Chapter Nine #2
I let out a sound I don’t recognize. Relief, maybe. Or grief.
“I don’t want another hand on my cock,” he says quietly, forehead resting against mine. “And I don’t want another girl under my tongue. I want you. Only you.”
The words sink into me like slow heat, and I’m still trembling from them when Tristan pulls back just enough to give himself room.
His gaze stays locked with mine as his hand moves down, deliberate, unhurried.
The rasp of his zipper is loud in the hush of the room, and my breath catches at the sound alone.
He reaches inside his jeans and draws himself out, slow and confident, wrapping his long fingers around the base. God. He’s thick, flushed dark. Then he gives one lazy stroke. My mouth goes dry, and my thighs press together without thinking.
He doesn’t rush. He just holds himself, stroking in a steady, almost reverent rhythm, letting me look my fill.
The veins stand out along the shaft, pulsing faintly with each pass of his hand, and a bead of wetness gathers at the tip, catching the low light.
My pulse is hammering between my legs now, a frantic counterpoint to the calm, controlled way he touches himself.
I reach out and touch him, fingers trembling as they wrap around him.
God, he’s thick, heavy, velvet-hot. I can’t even close my hand all the way.
Tristan groans, hips jerking. “That’s it, baby. Feel how hard you make me? This is what your brain does to me. What these little hands do. What this tight body does.”
He wraps his much bigger hand around mine, guiding me in a slow stroke. “At some point, I’m gonna watch you try to take every inch of this cock and I’m gonna lose my fucking mind, but tonight we go as slow as you need.”
My hands move on their own then, tentative but determined, touching him back.
And for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m bracing for impact.
I feel like I’m being caught.
Tristan reaches for the back of his shirt, pulls it over his head in one clean motion, and drops it beside us.
He toes out of his shoes, unbuttons his pants with a quiet, tentative glance at me—giving me every chance to pull back—then steps out of them like he’s shedding the last layer keeping us apart.
The heat of his body hits me a second later, solid and overwhelming and exactly what I want.
Once he’s naked, my hands move before my courage catches up.
They start at his chest, tentative, like I’m asking a question I don’t quite know how to phrase. His skin is warm under my palms, solid, reassuring. I expect him to tense or correct me or take over completely, but he doesn’t. He stills, breath hitching, like my touch matters.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, voice low. “You’re doing perfect.”
Perfect. The word lands strange and heavy.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit, because honesty feels safer than pretending.
“You don’t have to,” he says. “Just tell me what you need.”
I laugh weakly, the sound brittle. “I don’t know that either.”
He smiles, not amused. Understanding. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”
That does something to me. The together of it. The lack of urgency. I’ve spent so long believing that desire is something you either perform correctly or lose access to entirely. He makes it feel like a conversation instead of a test.
I slide my hands lower, exploring, fascinated again by how reactive he is to me. The way his breath changes. The way his body answers without hesitation. It’s intoxicating, realizing that I can cause that, that my touch isn’t a burden or a mistake.
“Min,” he whispers, like my name is something precious. “Look at me.”
I do. His eyes are dark, intent, and easy around the edges. There’s hunger there, yes, but it’s threaded through with care. He’s watching me like he’s making sure I’m still here with him.
“I want you,” I say, the words trembling but real. “Because you see me. And you don’t make me feel… wrong.”
Something flickers across his face. Vulnerable. Almost startled.
“You see me too,” he says quietly. “Nobody’s ever taken care of me the way you do. Not like this.”
He guides me back onto the bed, slow and deliberate, giving me every chance to change my mind.
I don’t. Gently, he tugs my pants and panties off.
I let him settle between my knees, his big hands warm and steady as they slide up the backs of my thighs, parting me gently, reverently.
He pauses whenever my breath catches, eyes locked on mine, waiting for my nod before he moves again.
Every touch is a question. Every soft “okay?” against my skin is answered with a shaky yes.
When his mouth finally finds me, it’s nothing like the memories I’ve buried.
There’s no rush, no demand—just devotion.
He starts with the lightest press of his lips against my inner thigh, then the other, kissing his way closer as he memorizes me.
When his tongue finally traces me, it’s one long, slow lick from entrance to clit, gentle and exploratory, like he’s savoring his first taste.
I gasp, fingers twisting in the sheets.
He hums, the vibration sending sparks up my spine, and does it again—slower this time, flattening his tongue, dragging it through my heat with deliberate care. My hips try to lift toward him, but his hands slide under me, cupping my ass, holding me exactly where he wants me.
“Easy, baby.” His breath is warm against me. “Let me take my time with you.”
He circles my clit with the lightest pressure, barely there, teasing until I’m trembling. Then he seals his lips around it and sucks gently—once, twice—before soothing it with slow licks that make my thighs shake against his shoulders.
I’m unraveling, breath coming in faint, broken sounds I didn’t know I could make. He notices every one. When I whimper, he hums again. When my fingers find his hair, he groans like my touch is the best thing he’s ever felt.
He slides one thick finger inside me, slow and careful, curling just right while his tongue keeps that ideal rhythm—circle, flick, suck, soothe. My back arches. The pleasure builds in slow, rolling waves, deeper than anything I’ve ever felt alone.
“That’s it.” His steady voice anchors me. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
He adds a second finger, stretching me gently, stroking that spot inside while his mouth never falters.
The combination is overwhelming in the best way—too much and exactly enough all at once.
I feel myself tightening, climbing, and he senses it, doubles his focus, tongue moving faster now, but still controlled.
When I come, it’s slow and shattering, rolling through me in pulses that leave me shaking and breathless. He doesn’t stop—stays right there, licking me softly through every aftershock, moaning like he’s addicted to the way I taste when I fall apart.
Only when I’m limp and oversensitive does he ease back, pressing gentle kisses to my thighs, my hipbones, working his way up my body until he’s hovering over me, dark and light all at once.
“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he whispers against my lips, letting me feel how soaked his mouth still is. “So responsive for me. So perfect. Gonna need to do that again soon, Min. Every damn day if you let me.”
His forehead rests against mine, and our breath mingles.
“Still okay?” he asks.
I nod, breath catching because—God—I want more. My body isn’t wrong. It just needed the right person to listen.
“Yes.” This time, the word is solid. Certain.
For the first time, wanting doesn’t feel like a trap.
It feels like a choice.
Tristan doesn’t rush the next moment.
He kisses my forehead, my temple, the corner of my mouth, like he’s giving me time to come back into myself. My body still purrs, sensitive and open, the air between us charged with something fragile and real.
“Min, I want you. But I want to do this right.” He shifts just enough to reach his jeans on the floor, movements unhurried and deliberate. When he looks back at me, there’s a quiet question in his eyes. “Is this okay?”
He rolls the condom on slowly, eyes locked on mine.
“I know I’m big, baby,” he croons. “We’ll go slow. You tell me if it’s too much, but I promise I’ll make it good. You were made for me, Min. Every inch of you.”
His steady gaze quiets something deep in my chest. Care. Thought. Choice.
“Yes, it’s okay.” My voice doesn’t wobble this time. “I want you.”
He nods, committing it to memory. “If anything feels wrong, we stop. You tell me. We go slow.”
Slow sounds like heaven.
He presses in, just the head, and I whimper at the stretch.
“Breathe, sweetheart.” Tristan’s thumb strokes my clit in slow circles. “Open up for me. That’s my good girl—fuck—so tight. Taking me so well.”
Inch by inch, he sinks in, eyes rolling back for a second before he forces them open again to watch my face.
“Look at you,” he groans. “Tiny little thing swallowing my whole cock. You feel that? That’s you owning me, baby. Putain… si serrée...”
I tense instinctively, fear flickering at the edges, and he stills immediately.
“Hey,” he puts a finger under my chin, “look at me, Min.”
I do. His gaze is steady, warm, anchored on my face like that’s where he wants to be. “You’re safe,” he says. “Breathe with me.”
I inhale. Exhale. My body eases, muscle by muscle, and he moves again, slow enough that I can feel every inch of the connection without panic swallowing it whole. There’s pressure, stretch, sensation that’s intense but not overwhelming, and the constant reassurance of his hands and his voice.
“That’s it,” he croons. “You’re doing so good.”
The praise hits me harder than anything physical. I cling to him, forehead pressed to his shoulder, overwhelmed not by fear but by the sheer rightness of being held while something vulnerable happens.
When he’s fully settled, he doesn’t move right away. He just stays there with me, breathing, letting my body adjust. His thumb strokes slow circles on my hip, a quiet reminder that I’m not alone in this.
We move together after that. Not fast or frantic. The rhythm is gentle, almost reverent, like we’re learning each other in real time. Every motion feels intentional, chosen. When pleasure builds again, it’s layered with trust, with the knowledge that I can stop this at any second, and he would.
I don’t want to.
I meet his gaze, the city lights flickering faintly through the window, and for once, I don’t feel like I’m performing or disappearing or bracing for the moment it goes wrong.
I feel present.
“Come on my cock, baby,” he pants against my ear. “Want to feel this pussy flutter. You’re safe, you’re mine—come for me, Min. Let me have it.”
When I shatter again, he follows seconds later, burying himself deep and groaning my name. It’s quiet and grounding and mine, leaving me melty and shaky and profoundly, startlingly calm.
Afterward, he gathers me close, wraps me in his arms like that’s exactly where I belong. Without thinking, he hooks my cold feet between his calves. An instinctive act of care. I let him. He presses a kiss into my hair and stays there, solid and warm.
“Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Tristan traces idle patterns over my breasts, my narrow waist, the curve of my hip. “Every inch of you. Exactly like this. Don’t ever hide from me again, okay? I’m obsessed.”
I lie against his chest, listening to his heart slow, realizing something new and terrifying and hopeful all at once.
This wasn’t something taken from me.
It was something I chose.
And for the first time, that feels like enough.