No friends with benefits, either?” he asked hopefully.

“The friends with benefits thing never works.”

He pulled back to meet my eyes.
 
“I agree,” he said, though he didn’t look happy about it.
 
“That never works.
 
Someone always ends up getting hurt.
 
Sorry, I just lost my mind for second.
 
That was an asshole thing to say.”

“It’s okay.
 
Just don’t let it happen again.”
 
I smiled while I said it, and there was no anger behind the words.
 

I just wasn’t sure how many times I could tell him no and mean it.
 
I wanted him, and I wasn’t dense enough to deny it to myself.
 

“I’ll try my best,” he murmured.
 

CHAPTER SIX

I knew before I’d even opened my eyes that I had a raging hangover.
 
You couldn’t go from hardly ever drinking, to losing count of your drinks in one night, and not feel it, and
Lord
did I feel it.

I checked the clock and groaned out loud when I saw that it was seven a.m.
 
That’s how I knew that my hangover was truly heinous; it had woken me up after only three hours of sleep.

I sat up reaching for the glass of water I kept on my nightstand.
 
I drank the entire glass, even though drinking was the last thing I wanted to do, because I knew that getting rehydrated was the best way to recover from the hangover.
 

Dot, who’d been sleeping in his own doggy bed near the foot of mine, moved to my feet.
 
He put his head on his paws, and looked up at me.
 
I couldn’t decide if he was giving me a sympathetic look or a condescending one.

My door opened, and Mat peeked his head inside, grinning.
 
“Good morning, boo,” he said, using the nickname he’d given me when he was four.

“Morning, peeka,” I told him, using my own nickname for him.
 

Mat was always the first one awake, but everyone else quickly followed, usually due to the noise he managed to make.
 
“Everybody else is still sleeping,” he said in a whisper that managed to be louder than outright speaking.
 

“I figured,” I said with a rueful smile.
 
He always woke me up first, since I cooked breakfast.
 
“Whatcha want for breakfast?”

“Blueberry pancakes, please!” he nearly shouted.
 

I winced and held up a hand.
 
“Coming right up, but I’m going to need you to stay nice and quiet this morning, okay?”

“Got it!” he said in a slightly quieter voice.
 
“Will you turn on cartoons while I wait for my food?”

“Of course, bud.
 
I just need to go to the bathroom, then I’ll be right out.”

I used the restroom and made my way to the living room, Dot dogging my steps.
 

Mat was sitting on his kid-sized couch on the floor, Pupcake in his lap.
 
He was staring in confusion across the room, and as I stepped into the room, I saw why.

I padded quietly across the room, switching on the TV and finding a channel with some cartoons.
 
Mat fixated on the television, and I walked quietly over to the shirtless hunk of a man that was sprawled out on the sofa.
 
I was so fuzzy headed that I’d forgotten he was even crashing here.
 

He was lying on his back, a pillow pulled over his face, and another one draped over his lap.
 
He’d completely kicked off his thin blanket.
 
I could just make out that he was at least wearing boxer-briefs, which was good, but the rest of him was all tanned, bared, tattooed skin.
 

Not good
, I thought, taking him in.
 
I’d had no doubts that he would look good naked, and I certainly didn’t need to see just
how
good.
 

Even at rest, I could see the hard ridges in his abdomen.
 
And his arms.
 
Jesus
.
 
His arms were huge, which was kind of a thing for me.
 
I thought they might have been bigger than my waist, and for sheer perverse reasons, I wanted to measure them to see if I was right.
 
And the tattoos…God, the tattoos.
 
I didn’t have a bit of ink, but I loved his.
 
He didn’t have full sleeves, like his brother, but he wasn’t too far off.
 
His arms were covered with intricate designs, and it wasn’t all black, either.
 
I loved all the color.
 
It stood out startlingly against the other black ink, as though the black was just there to frame the color.

I told myself it was totally necessary as I reached out and touched his bare shoulder.
 
I nudged him, and if I enjoyed the feel of his muscular flesh, what was the harm?

“Tristan,” I said quietly, nudging him again.
 
My hand stayed there, and I tried to shake him a little, but he was too big for that…

He started, pulling the pillow off his eyes and blinked up at me.
 
“Fuck, Danika, it’s early.”

“He said a bad word, boo!” Mat called out, clearly affronted.
 

“Fuck, sorry,” Tristan said, then winced.
 

I couldn’t hold back a grin.
 
“You can use my bed to sleep it off.
 
This living room is about to turn into a war zone, and I need to make some blueberry pancakes.”

“Is that what you want for breakfast?” he asked, sitting up.
 

I backed away like he was on fire.
 
Which he kind of was…

“Huh?” I asked him, totally distracted by the sight of that perfect body, practically naked, and moving around.
 
I went to the gym often, and I stayed in good shape myself, but I didn’t think I’d ever seen a body so perfect in my life.
 

He stood up, and I took another step back.
 
He started to move around the couch, and something he was doing finally snapped me out of my trance.
 

“Why are you still holding a pillow over your lap?” I asked.

He sent me a wry smile, bending down to pick up his duffle bag, which he’d set behind the couch.
 
“Can’t you guess?
 
I’ll give you a hint; the first word is morning, and the second rhymes with hood.”

I blushed, feeling stupid.
 
“Oh…well, you can use my bathroom, and you can stash your bag in there, so it’s not in the way.”

“Okay.
 
Thank you.
 
Just give my five minutes, and I’ll cook breakfast for everybody.”

I waved him off.
 
“Go back to bed.
 
I’ve got it.
 
I know you must be feeling rough.”

He sent me a rather stern look.
 
“Give me five minutes.
 
I said I’d cook for you.
 
I’m cooking.
 
And you have to be feeling just as rough.”

“I’m fine.
 
I’ve got this.”
 

He pointed at me.
 
“Don’t go near the kitchen until I get back.”
 
He strode away, and I made a face at his retreating back, though I was secretly pleased, and still shamelessly checking him out.
 
I’d seen what he could do with cookies.
 
I wanted more.
 

Normally I just had a Greek yogurt for breakfast, but hungover and hungry, I was already planning to indulge.
 

I sat down on the couch when I heard the shower in my bathroom turn on.
 
There was plenty that I needed to do, but I just sat there for a solid five minutes, my mind on Tristan in the shower.

He was back out quickly, wearing a fresh white T-shirt and jeans, his short hair still wet from his shower.
 

“Come keep me company while I cook,” he said, tugging me up from the couch.
 

“So bossy,” I muttered.
 

He completely ignored that statement, pulling me into the kitchen.
 
He cupped my hips, lifting me onto the counter exactly where I’d sat to watch him bake cookies.
 

He moved away before I could do more than gape at him.
 

“So Mat wants pancakes for breakfast.
 
What do you want?”

I opened my mouth to tell him I’d just take that, but he spoke again.
 
“I know you don’t want pancakes.
 
We need something salty and greasy.
 
Let me whip us up some hangover food.”

I had to make a conscious effort to close my mouth.
 
“You read my mind,” I said.

He had the sheer gall to wink at me.
 
“No.
 
I’ve just been hungover enough to know just what to do.
 
So tell me why Mat called you boo?
 
Is that a nickname?”

“Yes.”
 
I didn’t elaborate.
 

“That’s adorable,” he said opening the refrigerator and studying its contents.
 
“Where did it come from?”

“I don’t remember when it turned into an actual nickname, but we used to play peekaboo a lot.
 
He named himself peeka and me boo, and it stuck.
 
Two years and counting.”

“Well, boo, how does bacon sound?”

“Bacon sounds great, but you can’t call me boo.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not a rapper, and I’m not your shorty.”

He laughed, a low, deep rumble that made muscles in my stomach tighten.
 
“You’re just making me like the nickname more.
 
Here’s the plan, buttery biscuits, scrambled eggs, bacon, and some hash browns.
 
Oh, and some blueberry pancakes for the kids.
 
Any objections?”

“That sounds amazing,” I said, meaning it.
 
“But it’ll take forever.”

He shrugged.
 
“It’ll take how long it takes.
 
What’s the rush?
 
You got a date?”

I sighed.
 
He was stubborn, to be sure.
 
“Can I help?”
 

“You can entertain me while I work.”

“If you have this handled, I should probably go work on some chores.”

“If you want bacon, you’ll keep your ass right where it is while I cook you breakfast.”

I did want bacon.
 
“I can’t believe we stayed out that late,” I said, thinking back to the night before.
 
I’d never stayed out that late dancing, and I’d never had a night fly by so fast.
 

“We going again tonight?”

“Are you joking?” I asked.

“No.
 
Didn’t you have fun?
 
Let’s do it again.”

“You’re batshit bonkers.”

“Sure am.
 
And I want to take you dancing again.
 
What do you say?”

“We barely got three hours of sleep last night.”

“So we’ll take turns getting naps in later, if the kids need watching.
 
What do you say?”

He was giving me his most irresistible smile, his dimples making me want to slap and/or kiss him senseless.
 
I held out for maybe five seconds before I was smiling back at him.
 

“No funny business,” I told him.

“No funny business,” he agreed.
 
“I took care of that in the shower.
 
Should tide me over for a solid two hours.”

I blushed.
 
I hadn’t even known I had any blushes left in me.
 
“What happens after two hours?”

He stopped what he was doing, setting an egg down to give me his full attention.
 

He gave me a once-over that was borderline indecent, then went back to cracking eggs.
 
“I might need to take another shower.”

That shut me up for a while.
 
I watched him work, studying the myriad of tattoos on his arms, and the ones that showed through his white T-shirt.
 
As he mixed the pancake batter, the stark muscles in his arms working, I thought that I’d found my new favorite hobby
—
watching Tristan cook anything at all.