Chapter 90 Move
"I can't move," Tristan repeated, his voice a hoarse, ragged sound that echoed in the steamy bathroom. His left hand was still tangled in my hair, his knuckles white with the effort of holding himself perfectly still.
"You don't need to," I murmured, my lips brushing against the hard plane of his stomach.
I kept my hands flat against his chest, a steady, grounding pressure just above his racing heart. I moved slowly, hyper-aware of the thick white bandages strapped across his right shoulder. The doctor had been explicit.
I intended to follow the doctor's orders. But that didn't mean we had to pretend we were made of stone.
I leaned back slightly, resting on my heels, taking in the sight of him. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow bursts. His eyes were dark, dilated, and fixed on my face with a hunger that made my pulse jump.
I reached for the hem of my thin cotton t-shirt. I pulled it over my head, dropping it onto the damp tile floor. I wasn't wearing a bra underneath.
Tristan’s breath hitched audibly. A muscle in his jaw ticked as his gaze dropped, tracing the curve of my breasts, the slope of my waist.
"Mina," he whispered, a sound of pure reverence.
"I told you," I said, a slow smile touching my lips. "I'll do the work."
I reached out and unfastened the button of my jeans, sliding them down over my hips.
I stood up, stepping out of the denim, leaving me in nothing but a scrap of black lace underwear.
Tristan closed his eyes for a second, a groan vibrating deep in his chest.
"Come here," he demanded softly.
I stepped closer, stepping carefully between his parted legs. He was sitting on the wide edge of the massive tub, his knees framing my hips.
I reached out, my hands finding the waistband of his sweatpants. I didn't rush. I slowly untied the drawstring, pushing the fabric down.
He lifted his hips slightly—just enough for me to clear the fabric past his thighs, being incredibly careful not to engage his upper body.
He was fully exposed. Hard, heavy, and completely ready for me.
I straddled his left leg, careful not to put any pressure on his injured side. I rested my hands lightly on his uninjured shoulder.
"Look at me," I whispered.
He lifted his gaze.
I slowly lowered myself, gripping his shoulder for balance.
I took him in. The fullness was overwhelming, a sharp, exquisite stretch that made me gasp softly.
Tristan’s left hand shot out, gripping my hip. His fingers dug into my skin, anchoring me, his head falling back against the tiled wall behind the tub. He let out a long, shuddering sound that was half-prayer, half-curse.
"Careful," I breathed, feeling the sudden tension in his body. "Don't flex."
"I'm trying," he gritted out, his jaw locked tight. "But you feel... incredible."
I sank down completely, settling flush against him.
We stayed perfectly still for a long moment. I just held him, letting our bodies adjust to the connection.
I began to move.
It wasn't a fast, driving rhythm. It couldn't be. It was a slow, rolling grind of my hips. I controlled the depth, the pace, the angle.
"Keep your eyes on me," I said softly, meeting his gaze.
He didn't blink. He watched my face with a terrifying intensity, tracking every flicker of pleasure, every sharp intake of breath.
"Mina," he rasped, his hand sliding from my hip to cup the side of my face. His thumb stroked my cheekbone. "You are so beautiful."
"So are you," I whispered back.
The slow friction was agonizingly sweet. It built a slow, burning heat in my core that radiated outward. Every time I lifted up and sank back down, a new wave of pleasure crashed over me.
Tristan’s discipline was immense. He wanted to thrust up, I could feel the instinctual tightening of his muscles, but he forced himself to remain seated, letting me set the terms.
His restraint was the most intoxicating thing I had ever experienced. The man who usually controlled the world was surrendering complete control to me.
"I love you," he whispered, the words slipping out with a quiet, undeniable certainty.
"I love you too," I answered, leaning forward, resting my forehead against his.
We moved together, a slow, careful dance. The intimacy was suffocating in the best possible way. There was nowhere to hide, no dark corners to retreat into.
The pleasure intensified, coiling tighter and tighter. I bit my lower lip to keep from crying out, not wanting to break the quiet sanctity of the room.
"Don't," Tristan murmured, his hand sliding into my hair, pulling my head back slightly so he could see my face. "Let me hear you."
I let out a soft, broken moan, increasing the pace of my hips.
Tristan’s breathing grew harsher. His left hand gripped my thigh tightly. He was fighting his own impending release, trying to make it last, trying to hold on.
"Tristan," I gasped, the coil inside me snapping tight. "I'm going to..."
"Let go," he ordered, his voice dropping to a gravelly, commanding rumble. "Let go for me, Mina."
I shattered.
The climax hit me like a physical blow, a blinding rush of heat and light that tore a loud cry from my throat. My body contracted violently around him.
Tristan didn't hold back anymore. He couldn't. With a deep, guttural shout, he thrust up into me, just once, hard and deep, as he spilled over the edge.
He slumped forward, his head coming to rest heavily against my chest, right over my heart.
We stayed there, tangled together on the edge of the bathtub, the steam swirling lazily around us. My hands were resting lightly on his back, my fingers tracing the smooth, uninjured skin.
The rain continued to beat against the window, washing away the dirt of the city outside.
"Okay?" I whispered into the quiet room, my chest still heaving.
Tristan slowly lifted his head. His eyes were hazy with satisfaction, the harsh lines of pain around his mouth completely smoothed out.
He offered a lazy, incredibly genuine smile.
"Better than okay," he murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth. "I feel perfectly fine."
I chuckled, a tired, happy sound.
"Good," I said, gently untangling myself from him and standing up, feeling the pleasant ache in my legs. "Because tomorrow, Vane is coming over, and you have to put your armor back on."
Tristan watched me reach for a towel, his amber eyes tracking my movements.
"The armor is for the world, Minerva," he said quietly. "Not for you. Never for you."
I looked at him, wrapped in the white towel. He was bruised, scarred, and still recovering from a near-fatal wound. But sitting there on the edge of my bathtub, he looked stronger than he ever had.
"Come on," I said, offering him my hand. "Let's get you back to bed."