Induction Day: Book Two in the Butterman Travel Series Read online

  Tristan’s breath deepens, his chest rising and falling in time with it. Something ignites within me, a fiery need, all the way down to my thighs. I stifle a wince and squeeze the towel just barely, so that warm water drips below the waist of his pants. He’s perfectly still, except for the heavy breathing, until finally he moans softly. Smiling to myself, I repeat the performance.

  My skin tingles with the knowledge I’m bringing him pleasure, arousing him. So this is what it feels like to be a woman.

  I move behind him, to his back, where I resume my slow, steady wash. Secretly, I breathe in the scent that is exclusively his—free of his usual expensive cologne—just natural, delicious Tristan skin. He remains silent, letting me have my way with the towel, my face moving in closer to his shoulders, my lips grazing the skin there and traveling up to the back of his neck.

  He quivers, either from the cold or from my touch. Maybe both. And it makes my pulse race with awareness. I swallow hard because adrenaline is now coursing through my blood in a way that makes my head spin under some kind of ravenous insanity. Tossing the towel to the ground, I wrap my arms around him, my hands cupping his chest from behind, and squeezing him to me. My chest is firm against his back, and although I’m fully clothed, I feel the scorch of his bare skin on mine.

  He clutches my arms, holding me, while I pepper his neck with kisses, tasting the salt of his skin, til he turns and grabs the back of my head with a gentle, determined force, and covers my mouth with his.

  I’m crazed with visceral awakening, my blood pumping in full turbo now. I peel off my thermal vest and shirt, welcoming his hot skin onto mine in a continued embrace, our lips feeding off one another. Nothing else matters, only this moment.

  Only the present.

  Fumbling with the button of his pants, I finally release them so they drop to the floor, leaving him in his satiny black boxers. He removes my snowpants til we’re in nothing but our unmentionables, and although logic wants to remind me I’ve never been this far before, my eighteen-year-old hormones plead a much stronger case. Everything I can’t say in words, I can show in affection.

  Tristan pulls me into him, his hands caressing my neck, shoulders, and back, then finding the snaps of my bra and setting it free. It falls to the ground, leaving me as bare-chested as he is. A frenzied sensation swaddles my naked torso, making my mouth water with the touch of his skin against mine. His kisses deepen on my lips, then find their mobility downwards along my neck and onto my chest where the flesh is puckered hard and tight.

  Now I’m the one moaning.

  Tristan’s head meets mine again and he smiles devilishly. “Bianca, you’re beautiful.”

  An overwhelming greed from my body overrides any previous reservations. I want this. I want him.

  “Wait …” I go to the trunk at the far wall and pull out the brown bear skin rug, lay it out on the floor beside the stove, then call Tristan over with a gesture of my finger.

  As he moves in, I watch him, and a surge of wild instinct rushes through me—like a predator observing its prey. I’m aware of everything—the angles where his shoulders meet his neck, the shape of his bicep, the patch of skin beneath his navel that’s taunting me to touch. How close he is to being mine.

  In a downward swoop, he embraces me, kissing my lips once, then letting his gaze drift over my half-naked body. He lifts my chin. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Don’t ruin the moment with stupid questions.” Why now of all times does he have a conscience about taking my virginity?

  “It’s important,” he says. “I want you to be sure.”

  “I’ve never been surer of anything.”

  “Your first time,” he whispers, maintaining my gaze. “I get to be your first time.”

  I let out a deep, shaky breath, wriggling deeper into his arms, while my insides melt into jelly.

  Tristan nuzzles my head, gently kissing my hair. “You ground me. You’re so real.”

  My body responds beneath him and I clutch him tighter. This is it—the right time. I know it, feel it. The bond between us is tightening, and I don’t know for sure if it’s love, but it’s stronger than anything I’ve ever felt. It weakens me and fortifies me at the same time.

  And wow does my body need this.

  “I want to be with you,” I whisper, cupping his cheek, forcing his gaze on mine. “Now … maybe always.”

  It’s a big step for me, opening up, inviting intimacy. But at the same time it’s so liberating that my shoulders slacken and I sink further into him. Tristan shifts my body backward so I’m lying on the bear fur, its soft bristles silky against my back. He traces the line of my jaw, twirls the strands of hair over my ear, then runs a finger down my chest and stomach, where he stops to tease my navel a bit.

  I giggle and it sounds uncharacteristically playful and girlish. My cheeks going hot, I pull him closer so that he’s lying just over me. We kiss some more, tender now, soft in a way that convinces me this moment means more than physical desire. Emotions are tied to every movement of our bodies. We’re sharing, not taking. And right now I want to share everything I have with him. I want him to leave me breathless.

  Beep. Beep Beep.

  The shack door. Holy. Hell.

  “Bianca?” Dad’s voice is faint from the other side of it.

  Thankfully I latched it from the inside. I scuffle to my feet, grab my clothes. “Just a minute, Dad.”

  “Here, hurry.” I toss Tristan his clothes, my heart pounding in my ears.

  He scurries to put them on, almost falling on his face.

  I fumble through getting my pants on, reminding myself to breathe.

  “Everything okay in there?” Dad calls. “Unlock the door.”

  “Yeah, we’re just cleaning up a mess. One sec.” I slip on my shirt, stuff my bra in my pocket, and check my image in the mirror over the sink. My face is flushed red, my hair a nappy black mess. So obvious. Quickly, I straighten myself up and check Tristan over.

  He’s in his hooded sweatshirt again. His hair’s in disarray, but he’s allowed to be sloppy—he just turbo-detoxed in six hours. I give the area one last scan for incriminating evidence pointing to my near de-flowering, and unlatch the door.

  Frigid air gusts in alongside Dad in his hooded fur parka. He reminds me of a bear—the way he lifts his head and sniffs the air discreetly, before honing in on Tristan. “You guys all right? What’s going on?”

  “I’ve had better days,” Tristan says casually, his face still pale, but flushed at the upper cheeks.

  Dad pushes his hood away from his face, studying Tristan a few seconds. “Looks like you made it through. Any problems?”

  “No, Dad.” I secure the door again. “Is this a random verification? We weren’t expecting you for another two hours.”

  “I told you I’d check in—”

  “Bianca was great,” Tristan is quick to say, rubbing the back of his neck. “Really, I don’t know if I could’ve done it without her. Thank you, Mr. Butterman.”

  Dad glances at me and I can barely look at him, my heart now galloping between total ecstasy and downright guilt. Feels like it’s written all over my face—the fact I was seconds close to going all the way on the floor of Dad’s prized man cave. I flicker my gaze to the ground, biting at my thumbnail.

  “Glad to hear it then,” Dad says to Tristan. “So? Do you feel relieved of any further urges?”

  For the love of God.

  Tristan chuckles in such an awkward way, he may as well come right out and confess his guilty hands have been all over my body.

  “Um, I … dunno what I feel right now,” he says. “Disturbed, maybe.” He laughs again. “I’d say mostly drained.”

  Dad nods. “That’s to be expected. A vitamin-packed protein shake back at the house oughtta get you into shape.”

  “Right.” Tristan’s still rubbing the back of his neck. “And a shower. And about ten hours of sleep.”

  “I’m afraid that’s a luxury you can�
�t afford at the moment,” Dad says. “Part of the reason I’m here. Your agent’s been desperate to reach you—something about a new deadline. I put her off for as long as I could, but she said it can’t wait any longer.”

  Tristan groans, his head falling back on his neck. “Ugh, that means my producers aren’t gonna wait. Shit.”

  Dad paces the room, surveying the state of it. “From what I understand, they’re pulling out if you don’t deliver.” He stops, stares at Tristan. “Important thing is your health.”

  “And damage control,” Tristan mumbles to himself. “I don’t suppose any of this has helped your percentages?”

  “Matter of fact, Agent Garth says it was the wisest decision we could’ve made. Apparently, the public believes you want to get better.” Dad shrugs. “And I don’t want to rush you, but if you’re feeling up to it, now would be a good time to get things moving along. Here.” He hands Tristan his palm-com device.

  Tristan studies it like it might bite him. “Need my strength first. I’ll call after my protein shake.”

  We straighten up the shack and bundle up for the tundra. On the snowmobile, Dad drives us over the ridge to our mountain and up to what should be the back of our house. Instead, it’s a carnival of paparazzi with their hover-cams.

  “Are you kidding me?” I say to Dad.

  He slows the machine, shaking his head. “I don’t understand. It wasn’t like this when I left. How did they know?”

  “Word always seems to find a way out,” Tristan says in a deflated voice. “Someone overheard something, or some microdrone captured evidence. Never fails.”

  “I told no one.” Dad says.

  Tristan heaves a deep breath from behind me. “Nothing can be done about it now.”

  “I made extra sure not to disclose details on times or locations to anyone I talked to,” Dad continues, baffled. “I even had Agent Garth throw in a red herring that you’d be at the inn upon your arrival back into public. They had no reason to suspect the agency for your appearance.”

  “Not your fault,” Tristan says. “They always find out where you are, like a swarm of blood-thirsty mosquitos.”

  He wraps his arms around my waist and squeezes. I lean back into him, relishing our last few moments of privacy, before we step into mayhem.

  “Are you ready for this?” I angle myself backwards, so my amber goggles are facing his.

  “I’ll just wave, smile, let them see I’m sober.” He presses his lenses against mine, and it’s like we’re in an ocular theater. “With you at my side, I’m ready for anything.”

  I give a quick, urgent kiss to his cold lips, unsure how much weight his words really hold. If only there was more time—I’d slip back inside that cocoon of body warmth and cradle myself in his embrace. I so want that moment back.

  But I fear what lies ahead has nothing to do with what I want.

  Chapter Ten

  “No … no … no.” I shake my head at one holographic model after another, gesture-scrolling through the Web page. “These vintage designs aren’t right either. I need something that suggests second class. These ready-mades are all either haute couture or Mary Poppins wanna-bes.”

  “Then do a search for middle class fashion of 1912,” Tristan says. He expands the page’s search function over the next three models that pop up and they freeze in place.

  “That’s what I did. Not one vintage design shop offers standard everyday clothing options for that decade. Guess they assume if you want vintage this far back, you’re going to a costume party.”

  “You are, sorta. Any pictures I’ve ever seen of Titanic were pretty swanky.”

  “That’s ‘cause it carried high ranking officials, dignitaries, and celebrities, not to mention a few of the wealthiest industrialists of the day. But I can’t show up there looking like I’m somebody, or people will ask questions. I have to blend in.”

  Tristan leans back in his desk chair, sipping his steaming tea. “Okay, but how will blending in help you? Think about it—if the idea is to get word to the captain and save the ship, what makes you think he’d listen to some random economy-class passenger?”

  I realize I never explained the change of plans. He’s surprisingly collected after the media frenzy outside the office accused of him of binging. Some guy had the balls to ask him if it was because he couldn’t hack the stresses of a real performing artist—this right after going through a turbo detox. He never once lost his cool when they hollered out insinuating questions and zoomed their hover-cams into his face. I have more respect for him now than I ever have.

  Shutting down the holo-mall, I refocus on him. “There’ve been some new developments with my Induction trip.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Now that it’s gonna be fully publicized, I can’t try to divert Titanic or initiate a parallel shift to an alternate universe. Not with Garth nosing around all of it.”

  “Wasn’t it her idea to blow it up into this big production?”

  I nod. “To prove my competency as a licensed time trip guide and pilot. So she says. She insists something about this historical event will interest the public and get them involved. It’s really about making the DOT look good. A bunch of political BS. Dad says the director’s up for office again and needs people to believe in him.”

  “And they won’t do that knowing he’s allowed a time travel agency to operate when they’ve been fraternizing with a known junkhead.” Tristan’s tone is matter-of-fact and bitter.

  My chest twinges with a dull ache. I need him to stay in the positive zone, not lose faith in himself. “You’re clean, remember? 100 percent detoxed with a witness who can vouch for all of it. Who cares what the DOT thinks, or the world? You know the truth. I know the truth, and so do my parents, or believe me, they would not let you hang out here.”

  His lips curl into a small, but grateful smile, his chin dimpling. “This is why I need you in my life.”

  My throat tightens and I can’t tear my eyes from his. Every nerve ending on my body is buzzing. I want to reply with some kind of witty, idealistic sensuality, but no words will come. Such a buffoon with this intimacy thing.

  Tristan clutches my hand, his face moving toward me til our lips meet. His flesh is plush and fragrant-sweet like spicy rose petals. Gently, he backs away, tilts his head to the side. “What’s wrong?”

  I give him a funny look. “Nothing. Why?”

  His brows furrow, but he grins. “I dunno, you seem … distracted.”

  “Oh, no, well, yeah maybe a little. I’ve got a lot to think about.”

  “You mean us?”

  I hesitate, studying the creased lines of his forehead. “My Induction Day. It’s so bizarre—all these years I’ve been waiting for it, I never expected anything like this … fish bowl, as you like to call it.”

  “Ah.” He nods his head in full agreement. “Now you’ve got people waiting and watching for your next move. Ready with cameras to record any mistake.”

  “Yeah.” I watch him pull out his device and project its holo-screen. “Guess you’d know a little about that, huh?”

  He gestures a tiny bit with his fingers, his gaze still on his device. “There’s a shitload of people out there waiting to see if I can pull off this album. I’m beginning to wonder myself.”

  After the diner incident, even his producers doubt he can deliver.

  “You have til New Year’s Day, right?” I ask.

  “That’s the word on the street from Val, but I have a feeling she’s buffering the real deadline by at least a week. I’m not gonna argue, though. Once I get back to my studio, I’m locking myself in til I get my new tracks laid down.”

  I can tell by the tone of his voice he’s trying to convince himself as much as me.

  “Wish you could come with me.” I try to console him. “Blow off some steam before you bury yourself in your music for the next few weeks.”

  He pauses, looks at me. “Wait a minute, why can’t I? Butterman, that’s bril
liant!”

  “I was just talking ... You don’t think … Tristan, they’d never go for it.”

  He searches my face, his gray-blue eyes dancing, full of verve. “Just listen. If your trip is gonna be publicized anyway, having you complete it with me at your side could be just what we need to prove there’s no foul play going on. Val’s been saying I need some good PR, but I didn’t even think of it til you just suggested it.”

  “I was wishful thinking, though, not seriously believing my parents or the DOT would go for it.”

  “And why wouldn’t they? They wanna prove I’m not a waste case as much as we do. I could be your first mate, and the world can see there’s no scandal between us.” He squeezes my hands, his face somber. “You believe in me, right? What you said for your press release—about biting your fingernails when you were a kid—you won’t give up on me, right? Think about it: we team up and take the trip together, then come back and wave, blow some kisses, give the media the happy successful couple they need to see so they can leave us alone. They don’t care about celebrities with good lives—they feed off misfortune and humiliation.”

  My neck is itching again and I’m sure some kind of stress-hives are popping out all over. I try rubbing it lightly so they don’t flare up. “Even if I agreed with you, the DOT and my parents would never go for it.”

  “Why not? It’ll look good for them too. I’ll talk to Garth, turn on the Tristan charm—been known to bring ladies to their knees.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” I can’t hide the bite in my tone.

  “Nothing.” He shrugs. “Bad choice of words. I just mean that I’m used to working people over when I need to—in a polite way, of course. Goes with the territory of fame. What can I say? You didn’t think I meant—”

  “No.” I push his arms away from me. “I didn’t think anything, it’s just a lot to consider. I don’t even know if I can pull off the command myself, much less having a passenger to worry about.”