Chapter Twenty-Nine Adriana
That’s when Tristan dropped to his knees.
I felt the weight of his gaze before the warmth of his hands, a silent command that made my heart jump in my chest. The late afternoon sun had begun its retreat, throwing shadows across the room as Tristan knelt before me.
“You’re right. Let’s forget about the world for a while,” he murmured, his fingers hooking around the waistband of my leggings and panties with a deftness born of familiarity. I lifted my hips, aiding him as he drew the fabric down my legs, the cool air of the room kissing my skin where his hot breath hadn’t yet explored.
Perched on the edge of the couch, I watched, entranced, as he spread kisses up my calves, my knees, my thighs. Each brush of his lips was an unspoken vow, a fleeting touch that promised more—so much more. I let out a stifled moan, my body arching toward him, begging for what only Tristan could give.
“Tristan, please,” I gasped, but he only grinned, the devilish tilt of his lips telling me he enjoyed this slow torture. His own hand dipped below his waistband, his movements deliberate as he watched me come undone at the mere sight. I was caught in the pull of my own desire, watching him touch himself while yearning for his hands on me.
“Patience, Ade,” he teased, but there was no patience left in me. “What? You can’t just watch for a second?”
“You’re evil,” I said.
He laughed. “Seriously, just wait.”
Finally, his mouth found the heat between my legs, and I surrendered to the sensation. My fingers tangled in his hair, holding him to me as waves of pleasure cascaded over my senses. “God, I love how you taste,” he growled against me, and the roughness of his voice sent another rush of heat coursing through my veins.
“More, Tristan,” I urged, feeling the coil in my belly tighten with every flick of his tongue, every stroke of his fingers. He complied, his actions becoming more insistent, more demanding, echoing the hunger that consumed us both. He pressed his fingers into me, curling them around my g-spot as his tongue lapped at my clit.
“Your taste changes when you’re close,” he whispered, his words punctuated by another thrust of his fingers. “It’s intoxicating.” And I was drunk on it, on him, spiraling into an abyss of ecstasy from which I never wanted to return.
“Are you going to come for me, love?” he asked, his breath hot against my pussy, and his voice was my undoing.
My back arched off the couch as another wave crashed over me, my cry filling the room. Tristan’s relentless pursuit of my pleasure didn’t wane; his mouth and fingers worked in tandem, drawing out climax after climax until I was a quivering mess beneath him. Finally, when I could take no more, I pushed at his shoulders, signaling a surrender that was both complete and utterly satisfied.
He looked up at me, his grin wide and self-assured, the very image of a man who knew the power he wielded. “Which position next, love?” His voice was rough with desire, husky in a way that made my already sensitive body hum with renewed need. “What do you want?”
“Right here,” I managed to say between shaky breaths, my heart still racing from the intensity of what had passed and the anticipation of what was yet to come. “Just like this...with you.”
He nodded, his expression serious as he considered my comfort. “How about you lie on your side?” he suggested gently. “It’s easier on you and the baby.”
The concern in his voice, always so present when it came to me and our unborn children, made me love him more—if that was even possible. I smiled and nodded, shifting to lie on the couch, my body curling slightly to accommodate the swell of my belly.
Tristan moved behind me, spooning me with a care that contradicted the raw desire I saw flash in his eyes moments before. His hands, those strong, commanding hands that could orchestrate the rise and fall of empires, now caressed my belly tenderly. The juxtaposition of his power and gentleness never ceased to amaze me.
One hand continued its tender caress on my abdomen while the other slid down between my legs again, rekindling the fire that had barely dimmed. He positioned himself carefully, entering me slowly. Every push, every careful movement was measured, considerate—designed to bring us both pleasure without compromising my well-being or that of our babies.
“Is this good?” Tristan’s low rumble tickled my ear.
I moaned softly, pressing back against him, feeling every line and angle of his body as if it were my own. “Yes,” I assured him, my voice shaky with the waves of pleasure that were beginning to crest within me. “It’s perfect.”
Tristan moved with a restraint that was all the more potent because I knew the strength he held in check. For me. For us. For the future that grew more certain with every beat of our hearts. The outside walls might be cold with winter’s touch, but inside, warmth bloomed.
I reached back, fingers weaving through Tristan’s short hair, anchoring myself to the moment, to him. There was a rhythm to this, to the way he was fucking me, to the way he breathed against my ear.
The sensations spiraled, coiling tighter like the intricate patterns of the ink on his skin, each line telling a story of who he was, who we were together.
With each deliberate movement, Tristan ensured my comfort, his hands a constant presence that both claimed and cherished. The power he wielded elsewhere, here it was wielded for my pleasure, for our mutual surrender to the moment.
“Your pussy feels so fucking good,” Tristan whispered in my ear.
And then, as if a dam within me burst, I unraveled under his touch, my voice ringing out into the late evening air, calling his name like a sacred incantation.
And then he was coming too.
His body stiffened behind me, his grip tightening as he groaned my name, the sound echoing through the silence of the room. His final thrusts were deep, powerful, pushing us both over the edge into the realm of sweet release.
Our breaths came in ragged pants. Tristan’s chest pressed against my back, his heartbeat matching mine in a rhythm that spoke volumes about our connection. His arms closed around me protectively, one hand still cradling our unborn children through the fabric on my top.
“Better?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “As long as we can stay here forever, I think everything will be okay.”