Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Tristan.”
His name slipped from Ophelia’s lips as his soft kisses trailed down her throat and toward her breasts.
She was not at all sure why there was a lump in her throat; or why when he made her admit that she was beautiful suddenly made her want to cry.
All she knew was that their time together was running out, and that the thought of that made her heart tremble with sadness.
She pushed that sadness away as Tristan’s warm mouth enveloped her taut, left nipple, and she arched her back, giving herself over to him as she fisted his hair.
Her breathing grew deep and heavy as he took his time worshiping her breasts, drawing out and suckling with just enough pressure to make her tremble and yearn for more.
He felt different tonight. Their wonton abandonment from before had swirled with something else, something more than the base physical need for pleasure or touch.
Ophelia closed her eyes and her mind to such a realization, and gave in fully to her need as Tristan’s worshipping mouth made its way over her ribs, down her abdomen, and to her sex.
She gasped his name again when his reverent kisses brushed over that taut bundle of nerves between her legs, and she instinctively moved to spread her legs wider.
Tristan stopped her though, gripping her calves and hitching them over his shoulders.
He kneaded her calves, sending another jolt of pleasure through her body before he possessively gripped her thighs and held her to his upper body.
Soft whimpers began to pour from her throat as his skilled tongue began to tease that sensitive spot above her mons, and even as she started to gyrate her hips he did not relent.
His tongue drove her higher, further toward the place of utter release she’d only felt once before- and then just as she felt as if she was about to teeter over the edge, Tristan slid his tongue further down, delving into her hot, wet center.
Ophelia’s mouth dropped into a wide O as her back arched on its own volition and her body began to spasm.
“Oh, God,” she breathed, her lashes fluttering as an entirely different sort of pleasure began to build.
“Not God,” Tristan rasped, then swirled his tongue in a way that made her see stars. “Me. Say my name, Ophelia.”
“Tristan.”
His name drew out on her next breath in a blind act of obedience.
In response a sinfully delicious sound erupted from Tristan’s throat, causing a flood to cascade from within.
“Oh my,” Tristan murmured, then lapped wickedly at her dewy center.
Ophelia opened her eyes and looked down just as he lifted his head; a handsomely devilish smirk spreading across his face as she felt his fingertips glide from her thigh to her core.
“What?” She breathed, then barely managed to fight the urge to let her eyes roll back as he sank his middle finger into her hot, tight, sheath.
“Flooding for me already,” Tristan’s deep voice mused, his eyes drifting down toward her most intimate parts.
Ophelia blushed, feeling suddenly exposed as his gaze fixed on that particular part of her. It was one thing to feel him there- but quite another to know that he was looking at her.
“You like something,” he taunted, slowly thrusting his middle finger in and out of her. “Something more than my tongue.”
Ophelia felt her blush grow hotter, scorching beyond her cheeks and down to her chest.
“I want to know what it is,” Tristan rasped.
Ophelia’s breath grew quicker as the rhythmic thrusting of his middle finger was sending delicious jolts of pleasure.
Now he wanted to talk?!
“Later,” she pled, moving her hands from his hair to the pillow beneath her head. She gripped hard at its edges and thrust her hips, wanting more, but Tristan’s hand moved from her thigh to her lower abdomen, pinning her in place and adding a heady pressure to her building release.
“I do not think so,” he teased, then lazily drew his tongue over her clitoris.
“Oh!” Ophelia gasped, bucking her pinned hips.
“I think you will tell me now,” he murmured, his finger moving a little faster inside her.
“No,” she whimpered, fighting against his command.
“Oh you will,” he coaxed, “Or I will stop.”
As he said so Tristan’s hand stilled, causing an immediate dropping sensation in Ophelia’s lower belly; suspending her perfectly between ecstasy and torture.
“Tristan, do not make me,” she pled, desperation filling her.
“But you flooded so beautifully,” he taunted, then made another lazy swirl over her clitoris with his tongue, making her convulse. “I want to know why.”
Then as suddenly as he stilled his hand, he began to move it again. Rapid and rhythmic, it caused her core to flood and tighten as pleasure hit her all over again.
“Do not stop,” she breathed, feeling closer to the edge than ever before as her fingernails tore little holes into the silk cover of the pillow.
“Tell me and I won’t,” Tristan taunted, though he was already starting to slow his hand.
Unable to take his teasing, Ophelia pushed past her embarrassment and shouted, “Your hands!”
“Mmmm,” Tristan hummed, slowly starting to pick up tempo in his wrist again, “What about my hands?”
“The shape of them. I dreamt of these hands. They makes me ache from the inside out! And your voice. Especially when you moan or make sounds of pleasure. Every time I hear it now I want you. You’re pure sin.”
Her confession rushed out of her in a smattering of words that she was not at all sure that made sense, but it was the truth.
His sounds of pleasure had filled her dreams; haunting her.
Taunting her so much that when she woke up in the morning, she found herself warm and flooded and full of yearning.
She expected him to tease her for such a confession now, but she was rewarded with another one of his low, throaty moans as his mouth returned to her sex.
“There’s my good girl,” he praised, and with that, the swirl of his tongue, and the flick of his wrist, Ophelia’ orgasm gushed forth.
The cords of every muscle and tendon in Ophelia’s body tightened as her release exploded.
Stars erupted behind her closed eyes as her mouth dropped open and she screamed.
Then her ecstasy settled in, releasing the tension from her body and leaving her in useless, panting heap as she struggled to catch her breath.
Tristan’s soft kisses sent delicious little spasms throughout her as he worshiped her inner thighs, her lower belly, and slowly made his way up to her abdomen.
She whimpered with exhausted satisfaction as he swirled his tongue lazily over one breast, then the other, then moaned as he settled his hips between her splayed legs and kissed her deeply.
His throbbing erection pulsed against her overly sensitive mons, and through the daze of her own satisfaction, she realized that Tristan was as full of need as she was.
Stirring from her delirium, she kissed him back, raking her nails lightly down the back his head as she flicked her hips against his manhood.
He moaned softly into her mouth as her dewy petals slid against his length, and he broke the kiss to rest his forehead against her collarbone.
“Don’t do that,” he whispered, his voice full of ache.
A mischievous smile twitched at Ophelia’s lips.
“Why not?” She asked, then flicked her hips again.
She was rewarded with one of Tristan’s deep, utterly masculine moans as she felt his cock twitch at her subtle movement.
“Ophelia,” he groaned, his body tightening under her touch.
“Mmm, she purred, sliding her nails from her lower back all the way up to the trap of his shoulders; making him shudder with sexual tension.
“Ophelia, please,” he pleaded, “I am trying to hold on to what little shred of dignity I have left.”
Ophelia’s pleasure died as her heart twisted at his words, and she shoved him away. He looked up her with dazed, confused eyes as she scrambled into a sitting position and pulled a pillow over her figure.
“Your dignity?” She asked, suddenly overcome with shame. “I see. You must have given up quite a bit to lower your standards for me. Is that right?”
Tristan’s eyes widened and he shook his head. He tried to reach for her but she slid away, moving off of the bed to find her dress.
“That is not what I meant!” Tristan insisted, following her. She stepped away from his touch, picked up his trousers, and threw them at him.
He caught them just before they hit his chest and he roughly stepped into them.
“Ophelia, that is not I meant,” he said again, his tone more insistent. “I am a gentleman, I always try to remain as such, but with you I keep…I keep… giving into something I shouldn’t.”
“Because you cannot stand me, correct?” She asked. She then chortled, if for anything to hide the sob that was welling up in her throat. “Of course you cannot stand me. You never could, and you made that quite clear for the past several years.”
“Ophelia, stop,” Tristan demanded.
Heat flushed through Ophelia’s cheeks as he moved in front of her, still naked from the waist up as he gripped her arms. She hated how quickly her body responded to his touch; his closeness. She hated more how her eyes brimmed with tears as she refused to look up at his face.
“This has all been very confusing,” he stated, his tone insistent, “Yes, we have clearly disliked one another in the past. It is obvious that we irk one another even now, and I do not understand why this is happening to us. Despite that though, I still respect you as a lady and as the gentleman I am striving to be, there is a line that I cannot cross.”
“I am a lady,” she agreed, hating how her voice quivered, “Yet you had no trouble crossing such lines with the other ladies that attend this club.”
She felt his grip on her arms relax.
“They were different,” he muttered.
“Right,” she said with a bitter laugh, “Because you did not despise them.”
“I do not despise you!” He insisted, his grip on her arms growing tighter again. Then he let out a growl of frustration as he turned his face to the side and fumed.
“I do not know what I feel with you,” he confessed. “All I know is that every time we try to push one another away we end up in one another’s arms.”
“Why did you agree to hire me in the first place?” She demanded, wrenching out of his grasp.
“Because you blackmailed me!” He exclaimed.
Ophelia flinched at the truth; knowing she could not deny it. She had been so desperate for work that that was exactly what she had done.
“You want to accuse me of hating you?” He went on, his tone turning bitter, “Let us talk of your hatred for me. Surely you must have quite a bit of it if you are willing to expose me for a pay day.”
Guilt poured through her. So much that it made her head ache and her throat tight. Worst of all, it shredded her already wounded heart into pieces.
“I had no choice,” she whispered.
“Yes you did,” Tristan stated. “You could have told me the truth. You could have let me in on your secret. That your family’s fortune is gone.”
Though she had been avoiding his gaze since the start of their argument, Ophelia suddenly wrenched her eyes up to his in shock.
Hurt was etched all over Tristan’s face as he glared back at her with his jaw clamped tight.
“How do you know that?” She whispered.
Something dark passed through Tristan’s eyes.
“A woman bound and determined to live her life as a free woman is suddenly agreeing to be married?” He asked.
“I have known you nearly my entire life, Ophelia. I know how much your freedom means to you. It would take so much more than a plea from your ailing father to get you to change your mind about that freedom.”
For some reason his confession about understanding her hurt more than anything.
“I have to go,” she whispered, tearing out of his grip.
“Ophelia, wait,” he insisted, but she kept walking, out of the bedroom and back to his office.
“I will finish this piece,” she said, packing up her art supplies. “I will take it with me and send it to you when it is finished. I will use discretion, so worry not.”
“I understand that your future is in peril right now but I need to ask you for a favor,” he replied.
She threw him a glare.
“Did I not just say that I would use discretion?” She snapped. “Worry not, Lord Perfect, your secret is safe.”
Another bout of guilt washed over as Tristan flinched at her words.
“That is not the favor I am requesting,” he answered, his tone heartbreakingly defeated. “I trust you with my secret.”
“Well that is something,” she retorted, her voice beginning to tremble.
Ophelia picked up her mask and put upon her face, hoping it would hide the tears that were starting to run unchecked down her cheeks.
“What is it then?” She demanded.
Tristan looked back at up her, a cacophony of emotions pouring through his brilliant blue eyes.
“I know you need to marry. But do not choose Weavington.”
Ophelia gaped at his audacity. She was not good enough for him to dally with, but he was making demands on the choice of her future husband? She had already decided against Weavington’s advances, but she decided then and there that she would not ease Tristan’s mind by telling him so.
“You have no right to ask me for such a favor,” she said icily, gathering up her crate and unfinished canvas.
“Ophelia,” he called as she swung open his office door.
“Goodbye, Lord Perfect,” she said pointedly, and as he started striding toward her, she slammed the door shut, and fled the club with a broken heart.