Chapter Twelve #3
Felicity rolled her eyes and unbuttoned his trousers, pulling the fabric back delicately until the round head of his cock emerged.
The trail of hair down his abdomen led right to it.
An indecent path to his . . . She lost her train of thought as all of him came into view.
She didn’t want to think of Chadwick, not right now, not ever.
She hadn’t seen what his parts had looked like, only how it felt like he was ripping her apart.
Felicity tried to rationalize that pain with the organ in front of her, but not join them together.
She was still in a hazy bliss from Tristan’s artful intimacies, and she wasn’t ready for that to fade.
“How do I touch you?”
He took her hand and wrapped her fingers around him, groaning as he moved her fist up and down with his.
“Like this. Christ, Flick, this must be a dream.” He let go and she did too.
“What about these?”
“The proper term is—”
“Testicles. I’m trained as a nurse, remember? Dr. Sloan lent me books and had me study lectures of his to increase my knowledge.”
“Books about male anatomy specifically?” Tristan said with a scowl.
“I didn’t have a lot to do for Lord Alston. I was grateful. My education until then was somewhat limited to the ailments of a small, aging village.”
“Well, they are sensitive. Handle with care,” he grumbled.
Felicity did handle him carefully and a moan and tightening of his belly resulted.
“You like this?”
“I do now,” he said. He took hold of his cock and the sight of him touching himself sent her thoughts about books and medicine scattering. Her body reacted swiftly, and she pressed her thighs together for relief.
“The crown is especially sensitive, as well,” he said, his voice strained.
“Keep going,” she said.
“Are you enjoying watching me?”
“You’re beautiful, Tristan. Every part of you.”
“So you think my cock is pretty.”
Felicity scoffed at him. “As if you need more arrogance.”
He chuckled, his voice catching as he squeezed the top of his shaft. “With you watching me, your eyes all dark and lovely, your lips swollen from my kisses, I won’t last long.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’ll get to watch me come, love. Unless you want to take my place or—damn it, there are so many filthy ideas filling my head.”
Felicity couldn’t regulate her breathing. She was tempted to touch herself. Why, she didn’t understand, but the way Tristan was losing himself to his pleasure set her on fire.
“What ideas?” she asked.
He groaned. “Give me your hand.”
Felicity did not hesitate as she wrapped her hand around him, moving like he did, and he slipped his free hand between her legs, stroking her.
“So wet for me.”
She parted her legs, and together, they fell into a frantic rhythm of giving to each other.
Felicity stared in awe as Tristan bucked his hips, his jaw flexing, cheeks flushing, muscles rippling all under her hands.
He jerked, swearing and moaning her name, and then his release painted his lower stomach. Felicity watched it all in fascination.
He was exquisite, and he was hers, for now. For too little time. Another wave of rapture stole her breath, smaller, gentler, sweeter in its delicacy, as she floated down from it.
“A man’s release is rather crude. Not as lovely to watch as you, love.”
“No, I like it. It’s so . . . primal.” She reached out and touched a drop of pearly liquid, then she touched it to her tongue.
“Flick,” he said, shocked.
“I can’t taste you? That doesn’t seem fair.”
He sat up and cupped the back of her head, their mouths slamming together, tongues tangling, tasting their shared pleasure. Felicity was panting as they broke apart.
“There are moments when I think you are made for me, Flick.”
His words stunned her, and she didn’t know what to say. They etched on her heart and her throat tightened.
He got up and took a handkerchief from his coat and wiped himself off, then he dampened a towel from her washbasin and wet it. He sat beside her and waited.
“Open for me.”
Felicity blushed as she parted her legs and Tristan gently cleaned her. Then he helped her dress and redressed himself.
Their intense moment was fast coming to an end, and she wasn’t ready for all the feelings that came after. His tenderness, his thrilling, filthy words—and now he had to leave. It felt wrong. He should be staying with her, holding her.
How did the ladies share so much of themselves like this with so many and not lose their heart each time? Because Tristan was certainly leaving with pieces of her. She’d exposed more than her body, and so had he.
“You are made for me.”
“I wish you didn’t have to go,” she said.
He turned back from the door. “We both know I can’t stay.”
“I know.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t want to, Flick.”
Her heart ached at his words. “I hate this.”
He strode back to her and cupped her face, his eyes solemn. “We knew it would get harder.”
“I didn’t know, Tristan.” Her throat tightened. “I didn’t know that the more I gave myself to you, the more I’d want to give. How is this going to work?” How was she ever going to feel this for another? She wouldn’t. When she left the Den, she’d be leaving her heart with him.
“It’s not,” he said. “That’s why it must end. You’ve given up so much to save yourself. I promise you will have the future you deserve.”
But it couldn’t include him. That was what he left unsaid. They were on different paths and soon they would veer apart and go their separate ways.
He kissed her forehead. “Goodnight, Flick.”
“Goodnight, Tristan.” He left and her heart split in two. She’d gone from feeling wonderful to dreadful as the door clicked shut, thankful he wouldn’t see the tears she was about to shed over losing him.