And I sure as hell don’t want that.
I grab at his hand, halting his progression. In response, he lifts his head, eyes clouded with lust as they meet mine in question. I give what I hope is a seductive smile. “Your turn,” I whisper, moving so that he is lying flat on the bed and I’m standing between his legs. He continues to watch me through hooded eyes as my fingers fumble with the snap of his pants. I celebrate in the way he sucks in a breath as the back of my fingers brush against him while I slide the zipper down. The sound of the metal teeth opening echoes like gun shots in the quiet of the bedroom.
My heart beats a rapid tattoo in my chest as my fingers curl around the waist of his khakis then start their slow descent down his hips. He has that ever elusive, incredibly sexy V at his hips, and as I slide down his body to pull his pants off, I can’t stop myself from leaning forward to run my tongue along first one, then the other. His groan of appreciation spurs me on, so my mouth glides over the skin I revel as I push his pants down his thighs.
“Jesus.” He practically growls the word. “Tristan.” The sexy, husky way he groans my name infuses me with such an immense sense of power that the heat of it rolls through my body.
His pants hit his ankles and my mouth closes around him almost simultaneously. His entire body goes rigid, feet pressing into the carpet as I press my tongue flat against his hot skin before I slowly start to move. His fists clench in the bedspread, his breathing increasing speed as I move my head up and down.
Within minutes I feel his fingers fist in my hair, and then he’s gently pulling me off of him. I study him from under my lashes while I lick my lips. His groan is music to my ears. “I definitely won’t last if you keep that up, Sugar.”
He tugs, pulling me up so his mouth slants over mine, teeth nipping at my lips. “You are so fucking, sexy, Tristan Maddox,” he whispers, before his head dips down, his mouth latching on to my nipple, tongue moving languidly over the peak, and his hands shove my camisole the rest the way off my body. As soon as my top hits the ground, my fingers latch onto his shoulders, fingers digging into the skin as my body lifts off the bed, now beneath his mouth.
“Owen,” I whisper; my body feels like it’s on fire, and I can feel the orgasm building inside of me as one of his hands slips down in between my legs, pulling the soft material of my pajama pants down. “Owen, please.” My breath is ragged, coming in short pants as his fingers dip inside of me. First one, then another, moving so achingly slow. In and out, each movement seeming to take an eternity when all I want is for him to move faster, to ease the ache building like a volcano inside of me.
“Please, please.” My head thrashes back and forth as his mouth dips to the valley between my breasts, tongue ghosting along my skin before his lips close around my other breast. “Owen,” I plead with him again, not sure exactly what it is I need for him to do, but I know if I don’t relieve the pressure soon, I’m simply going to explode.
“What do you need, sweetheart?” His fingers slip out of me, moving up to circle once, twice around my clit before sliding back down and inside, before repeating the process all over again. “Tristan,” he calls my name. “What do you need?”
“You,” I gasp. “I need you. Please, Owen.”
His grin is wicked as he slides his fingers out of me again, skimming them along the crease of my thigh. “I think I need you to come first.”
“No,” I deny. “I need you. Inside of me.” I gasp again as his fingers dip back in, moving back and forth and pulling me closer and closer to the edge of sanity. It’s building, climbing higher and higher inside of me, until I know I’m going to detonate, even though I try in vain to hold off, to wait on him. I reach for him, my eager hands grasping his silky hardness, moving up and down in time with his fingers inside of me.
I want my mouth on him again. I want him inside of me in any way I can get him, and since he doesn’t seem in any hurry, I’m going to be forced to take matters in my own hands, so to speak. I try to wiggle down his body, but he holds me in place with one hand pressed against my stomach.
“Nuh-huh, Tristan. Stay right here.”
“Owen.” I’m whining now. Like a petulant child. This is what he’s reduced me to. If I’d been standing I would be stamping my foot. “I want you inside of me. No”—I change my mind—“I need you inside of me.”
“I know what you need.” Those skilled fingers move again and sweat beads on my body. I gasp at the sensations he elicits from me, the way he lights everything up inside of me, and makes me feel like I’m floating on a cloud and seconds away from combustion all at the same time.
“Owen,” I whisper, seconds from detonation, and just when I’m about to step off the edge, his fingers slide free. I’m ready to curse him, to damn him to all kinds of hell, when I hear the distinct sound of a condom wrapper opening and seconds later feel him slide inside of me. My back bows off the bed, my body welcoming him home. He sinks in all the way to the hilt, and I can’t stop the startled gasp at the fullness. He tilts his head back, the strain from not moving evident on his face.
“You okay?” His voice is deep as he poses the question. In response, I wiggle, my body quickly adjusting to him being inside of me. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he growls, before he starts to move. He sets a rhythm, somewhere just past slow, but well below fast, and it’s delicious and perfect, and the orgasm that slipped through my fingers only moments before is building again. Slower this time, deeper, and harder, it climbs inside of me until the only thing I feel is him.
When I tumble over the edge, it’s the most glorious feeling I’ve ever experienced. Followed only by the sound of him tumbling after me.
Chapter Twelve
Tristan
“So Lesa is okay?” I flatten my hand on the center of his chest, where I can feel the beat of his heart against my palm, before I trail my hand down his chest and over his stomach. I smirk at the little hissing sound he makes at my touch. It’s been a long time since I remembered how the touch of my hand can affect a man, and just how powerful that knowledge is. I wiggle closer to him on the bed, letting my head rest on his shoulder instead of the pillow I’d been using.
I had almost forgotten what it was like to sleep with a man, to wake up with him stretched out next to me, the heat of his body pressed up against mine. It’s just as glorious as I remember.
“She, ah…” He laughs dryly under his breath, as my hand dips just a little lower. “Jesus. Okay. Lesa is fine.” His fingers close around my wrist before they can dip beneath the blanket pooling around his waist. “There wasn’t a prowler.”
I frown. “What?”
His pulls my hand back up, pressing a kiss against my palm before laying it flat against his chest again. This time he holds my fingers in place with his own. “Yeah, she called in a fake call so you and I couldn’t go on a date.”
I sit up abruptly, watching him carefully. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish.” His eyes dip down to my chest, and I snatch the blanket up, covering my breasts. He literally pouts when I cover them up, before trying to yank the material from my grasp. I smack absently at his hands.