Chloe
Tristan’s words hang in the air between us, and the way he’s looking at me makes it hard to breathe.
I hold his gaze as I keep sinking down onto him.
He groans, his jaw tightening, his hands gripping my thighs as I work my way down inch by inch.
He’s big enough that I always have to go slow at first, and I feel every bit of him as I take him deeper, the stretch of him making my breath come out in short, shallow bursts.
My thighs are shaking slightly by the time I’m finally fully impaled on his thick cock.
I stay there for a heartbeat, letting my body adjust to the fullness of him.
His head drops back against the chair and his eyelids droop, but he keeps his gaze on mine, watching me with an expression that’s full of hunger with something almost awed underneath it.
Almost like he can’t believe this is real.
God, I understand that feeling.
I never expected to give myself over to him like this, not when this all started.
I thought I knew exactly what this arrangement was and what it wasn’t, and I built my expectations accordingly.
But with his cock throbbing inside me and his eyes on my face and the morning sun on both of us, those early calculations feel like they belong to a completely different version of me.
“You feel so fucking good,” he groans, his voice strained. “So perfect. You have no idea.”
I start to move, rising up slowly and sinking back down.
His hands move up from my thighs to my waist, then higher, his palms hot against my ribs as I find a rhythm.
He reaches my breasts and his thumbs trace my nipples in slow circles that I feel all the way down to where we’re joined, and I arch into his touch, my pace picking up slightly.
His mouth follows his hands, lips and tongue hot against my skin.
He moves from one side to the other, his stubble rasping against the soft skin of my breasts, sucking lightly at my nipple before moving to press his lips to my sternum, my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder.
I ride him a little harder in response, a soft sound escaping me that I make no effort to hold back.
“Touch yourself,” he murmurs against my breast. “Play with your clit while you ride me. I want to watch.”
I reach down between us and press my fingers against my clit, starting to move them in slow circles, and the combination of that and his cock filling me with every stroke is almost too much all at once. A moan spills out of me, and his hands tighten on my hips in response.
“That’s it.” He nods, watching my hand. “Just like that. Show me how good it feels.”
He kisses his way up to my neck, my shoulder, nipping lightly at my skin, his hands moving restlessly over my body like he wants to be everywhere at once.
I ride him faster, working my fingers more firmly against my clit, and the pleasure builds with every stroke, winding tighter and tighter.
My thighs are starting to shake and my breathing has gone ragged, and I’m aware of nothing except the feel of him inside me and the sound of his voice and the way the morning light falls across his face when he looks at me.
“You feel so deep like this,” I breathe, my hips rolling forward on a stroke that makes my eyes fall shut for a second. “Holy fuck, Tristan, you’re so deep.”
“Take all of me,” he demands roughly, his hands pulling my hips down harder. “Every inch. I want you to feel all of me.”
He watches my face the whole time, reading every response, adjusting to everything I give him. When I get close, when my movements have gotten a little desperate and my head has dropped back slightly, he reaches up and fists his hand in my hair, pulling my gaze back to his.
“I want to see it,” he rasps. “I want to see your face when you come. Keep your eyes on me, dimples.”
I fall apart. My body clenches and then releases in a long, rolling wave, pleasure crashing through me from my core outward, and I keep my eyes on his even as they blur at the edges.
He watches me come with an expression that makes everything feel twice as intense, hungry and focused and possessive. His hands grip my hips, holding me, working me through every wave until I’m gasping and spent.
When the climax finally passes, I sag against him, catching my breath, my hair falling around both our faces. His arms come around me and he holds me there for a long moment, his lips pressing against my temple.
“I’m never going to get over how fucking beautiful you are,” he murmurs into my hair. “Every time, you wreck me.”
Before I’ve fully recovered, before my breathing has settled back to anything close to normal, he starts moving again, his hands urging my hips, driving up into me with short, deep strokes that pull a helpless whimper out of me.
“Give me another one,” he whispers. His lips move against my jaw as he speaks, his breath hot on my skin. “Please. Come on my cock again.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, and his expression is raw, stripped of its usual composure. “I need it. I need you so much. You have no idea.”
The desperation in his voice lights something up inside me, and I start moving again, rocking my hips against him, riding him with whatever my body has left to give.
He moves with me, his hands pulling me down to meet every upward thrust, the force of it pushing the air out of my lungs on every stroke. I feel the pleasure building again faster than I expect, climbing higher with every pass, my fingers finding my clit again.
“That’s it.” He swallows, watching my face. “You feel so fucking good when you ride me. Don’t stop. Give me everything.”
My thighs are burning and my body is working toward it, and I can’t think about anything except how he feels and how he’s looking at me and how badly I want to get there again.
“Tristan,” I gasp. “Tristan!”
The second orgasm crests and breaks and tears through me harder than the first. I fall forward against him, my face pressing into his shoulder, gripping his arms hard.
He fucks me through it, deep and relentless, his cock driving into me over and over until I’ve shaken through every last wave of it and gone limp against him.
He gives me about three seconds to recover, but he’s clearly not done with me yet.
“Lean back,” he orders.
I do, arching my upper body backward, and he wraps his arms around me to hold me there, his hands braced against the arch of my back.
The angle shifts everything, and when he drives up into me from below the force of it shakes my body, my breasts bouncing with every thrust. I grip his forearms with both hands and hold on, my head falling back, the pale blue sky above me the only thing in my field of vision.
“God, you feel so tight around me,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “I can feel you squeezing my cock. You feel so fucking good like this.” He drives harder, deeper, his grip on me tightening to the point where I know I’ll have marks tomorrow. “I could stay inside you forever. You know that?”
“I want to feel you come inside me,” I beg breathlessly. I’m desperate for it, for the feel of him finally losing that last thread of control. “Please. I need to feel it.”
He makes a rough sound at that, something between a groan and a curse, and takes several more hard, plunging thrusts that rattle through me from my hips to my chest. His breathing has gone completely ragged, his grip on me bruising, and I hold on as he drives into me two, three, four more times and then pulls me forward hard against his chest and buries himself as deep as he can go as he comes.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Oh fuck, dimples. God, I’m right there, I’m—fuck!”
His cum floods my pussy, filling me up in a rush, and my body reacts on its own, clenching hard around him as another orgasm tears through me in response to his.
It seems to go on much longer than should be possible, both of us shaking through it together, his cock still pulsing inside me, until I’m completely wrung out, collapsing against him with nothing left.
He wraps his arms around me, pulling me in tight against his chest, and I hold on just as hard, my fingers curled into his shoulders.
Neither of us says anything for a long while. I can feel his cock still throbbing lightly inside me, his cum sliding warm between us. We’re both breathing hard in the morning air, the sound of the ocean rising up from below the railing.
He smiles and cradles the back of my head, pulling me in for a kiss. When we finally pull apart, he brushes my messy hair back from my face, tucking it behind my ear. He lowers his head to rest against the crook of my neck, holding on to me like he thinks I might disappear if he loosens his grip.
I lean into him, still coming down from the high of it, trying to convince him with the press of my body that I’m not going anywhere.
Because I’m not.
I still can’t help thinking about what he said to me last night when he was drunk and wrecked, how he wants this marriage to last more than just the three years in the agreement. How he’s obsessed with me.
I believed every word that came out of his mouth then. How could I not?
There was no pretense in his words, and it was probably the most honest and vulnerable I’ve ever seen him.
But as incredible as what we just shared was, and as much as it should have convinced me, there’s still some part of me that isn’t sure if I can believe him completely—or if what he said was just the drunken ramblings of a man devastated by what he’d learned about his father.
But I want them to be true.