Chapter Sixteen
Tristan
By the time I reach the front door, I’m already half-hard, which is pathetic considering I’ve been traveling for six hours and my left shoulder feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it. But the second the door to the condo clicks open, the air hits me like a drug.
It’s her.
Not perfume, not candles, just Minerva. Coconut-milk shampoo, the faint vanilla of the lotion she rubs into her hands when she’s thinking, and something warmer, deeper, that lives in my sheets now.
It’s in my walls. It’s in my bloodstream.
I didn’t know I could miss someone like this.
It’s not just her smell—it’s the way my shoulders drop the second I’m home.
Six days on the road and I’ve been jerking off in hotel bathrooms to the memory of this exact smell like a teenager.
I drop my duffel. Kepler doesn’t even greet me; he’s passed out in his hammock, paws twitching in dreams. Smart ferret. He knows what’s coming.
There’s a sliver of light under the bedroom door and a sound, breathy, almost swallowed. A sigh that catches and turns into a dainty, helpless gasp.
My fists squeeze at my sides. I toe off my shoes, pad down the hall, and push the door open with two fingers.
She’s in the middle of my bed, knees drawn up, wearing nothing but my neon green Venom hoodie, the one that drowns her.
The hem is pushed up to her hips, one small hand disappeared beneath black panties, the other clutching her phone.
Her glasses are fogged, cheeks flushed scarlet, bottom lip caught between her teeth.
She freezes when she sees me, eyes huge.
“Min?” I have to brace a hand on the doorframe. No one’s ever looked at me like that—caught, wanting, and not ashamed. It feels like being chosen. Christ, it terrifies me how much I want her to want me back.
Her chest rises and falls fast. A shy, wicked little smile curves her mouth.
“I was just…” She has to lick her lips; her voice is wrecked. “Testing a theory.”
I shut the door behind me with my foot, lean back against it, and let my gaze drag over her slowly, deliberately, so she knows I’m looking. So she knows I like what I see.
The hoodie has slipped off one shoulder. Her thighs are trembling. There’s a damp spot on the sheets beneath her, and the air smells like her arousal layered over everything else.
A quiet, breathless, “Ma belle…,” slips out.
I’m gone. Completely fucking gone.
“Baby,” I say, voice gravel-rough from disuse and pure want, “whatever that theory is, I’m volunteering as tribute.”
She’s still panting, thighs pressed together like she’s trying to trap the ache, but her chin lifts in that stubborn way I love.
I step closer as Minerva pushes her glasses up her nose, cheeks blazing, and flips her phone around so I can see the screen.
It’s a goddamn Google Sheet titled Solo Pleasure Optimization – Phase 2.
Columns for date, duration, toy vs. fingers, clit pressure scale 1–10, lube brand, orgasm intensity, notes.
I stare. My brain blue-screens and reboots straight into my dick. She isn’t hiding. Not this. Not her desire. She’s letting me see the messy, honest parts she usually tucks behind data and defenses. She trusts me with it.
“Are you saying,” I manage, voice cracking like I’m fifteen, “you built a spreadsheet about your orgasms?”
She shrugs, earnest and completely unashamed. “Doesn’t everyone? I needed controlled variables. Otherwise, how do you iterate? The other day, I was wondering about multiples, and I went down a rabbit hole.”
Iterate. Jesus Christ.
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to breathe through the urge to throw her down and ruin every data point she’s collected. My cock is so hard it hurts, straining against my slacks, and she notices; of course, she does. Her gaze flicks down, and her lips part on a hungry inhale.
“Minerva,” I say, low and wrecked, “you are the hottest fucking nerd on the planet.”
Her blush deepens, but she doesn’t hide. She’s proud of her method, proud of her curiosity, and that pride is currently setting me on fire.
After I strip off my clothes, I drop to my knees at the edge of the bed, palms sliding up her bare calves. “Tell me the headline finding so far.”
“That…” She has to swallow. “That nothing gets me there as fast or hard as thinking about you.”
Game over.
I crowd her gently back against the pillows. The hoodie rides higher; I can see the wet patch on her panties now, smell how turned on she is, and my mouth actually waters.
“Good data,” I rasp, settling between her thighs, letting her feel exactly how hard her little science project has made me. “But your sample size is biased, baby. You’re missing the live variable.”
Her hips rock up, seeking friction. “I was hoping you’d be available for the next trial.”
I lean down until our foreheads touch. “I’m gonna need you to show me that spreadsheet. Later.” I nip her bottom lip, soothe it with my tongue. “After I make you hit all four quadrants in one session.”
Her breath hitches. “There are only three tracked—”
“Trust me,” I growl against her lips, “I’m adding a fourth.”
I drag my mouth down her throat, tasting salt and coconut and pure want.
The hoodie is in my way; I push it up to her collarbones and just stare for a second.
I can’t get enough of those tits, flushed pink, nipples already tight.
She tries to tug the fabric back down, old instinct, but I catch her wrists and pin them gently above her head with one hand.
“Uh-uh. I’ve been starving for days. Let me look.” I need her to know she can stop me with one word. That she’s safe with me, even when I’m losing my mind.
Her breath stutters. I kiss every inch I’ve missed: sternum, ribs, the silky underside of one breast. Then I let her wrists go and keep moving south, open-mouthed, reverent.
When I reach her panties, I hook my fingers in the waistband of the soaked lace. She lifts her hips to help me peel them off, and the scent of her hits me so hard I groan out loud.
There’s a little brown bottle on the nightstand. Foria. I raise an eyebrow.
“It’s CBD-infused,” she explains, suddenly shy. “Supposed to heighten sensitivity and relax muscle tension, but the studies say it works best with… partner application.”
Partner application. I’m gonna die.
I slick two fingers through her lips and spread them open. Her pussy’s dripping, swollen, so ready it’s obscene. She’s trembling, thighs twitching, but her eyes stay locked on mine, trusting, curious, brave.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” I say, and then I lower my mouth and lick her slowly, from entrance to clit, one long, filthy stripe.
Her back arches off the bed. “Tristan—”
I do it again, and again, learning her with my tongue the way she learns everything else: methodical, hungry, thorough. When I slide one finger inside, she clenches so hard my vision tunnels. A second finger and she’s rocking into my face, tiny broken sounds spilling out.
I curl them, suck her clit gently, and watch her fall apart.
“That’s one,” I murmur against her, lips slick. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you come, Min.”
She’s shaking, glasses fogged, tears at the corners of her eyes, but she’s smiling like I just handed her the stars.
Still inside her, I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh. “Ready for number two, baby?”
She nods, frantic, fingers threading through my hair.
“Good girl,” I breathe, and go back down like a man possessed.
Sliding my hands under her ass, I lift her to my mouth and feast. No more pressure, faster flicks, then slow, lazy circles until she’s writhing. Every time she gets close, I back off just enough to keep her hovering, thighs shaking around my ears.
“Tristan, please,” she gasps, voice cracking. “Don’t stop this time, I need—”
“I’ve got you.” I push two fingers deep again, curl hard, and suck her clit in pulsing pulls.
She comes with a sharp cry, hips bucking so hard I have to pin her down. I keep licking, gentler now, drawing it out until she’s sobbing my name and trying to squirm away from overstimulation.
I don’t let her.
“Too much—no, wait, I want it—” she babbles, fingers yanking my hair.
I growl against her, slide a third finger in, stretch her open while I tongue her clit in tight, relentless circles. She’s so wet it’s dripping down my wrist, down my chin, soaking the sheets.
“Come again for me, baby. Want to feel this little pussy try to push me out.”
She does, harder than the first two, back bowing, a broken “oh God, oh God” spilling out as she clamps around my fingers and floods my mouth. I drink her down, praising her through it.
“That’s three,” I rasp, kissing the trembling inside of her thigh. “One more. You’re doing so fucking good.”
I flip her onto her stomach because I need to see her ass shake while she falls apart.
One day, I want to wake up to this sight—my hoodie on her, hair tangled, body flushed from sleep instead of orgasms. She scrambles to her knees on instinct, hoodie bunched under her arms, face buried in the pillow.
I spread her again, lick a stripe from clit to hole just to hear her muffled scream, then settle in like I could live here forever.
My thumb rubs her clit in circles while my tongue pushes inside her, fucking her slow and deep. She’s pushing back now, shameless, chasing it, voice wrecked.
“Tristan, it’s too big, it’s—”
“It’s perfect,” I snarl. “Let it happen, Min. Let me have it.”
The fourth hits hard. She goes rigid, then melts, a long, long, shuddering moan that sounds like my name and prayer mixed together. Her whole body pulses around my tongue, thighs clamping my head, and I keep going until she’s limp and gasping, tears wetting the pillow.
Crawling up her body, I turn her over gently and pull her into my chest. She’s shaking, smiling, eyes glassy.
“Four.” I press my lips against her temple, kissing the tears away. “Told you I’d add a new quadrant.”
She’s liquid in my arms, slight and trembling and everything I could ever want.
I pull the hoodie off her completely so there’s nothing between us but sweat and heartbeats, then tug the comforter up over us both.
Her glasses are somewhere in the sheets; I’ll find them later.
Right now, I just want her face against my throat and her legs tangled with mine.
Her breathing is still ragged, little aftershocks rippling through her every few seconds. I stroke her spine in long, slow passes, feeling her settle.
“Hey,” I say into her hair. “Come back to me.”
She makes a soft, wrecked sound and nuzzles closer. “I’m here. I’m… very here.”
I smile against her temple. “You okay?”
A watery laugh. “I think my central nervous system just rewrote its own code. In a good way.”
I kiss the corner of her mouth, tasting her tears and everything holy. “You were incredible. So brave. So fucking beautiful when you let go.”
She hides her face in my chest, but I feel her smile. “That was better than the science promised.”
I tip her chin up so she has to look at me. Her eyes are glassy and absolutely unguarded for once.
“That’s because you forgot the most important variable,” I tell her, voice rough with everything I haven’t said yet. “We care about each other. You can’t control for that in a solo trial.”
Her breath catches. A single tear slips free; I kiss it away before it reaches her jaw.
“I love you,” I say against her skin, simple and steady. “Every brilliant, curious, spreadsheet-making inch of you. I’m so proud of you it hurts.”
She makes this tiny, broken sound and buries her face again, arms wrapping around my neck.
“I love you too,” she mumbles into my shoulder, voice muffled and shaky. “I didn’t know it could feel like that. Safe and… huge at the same time.”
Relief hits so hard I almost sway. Not because she said it—because she meant it. Because I felt her mean it.
I hold her tighter. “Get used to it. I plan on running this experiment every night we’re both home. Maybe the Fiora should go in my nightstand.”
She laughs, watery and complete, then yawns so big her whole body shakes.
“Sleep, baby.” I thread my fingers through her hair. “I’ve got you.”
Within minutes, her breathing evens out, slow and deep, her body heavy and trusting against mine. I stay awake longer, just feeling her pulse sync with mine, smelling coconut and sex and home.
My favorite data point.
My favorite miracle.
My favorite everything.
I press one last kiss to her forehead and whisper into the dark, “Welcome to the control group: forever.”