Chapter 102 Rushing
He started at my collarbone, pressing soft, lingering kisses against my pulse point, his left hand trailing down the curve of my waist.
"Tristan," I gasped, tangling my fingers in his hair as his mouth moved lower.
"I'm not rushing," he murmured against my skin, his breath hot and damp. "I have five years to make up for. I'm going to take my time."
He moved down my body with agonizing slowness. He learned every inch of me again, not with the frantic desperation of our first encounters, but with a deliberate, studying focus. He traced the soft swell of my breasts, his tongue circling, tasting, teasing until I arched my back, a whimpering cry escaping my lips.
"That's it," he praised softly, his voice a dark rumble that vibrated through me. "Give it to me, Mina. Give me everything."
His hand mapped the dip of my stomach, his fingers slipping lower, finding the slick heat waiting for him.
I jolted, my breath hitching as he stroked me. He knew exactly what I liked, exactly where to touch, but the emotional weight behind his actions made the physical sensation blindingly intense.
He shifted his weight, sliding down further.
I felt the soft, hot glide of his tongue.
"Oh," I cried out, my hands gripping the bedsheets on either side of my head.
"You taste like mine," he whispered against my center, before settling in.
It was a completely selfless act of devotion. He was restricted, unable to use his right arm to support his weight effectively, but he didn't care. He found an angle, resting his weight on his good forearm, and devoted himself entirely to my pleasure.
The rhythm he established was relentless. It wasn't rough, but it was incredibly demanding. He used his tongue and his lips to coax a rising, curling tension deep in my belly.
"Tristan," I panted, my hips lifting off the mattress, seeking more pressure, seeking the edge.
He obliged, his left hand gripping my thigh, holding me in place as he intensified the pace.
My mind went entirely blank. The therapist’s office, the trauma, the past—it all vanished, burned away by the singular, overwhelming focus of what he was doing to me.
I was floating in a dark, hot void, tethered only by the sensation of his mouth and the sound of his breathing.
The coil snapped tight.
I shattered into a million pieces, a loud, broken cry tearing from my throat as wave after wave of intense, shuddering pleasure crashed through me. I squeezed my eyes shut, my body clenching uncontrollably.
He didn't stop until the last tremor had faded, his lips pressing a soft, final kiss against me before he slowly pushed himself back up the length of the bed.
He settled beside me, his chest heaving, a sheen of sweat glistening on his skin.
I turned my head to look at him. My vision was still slightly blurred, my body heavy and completely relaxed.
He looked at me, a profound, satisfied smile touching his lips.
"You are incredible," he murmured, reaching out to brush a damp strand of hair from my forehead.
"I think," I managed to say, my voice breathy and weak, "you're the incredible one."
"I'm just getting started," he promised, his amber eyes flashing with a renewed hunger.
He moved over me, careful to keep his weight supported on his left side. He looked down at my face, his expression suddenly very serious.
"I love you," he said, the words a solid, unbreakable vow.
"I love you too," I answered, lifting my hips, a silent invitation.
He guided himself to me and pushed forward, entering me in one slow, smooth motion.
I gasped at the fullness of him, wrapping my legs around his waist, drawing him as deep as possible.
We didn't move immediately. We just lay there, perfectly connected, feeling the thrum of each other's heartbeats. It was a profound, grounding stillness. The storm was over. We had finally reached the quiet center.
He began to move.
It was a slow, deep rhythm. He wasn't trying to conquer me. He was trying to become a part of me.
"My Goddess," he whispered roughly, burying his face in my neck, his hot breath sending shivers across my skin. "My beautiful, perfect Goddess."
I closed my eyes, letting the words wash over me, washing away the ugly labels that had defined my life for so long.
I wasn't a mistake. I wasn't a mistress. I was his.
I met his thrusts, matching his rhythm, my hands sliding down his back to grip his hips. The friction built a new, urgent heat, replacing the languid satisfaction with a sharp, driving need.
We moved together, the bedsprings creaking softly in the quiet room. The intensity spiraled upward, tight and frantic.
"Mina," he groaned, his pace quickening, his grip on my waist tightening.
"I'm here," I cried, the pleasure peaking again, rushing through my veins like liquid fire. "Tristan, please."
He gave a harsh, guttural shout, his body tensing completely as he drove into me one last, deep time. I felt the hot rush of his release, answering it with my own second, shuddering climax.
We collapsed together, a tangle of limbs and sweat and heavy, exhausted breathing.
He rolled carefully to his side, pulling me flush against his chest, tucking my head beneath his chin. His good arm wrapped around me like a shield.
"Don't move," he whispered, his voice thick with sleep.
"I'm not going anywhere," I murmured, closing my eyes.