Chapter 12 - Trifon #2
I reach for her, hands sliding into her hair, and crush my mouth against hers. God, her lips are soft and warm. Her body molds against mine like cotton, and for a brief moment, I forget who I fucking am.
The kiss hits like a match to gasoline.
Her hands fist in my jacket. She presses into me like she’s starved for contact, like she’s been waiting just as long, denying herself the same way I have. She tastes like champagne, and I want to drink her in until she forgets anyone else ever touched her.
She moans softly into the kiss, and I deepen it without hesitation. My tongue sweeps against hers—claiming, coaxing, relentless. Her body melts into mine, and I drag her closer, one hand sliding down to her waist, anchoring her against me.
There’s nothing polite about this. Nothing careful.
This is weeks of tension, snapped in two.
And the second her hips shift—slow, searching, desperate—I know.
She wants this just as much as I do.
My hands pull her flush against me by her waist. Her arms slide around my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. She lets out a soft, breathy moan that nearly brings me to my knees.
I back her against the wall, pinning her with my body. She’s soft in all the places I’m hard, yielding and demanding at the same time. My hand slides down her side, finding the slit in her dress, skin hot beneath my palm.
“Trifon,” she gasps against my mouth, and hearing my name like that—breathless, needy—sends a surge of raw desire through me.
I kiss down her jaw, her neck, finding that sensitive spot just below her ear that makes her shiver. “Tell me to stop,” I murmur against her skin. “If you want me to.”
“Don’t,” she breathes, her nails digging into my shoulders. “Don’t stop.”
I lift her—she weighs nothing in my arms—and carry her to the nearest couch in the living room. I could take her upstairs, but I can’t wait that long. Need her now. Need to show her.
I lay her down gently, taking a moment to just look at her—flushed, disheveled, those green eyes dark with desire. The emerald dress is rumpled, hitched up her thighs.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I tell her, because it’s true.
She reaches for me, impatient, and I let her pull me down for another kiss. This one is slower, deeper, my tongue sliding against hers in a rhythm that mimics what I want to do to her body.
My hand trails up her thigh, finding the lace edge of her underwear. I trace along it, teasing, not quite touching where she wants me.
“Please,” she whispers against my mouth as she arches into me, like I’m setting her body on fire and she needs me to quench it.
I laugh softly, then slide my hand higher, cupping her through the thin fabric. She’s already wet.
Fuck me.
“I want to taste you,” I tell her, my voice rough with need. “Let me show you what you’ve been missing.”
Her eyes widen slightly, but she nods—a quick, eager movement that makes my cock throb painfully against my zipper.
I kiss down her body, taking my time. Her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts above the neckline of her dress. I could take it off her, but there’s something erotic about taking this slow, about not pushing her all the way.
I settle between her thighs, hooking my fingers into the waistband of her underwear, dragging it down slowly. She lifts her hips to help, and then she’s bare to me—pink and glistening and perfect.
“Fucking beautiful,” I say again, my breath ghosting over her clit.
She shivers, hands fisting in the couch cushions. “Trifon, please.”
I press a kiss to her inner thigh, then higher, closer to where she wants me. Teasing. Building anticipation. Her legs fall wider, an invitation I can’t resist.
The first swipe of my tongue has her arching off the couch, a broken sound tearing from her throat.
I grip her hips hard, pinning her down. Not to control her—but to keep her from slipping away. From escaping what I’m about to do to her.
Because I’m not just eating her out.
I’m rewriting every bad memory.
Every careless man who touched her and didn’t stay long enough to learn the shape of her need.
Every partner who made her feel like she was too complicated, too hard to please, too much.
She’s not.
She’s fucking perfect.
And I’m going to prove it to her—with my mouth.
I bury my face between her thighs and start over, slower this time, more deliberate. Letting her feel how serious I am. My tongue circles her clit in slow, steady laps, until her breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps.
She tastes like sin and sweetness. Like she was made for this.
For me.
God, I want to ruin her for every toy she’s ever used. For every man she’s ever imagined. I want her to forget how to make herself come because after tonight, she’ll only think of this. Of me. My mouth. My name is on her tongue when she breaks.
She cries out again when I seal my lips around her clit and suck—just hard enough to push her higher. Her fingers tangle in my hair, yanking, dragging me closer like she can’t get enough.
Good.
I don’t want her to be gentle. I want her wild for me.
I slide two fingers into her, curling them just right, finding that spot deep inside that makes her legs jerk and her moan crack in half.
There.
That sound.
That’s the sound of her unraveling.
I keep the rhythm—tongue and fingers working in tandem, relentless and precise. She writhes beneath me, panting my name, hips rolling against my mouth like she doesn’t care how desperate she looks.
And fuck, she shouldn’t.
She deserves this.
She deserves to fall apart.
With me.
I find her clit with my tongue, circling it slowly at first, then with more pressure.
“Oh God,” she breathes, her hips rocking against my mouth. “That’s—yes, right there.”
She’s close—I can feel it.
The way her thighs tighten around my head, the way her hips jerk like she can’t decide whether to run from the pleasure or chase it harder.
She’s so wet around my fingers I can barely move without being drenched in her, but I don’t stop.
I drive them deeper instead, curling them with each thrust to hit that perfect spot again, and again, and again.
My tongue doesn’t leave her clit—not once.
I flatten it and drag it slow and firm over the swollen bundle of nerves, lapping in lazy, wide strokes that make her whimper.
Then I alternate—fast flicks, then slow drags—until she’s writhing under me, her moans turning breathless and high-pitched, like she’s coming apart one nerve ending at a time.
Every reaction feeds me.
Every gasp.
Every whispered curse.
Every helpless grind of her hips into my mouth like her body can’t help itself.
She tastes like heaven and sin. And I eat like a starving man.
My fingers keep fucking into her—slick, deep, curling up and pressing that sweet spot that makes her cry out. My tongue moves faster now, circling her clit, then sucking it into my mouth and flicking my tongue against it in tight, focused strokes. Over and over.
She’s panting my name now.
Breathless. Broken.
“Trifon—oh my god—please—”
Her body bows hard, her back lifting off the couch, her thighs trembling as her hands clutch at my hair. Her pussy clenches around my fingers so tight I nearly groan.
And then it happens.
She shatters.
I feel it—every muscle tensing, every breath stalling before the crash.
Her orgasm rolls through her like a wave, pulsing around my fingers, pouring out onto my tongue. Her cry is sharp and wrecked, like she doesn’t know whether to sob or scream. I don’t stop. I keep licking through it, easing her down slow, giving her everything she’s never had.
When she finally goes limp beneath me, I lift my head just enough to look up at her.
She’s glowing.
Flushed, wrecked, eyes dazed and glassy. Her chest heaves, her lips parted, her fingers still tangled in my hair like she forgot how to let go.
I lick her slowly one last time—just to taste her again.
When I finally pull back, she’s sprawled across the couch, breathless, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her eyes are dazed, unfocused.
“That was...” she starts, then trails off, like she can’t find the words.
“Just the beginning,” I promise, moving up to kiss her. I let her taste herself on my tongue—a reminder of what just happened, what could happen again.
My cock is rock hard, straining against my pants. I want nothing more than to bury myself inside her, feel her heat around me. But not yet. Not tonight.
This was for her.
“What about you?” she asks, glancing down at the obvious bulge in my pants.
I shake my head. “Another time.”
She frowns slightly. “But—”
“Tonight was about proving a point,” I tell her firmly.
“What point?” she asks.
I smirk. “That a vibrator isn’t better than the right man.”
Her laugh is soft, satiated. “Point taken.”
I help her sit up, smoothing her dress back down her thighs. Her hair is a mess, her makeup smudged. She’s never looked more beautiful.
I should feel victorious. Satisfied with what I’ve accomplished. Instead, I feel... tender. Like I want to wrap her in my arms and keep her there, safe and warm and mine.
It’s dangerous, this feeling. Unplanned. Unwelcome.