*is too busy tugging your belt open, though his jaw drops open with surprise when your words register (cheap fuck) (decent in the sack) (use each other)* *fighting to maintain that flare of anger, grunts* You're the one fucking around on your date.
*pulls your t-shirt up, his hands moving and groping and sliding over your skin and oh, he remembers how it feels, your muscles tensing under his touch* *shakes his head, trying to shake your words right out of his head, because he is nearly overcome with pure lust (thrown into sharp relief by the loneliness of restaurant tables for one)* *is literally on his way down, to drop to his knees (needs to taste you) when he catches sight of a mark on your abdomen* *is stooped in front of you (cowering?) and speechless as he shoves your t-shirt up and sees more marks, crescent-shaped, red, bruised, a wayward line down the centre of your abdomen, and another over one of your nipples* *recoils at the sudden stark realisation that these are bite marks (has Tristan been biting you and marking you as his?)* *looks up at you, entirely accusingly, and cannot quite draw himself up to his full height*