Chapter 22
Let Him Ruin Me
Quinn
My body is limp, boneless in the aftermath. But as the euphoric feeling of two orgasms starts to fade, something unexpected pinches in my chest.
Tripp’s fingers skate up and down my spine, slow and grounding.
“You alright?” he murmurs.
“Mm-hmm,” I mumble, eyes stinging and throat tight.
I don’t move. I don’t want him to see the emotion written all over my face. It’s silly, really. But no one’s ever made me feel this seen before. This understood.
He didn’t brush me off or make me feel weird for wanting something a little different. A little messy.
And then he delivered. Boy, did he deliver!
He pinches my chin, coaxing me to look at him.
“Talk to me, Quinnie.”
“I’m good,” I say, even though I have to blink back the tears to keep them from falling.
“Then why do you look like you’re going to cry?”
There was a whole different kind of vulnerability in this moment—one that spoke to an intimacy that went beyond the bedroom.
It would be easy with some random guy who didn’t know me so well to brush off the feelings bombarding me after all of that.
But it wasn’t some random guy.
It was Tripp.
And I want to tell him what’s going through my head.
I swallow the onslaught of emotion clogging my throat, then whisper, “Because you’re the first person who’s ever actually listened. And given me exactly what I wanted.”
His fingers thread gently through my tangled hair, and he rests his forehead on mine.
“I’ll always do my best to listen and give you what you want,” he says softly.
A flicker of doubt crosses his features. “Was it okay?”
“More than okay,” I say, smiling. “That was the hottest, most erotic thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
He grins, his dimples denting his cheeks. “It definitely topped my list too.”
The openness in his gaze lightens the weight of uncertainty that was settling in my chest. Maybe he was as into this as I was.
We hadn’t had sex. Not technically. But tonight had been about more than that. It had been about trust. About asking for something without being afraid of the answer.
It was easier to do that with Tripp.
Because we were already friends.
Because he already knew me.
We finally peel ourselves off the chair and make our way to the bathroom, skin sticky with sweat and tequila. His fingers thread through mine as he leads me up the large staircase.
The second floor has the same feel as the first. Exposed wood beams, warm colors, and a homey atmosphere that makes me want to curl up and stay right here forever.
Steam fills the bathroom as I step into the warm water, letting it rinse over me. Tripp follows me in, his big hands gliding over my back and shoulders as he reaches for the soap.
For a while, neither of us says anything, the only sound the rush of water against tile. But the question has been sitting heavy on my tongue since last night.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, turning to face him.
He smiles at me, his body covered in suds. “Shoot.”
I step out of the spray of water. “You said before it’s been a long time since you’ve had sex, right?”
He runs a hand through his wet hair, water dripping down his chest. “Yeah. It’s been about five years.”
My eyes widen. “Why?”
He exhales slowly, then shrugs. “It was a promise I made my dad before he died. He didn’t want me to keep chasing meaningless sex. I think he was scared that when he was gone, I wouldn’t have anyone left but Mom and Allie.”
“And you never broke the promise until now?”
His gaze lifts to meet mine, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “No. I never broke it.”
My stomach twists, suddenly unsure. “Are you okay with what we’re doing? When I asked you to—” I gesture vaguely—“I didn’t know you’d made that promise.”
Tripp had always been the king of casual. I figured he’d be up for a little fun while I was here. But now guilt coils in my chest—tight and sharp—like I’ve made him break something sacred. Like I pulled him away from a vow to a man he loved and lost.
He tilts his head, considering.
“This feels different from what I did back on the rodeo circuit. It’s not some selfish town-to-town kind of thing. I’m not sleeping around, and I’m not going to. What we’re doing—it’s about you.
“I’m happy doing this. With you. And if this is what you need to figure yourself out, then I’ll keep doing it. I’ll fuck you until the end of time, Quinnie. Happily.”
The way he says it is so matter of fact, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
No games.
No pressure.
Just Tripp—steady and solid and exactly what I need right now. He’s giving me something I didn’t even know I’d been craving—an acceptance that feels like devotion, reverent and grounding. My chest squeezes, tight with something warm and overwhelming.
I exhale a breath that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Only you would follow up a sweet sentiment with a horny afterthought.”
His grin is completely unapologetic. “You love my horny side.”
“I do,” I say, brushing my fingers over the sharp line of his jaw. “I really do.”
Then I kiss him—slow and unhurried.
The slide of water between us reminds me of the tequila. Of how he made me feel mere minutes ago.
My pulse ratchets up in my chest, and my breathing quickens as he kisses me deeper, tongue sliding across mine like we didn’t just come together in his living room.
Water pours between us, gliding across heated skin. I run my hands down his slick chest as he reaches above me for the detachable showerhead. The spray disappears—and then returns, teasing down my spine before curling around to my stomach.
“Put your foot on the ledge, honey.”
I lean against the tile wall, cold against my back, and rest my foot where he told me to, my body relaxed and pliant.
The showerhead makes a slow, deliberate trek over my shoulders and down to my breasts, tight and heavy with the new ache coiling in my stomach.
I’m not sure what kind of dark magic Tripp is working with, but I’m already panting. His gaze is locked on mine as he guides the spray lower, across my ribs, down my stomach—and finally between my thighs.
He switches the spray to pulse, and I gasp as the concentrated stream of water hits my clit.
His hand grips my hip, thumb brushing over my tattoo in slow, steady strokes while he holds the showerhead right there, expertly angled.
My orgasm rushes up on me, sharp and electric. I come with a startled cry as it jolts through me like a bolt of lightning.
He steadies me with a hand on my hip so I don’t fall—thumb still tracing the tattoo like he’s trying to keep me grounded.
His eyes are on me, wide and warm. Almost marveling. He looks at me like I’m the eighth wonder of the world.
No one’s ever made me feel like this.
They never even bothered to try.
My pleasure was always an afterthought—something I had to fake, chase down on my own, or go quietly without.
But Tripp acts like it’s some incredible honor to give me pleasure. A privilege and a priority, profound and extraordinary.
And I think that might be the sexiest thing about the man standing in front of me.
He smirks—that slow, shit-eating grin that starts in the corner of his mouth and takes over his whole damn face.
“Thank God for detachable showerheads,” he says.
A laugh bubbles out of me. “You‘re going to ruin me.”
He winks. “You love it.”
I shake my head, grinning like an idiot. “Yeah. I really, really do.”
There’s no doubt in my mind—Tripp’s going to ruin me for every other man in existence. No one else could compare to the boy I was half in love with during my entire childhood, the man who just shattered every expectation I ever had of him.
But I can’t find it in me to care right now.
Because this—him—it’s exactly what I need right now.
And for once, I’m taking what I need without apology.
Let him ruin me.