Chapter 45
Tristan
He holds me down against the couch, stretching himself out on top of me, and kisses me deeply, hungrily, his tongue in my mouth, one of his hands pinning mine above my head.
The noises I make are filthy, desperate, depraved.
“Please,” I plead, when he breaks from our kiss just long enough for his lips, his teeth, to find my neck, “I need to cum.”
The hand that has been massaging my cock and balls slips up under my shirt. He catches one of my nipples and squeezes. Hard.
I gasp.
“What’s that?” he whispers, kissing, sucking my ear. “What do you need?”
“To cum,” I beg.
He pinches my nipple again, harder. The pain is sharp, electric, delicious.
“You’ll cum,” he says, “when I decide it’s time for you to cum.”
Yes.
It’s all I want, to be controlled that way, for him to tell me when I can do something, when I can’t, for him to dictate the amount of pleasure I get to feel.
When he decides, it’s almost like I’m reassured that I’m worth feeling that good.
I don’t have to feel shame for feeling this pleasure, the pleasure of sexual connection.
I used to feel guilty about it, like I owed Warren something.
Now I know it’s okay for me to feel this.
“That’s right,” he murmurs into my ear. “You’re not cumming until I say you can.”
And then—I don’t even know how he manages this—he stands, and in one fluid motion, picks me up, holding me tightly to him, and I wrap my legs around his waist. He kisses me deeply, not breaking our kiss for even a second as he walks with me to the bedroom, where he lays me down on the bed.
“Fucking perfect,” he says, lust deepening his voice.
I feel that I am a masterpiece being painted, and he’s the artist. Over the next hour, Nick does things to my body that redefine pleasure and pain and beauty and satisfaction.
He strips me, lays me bare. His hands are strong, rough on me—grabbing, spanking, pinching, controlling.
He services my nipples, my feet, spreads my thighs and grips, kissing and sucking red marks into my skin.
He makes my ass sing in pain beneath his hand, and that pain mingles with pleasure so intense I could almost lose myself in it.
And through all of it—I’m having fun.
We’re both having fun.
I don’t want to discount the sex I had with Warren—it might not’ve always been my flavor, but it was real, and it was earnest. But it was rarely fun or joy-filled. It’s different with Nick.
Even when he’s being dominant and rough, even when he’s fucking me with his fingers, or biting my nipple, or spanking my ass so hard I know I’ll have welts, he’s always attentive, he’s always ready to laugh.
We genuinely enjoy being around each other. We like this, and there’s some weird, maybe twisted, freedom we find in our connection.
Or, maybe it’s not twisted.
Maybe we just both feel safe.
Safe is how I feel when he devours my hole, his lips and tongue and saliva warming me up, loosening me, getting me ready for what’s to come.
Cared for is how I feel when he massages my balls while penetrating me with a ten-inch dildo so thick I feel like I’ll be cleaved in two.
And how do I feel when he uses a vibrating plug to fuck my hole?
How do I feel when my orgasm hits me out of nowhere and he tantalizingly strokes every drop of cum from my cock?
How do I feel while he murmurs sweet, dirty, delicious praises?
I feel—
I feel loved.
“Fuck!” I cry as the last aftershock of my orgasm trembles through me, as he bends down and licks my cock clean with his devilish, ticklish tongue. “Fuck.”
It’s a while before I catch my breath, before I can begin to feel like anything other than a vessel for pleasure.
That word echoes through my head as I lie, sprawled on the bed, cradled against Nick’s naked body.
Loved.
Loved.
Loved.
It may be ridiculous, it may be too soon, but I realize that that is how I feel.
I feel loved.
I don’t know if I feel love, yet—if I feel I love Nick. But even if I don’t feel that way, he makes me feel loved. And for right now, I think that is a step in the right direction.
Whatever we give each other—of our bodies or our feelings—is given freely and consensually. As he reminded me, I don’t need to freak out. I don’t need to panic. I don’t need to overanalyze and try to figure everything out.
I nestle into him, not caring that I’m covered in cum, that we’re both sweaty and smelly, and could desperately use a shower.
“Nick,” I whisper into the warm skin of his chest.
“Mm?” He sounds sleepy. I am, too.
“I think I like you,” I say in a drowsy voice.
I can hear the smile, the almost-laugh, in his voice as he pulls me closer and whispers, “I think I like you, too, Tristan Cavanagh.”
He kisses the top of my head and murmurs, “Get some sleep. I’ll set an alarm in time for me to get up, shower, and get Abbie from school.”
I fall asleep like that, in his arms, broken and put back together again by his touch, and sleep better than I have in what feels like days.