21. Isolde
Isolde
Sunlight streams in, the bed perfectly comfortable, the bedsheets pulled up.
Tristan is gone.
Dragging a hand through my hair, I pull my knees to my chest. I appreciate the moment of peace, which allows me the ability to get acclimated to the morning. But I miss Tristan.
I know, even before I hear the scrape of a utensil against the pan and the sizzle of food, that he’s in the kitchen.
It’s his spot in the morning.
This morning I come to a complete stop when I find him shirtless. He’s pulled on a pair of sweats that hang low on his hips. His muscles ripple in the early sunlight, and there’s got to be something about watching a man cook.
He doesn’t notice as I creep through the kitchen until my hand runs down his back.
“Isolde, baby.” He cranes his head around only to spot me bending on my knees. His eyes narrow. “Iz?”
When he turns around, my hands find his waistband easily, tugging them down.
“Iz.” He puts down the spatula. “It’s okay, baby, you don’t—”
My look silences him. Last night he’d joked about it in the shower, but this morning I want to. More than want to. I want to show him everything I’m thinking and feeling. How I appreciate him and want him to feel good.
It’s gratification, knowing I can take care of him too.
He rapidly thickens, and when I wrap my hand around his large cock, his inhale is sharp.
“Iz.” It’s a plead.
And I intend to make good on it.
I’ve never sucked someone with piercings before, and I’m curious. “I didn’t take you for one with piercings.”
He takes a deep breath when my thumb traces the metal. “You can blame a young, stupid Tristan for that.”
My tongue licks around the row of six piercings before swirling around the tip of his cock. My stomach clenches every time he hisses under his breath. In our past interactions, he’s been the one driving me out of control, and it’s nice being on the opposite side.
I’m careful as I take him in my mouth, the metal scraping against my teeth. My cheeks hollow as I suck, and Tristan leans heavily against the kitchen cabinets.
I relax my throat more, taking him deeper.
“Fuck, Iz.”
My pussy throbs.
He wraps his hand in my hair, and I blink up at him, my mouth full of his cock.
“Oh fuck.” He throws his head back. He thrusts into my mouth, his cock hitting the back of my throat.
I suck deeper and harder, almost like the pair of us are fighting for who is in control. It only makes it hotter, and arousal drips down my inner thighs when he tugs my hair.
“That’s right, baby,” he breathes, pushing his cock into my mouth. “Oh, fuck, Iz.”
My thighs rub together, desperate for friction. Tristan must spot it because he pushes my head down his cock.
“No, focus on me, baby.”
Even those words have an effect, my belly swooping.
I release him, breathing deep. He leans back on one elbow, his other tangling in my hair.
“Open wide.”
He shoves back down my throat, my pussy clenching in response. Spit gathers at the corner of my lips, and tears spill from my eyes. I accidentally swallow around his cock, but that only makes him groan.
His fingers tighten in my hair, but I don’t have a chance to yelp.
I take him as deep as I can, swallowing his cum, which seems to go on forever. When his hips stop moving—when he’s let out every bit of pleasure—he brushes my hair back, his cock still in my mouth.
He nods, and I tear my mouth away from him, only to begin cleaning his cock. Only after I’m finished do I finally sit back on my heels.
Tristan keeps brushing my hair out of my face, his chest lifting and falling with deep breaths.
I’m completely wet, my thighs squeezing tight, as I stare up at him.
“Go eat your breakfast,” he tells me, pointing to a chair.
My shoulders sag, but Tristan isn’t joking. He pulls his sweatpants up, turning back to the stove and picking the spatula up like nothing’s happened.
“Go sit down,” he says over his shoulder.
I think about crawling, not because I’m that sexually depraved. The adrenaline of my high has begun to fade, a sleepy feeling taking over. I’m jolted back awake when I stand and feel my arousal sliding down my legs. I sit down carefully, knowing I’m soaking the wooden chair.
I have no idea how Tristan didn’t burn the food, but he brings me a plate, pressing a kiss to my forehead. He ignores the hopeful look on my face.
“Eat,” is all he says.
“So were you drunk or something when you got your piercings?” I ask, munching on toast.
Tristan laughs, bringing me a cup of orange juice. When he’s in the kitchen, he’s just like Abe. Back and forth, putting the guest first, loading them up with food and drink.
“It might have been a decision made after a night of drinking,” he admits, pouring himself coffee. He sets it on the table, pulling out a chair. A second later he nods, and I all but jump into his lap.
He settles me and then pulls my plate over, reminding me to eat. I hate to break it to him, but I’m not interested in eggs and bacon right now.
“How long have you had it?” I ask.
He grimaces. “Almost ten years.”
I pat his face. “You’re going to be an old man with a Jacob’s ladder.”
He makes another face.
“That’s hot,” I tell him. “I’m sorry, I’m messing up your sweatpants.”
I hope he takes the hint and plays with my pussy.
He drinks his coffee instead. “I was with the Irish.”
“You let the Irish convince you to get a Jacob’s ladder?” It’s not in me to share intimate details about the men I’m fucking, but I just know Ren would die of surprise if I ever told her this tidbit.
He takes another gulp of coffee, his arm tightening around my waist, toying with the hem of my shirt.
“You ever speak to the Irish?” I ask, learning my lesson not to beg. “I know you worked for them.”
He used to be on their payroll, opting to work directly instead of with an intermediary like Ren.
“I didn’t burn any bridges,” he says, and my breathing stills when his finger skims my pussy. “I had things to handle as the Ghost.”
With the lightest touch, he circles my clit before shoving two fingers deep. I accommodate him easily; I’m so ready for it, but I can’t help the whimper that comes out of me.
“I didn’t want to be a triggerman all my life,” he admits. “It’s decent work, but I wanted to be my own boss. The syndicates like either working with their own or going somewhere like Fujimori’s.”
“That’s why you started your business.” Heat blooms inside me as I cling to him. It’s noisy when he drags his hands through my wetness.
“I didn’t exactly have a clean soul. I’m in this life, but I didn’t want to join any of the syndicates.
I figured I could offer them a service, though, an elite level of protection.
I know most keep their security in-house, but they always have the option to contract out, and there are tons of rich guys that want to pretend like they need something as fancy as a bodyguard. ”
He’s now got three fingers inside me, pumping in and out.
“Tris—” I can’t even pretend to hold a conversation anymore.
He kisses my cheek, his thumb tracing my clit. Stars burst around me.
I collapse into his chest. He retracts his fingers, running his hand up and down my back. We sit there silently while he sips his coffee and I blissfully peace out.
This is undoubtedly how I’d like to spend my time, but Tristan’s phone rings.
“Sorry.” He shifts me, reaching for the phone. He answers in Spanish, and I know it’s serious when he stiffens.
I start to stand, thinking he needs privacy, but he balls his fist in my shirt, tugging me back to him. I curiously look on, cursing my lack of a second language. He goes back and forth between checking his calendar and responding to whoever is on the phone.
“Okay,” he says. “I told you I’d be there.”
He ends the call with a sigh.
“What’s wrong?”
Tristan runs a hand over his face. “It’s my dad’s birthday.”