Tristan
My head jerks back, and a surge of disbelief and anger courses through me. “What the fuck? What are you talking about?”
My pulse quickens, every muscle in my body tensing as I stare at Chloe. Her words hit me like a gut punch.
She crosses her arms, her posture rigid. “She said that this ‘loveless’ marriage will be over in three years. That you two will have the chance to try again.”
The jealousy in her voice is unmistakable, and despite the sheer absurdity of what she’s saying, a rush of something primal stirs in me.
It shouldn’t, not given the situation, but there’s a strange satisfaction in seeing her get pissed off and territorial over me.
Maybe because, in a way, it means she cares.
Despite everything, despite how this marriage began, she’s not indifferent.
But I shove that thought aside. This isn’t the time. Iris is fucking with her head, with our heads, and I’m not going to let her succeed.
“Hey,” I say sharply, stepping closer to Chloe. “Look at me.”
Her gaze flicks up, meeting mine with those stormy gray eyes. The hurt is there, simmering just beneath the surface, and it only fuels my anger at Iris. Chloe doesn’t deserve this. Not from her. Not from anyone.
“Iris was wrong,” I say firmly, making sure every word hits its mark. “There’s no chance of us getting back together. Not before we got married, and sure as hell not now.”
She watches me closely, her expression still guarded, but there’s a crack in her armor. I know she’s trying to decide if she believes me or not, so I push on, keeping my voice steady even though the memory of Iris makes my blood boil.
“What Iris conveniently forgot to mention is that the last time we broke up, it was because I caught her cheating on me. And I’m fairly certain every other time we ‘took breaks,’ it was because she’d been screwing around and wanted to go off and fuck someone else.”
A look of anger passes across Chloe’s beautiful face, her lips twisting downward. “That’s fucked up. You didn’t deserve that.”
I shrug, unbothered. My past with Iris is what it is—complicated and in the past. Right now, all I care about is the gorgeous, slightly injured woman sitting on the table in front of me.
“Maybe, but trust me, my past with Iris is the last thing on my mind right now,” I tell her. Something in the way my voice drops must register with Chloe, because her eyes snap up to meet mine. Her lips part slightly and she stops breathing, so I know I’ve got her attention. Good.
“You’ve got nothing to be jealous of. It isn’t Iris I’m thinking of every morning while I fuck my hand.
” I keep my gaze locked on her face as I say it, watching the color climb up her neck and into her cheeks.
“It’s not her name on my lips when I come.
” I pause, letting the silence stretch. “That’s reserved for my wife. ”
Her breath shifts, coming out a little uneven, her chest rising and falling faster than it was a moment ago. She’s trying to keep her face neutral but not quite managing it.
“You like that,” I say. It comes out certain, because it is. “Knowing that I think about you when I touch myself.”
She holds out for a second, something working behind her eyes, a war between what she wants to admit and what she thinks she should. Her lower lip trembles slightly, and I wait, letting her get there on her own.
Then she nods, almost imperceptibly. “Yes. I do like it.”
That single word does more to me than it has any right to, kicking my arousal up a notch. I let my eyes move over her slowly, taking her in. She’s sitting on the edge of the conference room table, slightly flushed, her composure cracked just enough to show what’s underneath it.
“You’re a much dirtier little thing than I gave you credit for,” I say, my voice dropping. “I like that.” She flicks her tongue across her lips, and I track the movement. “You love knowing you make me lose control. Well, that cuts both ways.” I hold her gaze. “Spread your legs for me.”
She stares at me for a second, her breath catching.
Her eyes drop briefly before flicking back up to mine, and I can see the moment the words actually land, the way her thighs press together slightly before she can stop herself.
She thinks I don’t notice things like that, but she’s wrong. I notice everything about her.
I slide off the chair and sink to my knees in front of her, resting my hands on her knees. She stiffens slightly at my proximity, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table.
“I said spread your legs,” I repeat, my voice a bit thick.
She swallows, something almost like fear in her expression, but it’s not fear of me.
I know, because I’m grappling with the same thing, the same heart-pounding anticipation that comes from holding your hand out to an electric fence, daring yourself to touch it.
She’s been fighting this thing—whatever it is—between us for weeks, and honestly, so have I.
But not right now.
I lean forward and press my lips to her kneecap, soft and slow, and the breath rushes out of her lungs.
Her legs fall open in silent invitation, drawing my gaze upward.
The damp spot on her panties is visible from where I’m kneeling, dark against the pale fabric, and it just about knocks the air out of me.
“Look at you,” I manage, my voice coming out rougher than I mean it to. “Already so fucking wet for me.”
A needy little sound escapes her, but she doesn’t respond with words. With effort, I drag my focus away from that tempting, damp patch of fabric and meet her eyes again.
“Lie back.”
Her nostrils flare. Something seems to arc between us, attraction and desire and that stubborn streak of hers all tangled up together.
She takes a breath. Then another. And then, slowly, she starts to lean back, lowering herself until she’s flat on the table, her dark hair spilling across the smooth surface, her chest rising and falling quickly.
Something curls low in my gut at the sight of her like that, and it takes me a second to remember how to move.
I drag her skirt up out of my way and press my mouth to the inside of her knee, and she makes a soft sound above me.
I work my way up, pressing my lips to her inner thigh, kissing toward where she needs me, and I can feel her muscles jumping beneath my mouth with every kiss.
She’s trembling slightly, her fingers finding the edge of the table again, holding on.
When I reach the top of her thigh I press my nose against the damp fabric of her panties and breathe in deeply, and she sucks in a breath above me, her body going rigid.
“You smell incredible,” I say against her. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks.” I press my lips softly to the wet fabric and she shudders, her hips shifting toward me. “But I think you’re going to taste even better.”
She whimpers, and that sound just about wrecks my self-control.
I hook my fingers under the waistband of her panties and pull them down in one smooth motion, and she kicks them the rest of the way off without being asked.
I look up at her, taking in the sight of her laid out across the table, bare from the waist down, chest heaving, gray eyes dark and fixed on me.
“Do you have any idea how fucking beautiful you are?” I drag my thumb slowly through her slick pussy lips, and she shudders, her stomach tensing.
I hold her gaze as I press my mouth to her and spit softly onto her clit, spreading it with my tongue, and she makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan.
“Does that feel good?” I ask, pulling back just enough to speak.
She nods, her jaw tight, nostrils flaring with each breath.
“Say it,” I tell her. “I want to hear you say it.”
“Yes,” she admits, the word spilling out of her. “It feels so good.”
“Was that so hard?” I chuckle before I take another slow lick. She tastes better than anything I imagined, and I’ve been imagining all kinds of things in considerable detail. Her whole body shudders, and I look up at her. “My wife deserves to feel as good as she tastes.”
I press my mouth to her and work my tongue into her properly, and her hands shoot to my head immediately, her fingers tangling in my hair, nails dragging against my scalp as her hips start to roll against my mouth.
I let her, keeping my hands on her thighs, and focus on learning her.
What makes her breath stutter, what makes her grip tighten, what makes those soft involuntary sounds keep spilling out of her.
“Tell me what you want,” I murmur against her pussy.
She moans in response, her nails digging into my scalp.
I pull back and look up at her, keeping two fingers moving in slow circles against her clit while I wait. She makes a frustrated sound, her hips chasing the contact.
“Chloe.” I keep my voice low. “Tell me what you want.”
“More,” she breathes, the word coming out wrecked. “Please, I want more.”
I slide one finger into her and groan at the feel of her inner walls clenching tight, and she hisses through her teeth as I work it deeper. I give her a moment before I add a second finger and curl them forward on the way back out, dragging deliberately against her g-spot.
“Fuck! Just like that,” she whimpers.
Her legs are shaking on either side of me, and when I suck her clit into my mouth while my fingers keep moving, she grinds against my face without any apparent concern about whether I mind.
I don’t. I very much don’t.
I work her steadily, keeping the pressure where she needs it, learning the rhythm that makes her breathing go ragged and her thighs shake.
She’s making sounds now that she’d probably be mortified about if she could hear herself, soft and continuous and completely unguarded, and I think I’d do just about anything to keep hearing them.
I can feel her getting close. The way she tightens around my fingers every time I curl them forward, the way her hips have stopped moving with any kind of intent and are just rolling against me, the way her breathing has turned into something she’s barely holding on to.
I keep the pace exactly where it is, not backing off, not pushing harder, just holding her right at the edge.
Her eyes are wild when I look up at her through my lashes, dark and fixed on mine.
I draw away from her addictive pussy just far enough to speak, keeping my fingers moving inside her.
“That’s it,” I praise. “Come for me. Be a good wife and let go.”