Page 39 of Mountain Summons

When they were finally alone, Lena pulled out her dinner, balancing it on the small table in front of her. Tristan’s stomach growled before he could stop it. “What’s that?”

Lena smiled innocently. “This? Hot and sour soup from this great little Chinese restaurant I just stumbled upon.”

Even from where he was lying, it smelled spicy and delicious. So much tastier than the lukewarm chicken soup the nurses had brought him. “I hope you’re planning on sharing,” he said.

“I’d have to check with the nurses first,” she said tartly. She scooped up a spoonful, blew on it slightly, then slid it into her mouth with a soft, appreciative hum. “Mmmm. Delicious.”

Tristan stared.

Because holy hell, that sound just went straight through him.

He breathed in and out, trying to relax.

She did it again.

Her lips parted—glossy and full—tongue flicking out just slightly to catch the broth, her eyelashes fluttering as she sighed.

And suddenly, painfully, his cock woke up.

It was instantaneous, and completely out of his control.

He felt the rush of heat, the unmistakable ache, and for fuck’s sake, this was not the time.

He was so caught up in the moment, so caught up in staring, that he had to remind himself to breathe.

After a few more spoonfuls, Lena stopped. Her eyes fell on him, tentative now. Almost worried. “Are you okay? I thought you were joking. If you’re actually hungry, I can check if?—”

He almost laughed out loud.Hungry?He was starving. But not for soup.

He tensed, which, of course, sent a sharp stab of pain through his side. Even that did nothing to deter his cock.

“Not hungry,” he half-growled. He tried again, softening his voice. “I’m fine.”

She narrowed her eyes, clearly not believing him, but blessedly went back to her soup.

Tristan, meanwhile, prayed for strength.

Fuck. This was going to be a long night.

16

Tristan

By the time morning came, Tristan had the worst case of blue balls he’d ever experienced. Rainbow-colored balls might be a more apt term for it, given how long he’d been suffering through this.

He lay there, stiff in more ways than one, staring at the plain ceiling, listening to Lena’s soft, even breaths. She’d moved the armchair closer to his bed, and curled up to sleep there. With a blanket draped over her body, she looked warm and comfortable. He hated the thought that the nurses were going to wake her up in … roughly ten or fifteen minutes, when they started their morning rounds.

As he watched, Lena shifted, and the blanked slipped, revealing the smooth, bare skin of her neck. His cock jumped.Again. His fingers twitched. He wanted to trace the curve of it, follow the slope down to where it met the delicate dip of her spine. Hewanted. Damn it, he needed relief.

No. He needed … he needed to stop thinking about Lena. Everything she did aroused him. The way her breasts rose and fell softly whenever she breathed. Her husky, sleep-laced voice when she’d reached out for him in the middle of the night. His body responded to it all instantly, aching, desperate.

If there’d ever been anything platonic about the way he felt about her, it was gone now. He’d never find it again. Not that he wanted to find it. He didn’t know what had actually made her change her mind, but he was going to take advantage of it. He was going to show her she could trust him. He’d never thought of himself as a trustworthy man. He was trustworthy in his job, he hoped, and always did the best he could. But in his personal life, he’d always been … he’d always putTristanfirst. Now, for the first time in his life, he wanted to put somebody else first.

He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to think of the day ahead. He was pretty sure he was getting discharged today. He just wasn’t sure what that meant—for him and Lena.

The sharp knock on the door sent a jolt through Tristan, snapping him out of his tortured haze. He barely had a second to school his features before the door swung open. It wasn’t the nurse.

Colonel Pelegrin stepped inside with the same imposing presence that made everyone wary of him. Ramrod straight posture, a gaze that cut through steel, and the kind of innate authority that made grown men scramble to attention.

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