Chloe
Tristan responds without hesitation, kissing me back as if it’s an instinctive response by this point.
For a second, it’s exactly what I need, his mouth on mine, his hands pulling me closer.
But then I feel it, the way he’s holding back, the careful deliberateness in his touch that wasn’t there before.
His hands move over me like I’m something fragile, and he starts to slow down, starts to pull away a little.
I know he means well. I know exactly why he’s doing it.
But it still makes something in me rebel immediately.
I’ve spent enough time feeling broken. Feeling like something that needs to be handled carefully, set down gently, kept away from anything too sharp.
Spencer did that to me years ago, and I spent years letting that night reshape how I moved through the world.
But I’m not that person right now, standing on the side of this road with Tristan’s hands on my face and the sun going down around us and Spencer finally, finally gone from my life.
I’m not fragile. I’m furious and grateful and overwhelmed all at once, and I need Tristan to stop treating me like glass and remind me of who I actually am.
I shake my head, keeping my hands twisted in the front of his shirt so he can’t pull away. “You won’t hurt me,” I tell him. My voice comes out steadier than I expected. “I trust you. Touch me like you used to. Please.”
His eyes flare, heat moving through them fast, but he holds himself still. I can see what it’s costing him, the tension in his jaw, the way his hands have gone rigid on my face.
“I need you too,” he says in a low voice. “I always need you.” He exhales slowly. “But if I touch you the way I want to right now, I don’t think I can hold back.”
“I don’t want you to.” I hold his gaze, not looking away. “I just need you to remind me that I’m yours. That’s all I need right now.”
He looks at me for a long moment, something working behind his eyes. The road is empty in both directions, the air warm and still around us, and I can hear my own heartbeat and the distant sound of birds somewhere and nothing else.
“Are you sure?” he asks quietly.
“Yes.” I don’t hesitate even a little. “More sure than I’ve been about anything. Please, Tristan.”
Something in him gives way all at once, like a thread snapping, and then his mouth is on mine again and there’s nothing careful about it at all.
His hands are everywhere, pulling me against him, sliding under my shirt, gripping my waist and my hips and squeezing like he’s trying to make up for days of holding himself back all at once.
I stumble back a step, and my shoulders hit the car behind me, the metal warm against my back. He presses into me and kisses me the way he used to before all of this, deep and hungry and without restraint, his hands moving over me like he owns every inch of me.
Good. He does.
That thought flits through my mind as his hands slide up under my shirt, running over my ribs and waist before moving higher. I arch into every point of contact, trying to get closer.
He makes a rough sound against my mouth and then his hands are at the backs of my thighs, lifting me onto the hood of the car. Warm metal meets my thighs as my skirt rides up. His shirt is wrinkled from my hands, and his eyes are dark, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths.
He takes a second to just look at me, taking me in, his gaze moving over my face and down my body and back up again.
“I’m going to fuck you right here,” he promises. “On the side of this road, on the hood of this car. Is that what you want? What you need?”
I nod, unable to speak.
His nostrils flare. “Okay, dimples. Then I’ll give you what you need. I’ve been wanting to get my hands on you for days, and I’m done waiting.”
My heart thrums in my chest as I nod again. “Please,” I say again.
He shoves my skirt up over my hips and yanks my panties down and off in one motion, dropping them somewhere on the hood beside me.
The air hits my bare skin, and I shiver, goosebumps rising up my inner thighs, but his hands come back immediately, warming my skin and turning my shiver into something else entirely.
“God,” he groans, his eyes roving over me. “You’re so fucking beautiful, dimples. Every single time I see you like this, it undoes me. I don’t think that’s ever going to stop.”
I pull him closer by the front of his shirt, my patience running out, and he groans and reaches for his belt.
He finds my lips in a messy kiss as he works it open, shoving his pants and boxer briefs down enough to free his cock.
His crown presses against my entrance, and I dig my heels into the backs of his thighs, urging him on.
“I need to be inside you,” he rasps. “So fucking bad.”
He grips my hips, pulling me toward the edge of the hood, and slides inside slowly at first, working his way in carefully. But when I press my heels harder against him, pulling at his shirt, he gives up on restraint and drives the rest of the way in with one thrust.
The breath rushes out of me, a ragged cry pouring from my lips.
He goes still, both hands gripping my hips, jaw clenched tight, waiting. I can feel every inch of him, the stretch and fullness of it, and I whimper softly at how fucking perfect it feels. How it fills something inside me that I never knew was empty until I met him.
“You can move,” I gasp, knowing he was giving me time to adjust. But I don’t need it. I don’t want it. I just want to feel more of him.
“Thank fuck.”
The words are mumbled against my lips as he kisses me again, and then he starts to fuck me hard. His hips meet mine with a force that makes the car shift slightly beneath me with every thrust, his hands keeping a firm grip on my hips to stop me from sliding back on the hood.
He talks dirty to me as he moves, telling me how good I look spread out like this, how perfect and filthy I am, how he’s been going out of his mind not sure how to touch me, how he’ll do anything to make me feel good.
“Gonna take care of you,” he grits out, his jaw tight as his hips piston. “Gonna give you every fucking thing you need, dimples. Always.”
He shoves my shirt and bra up above my breasts with one hand, the movement messy and impatient, then works over my nipples with his thumb, pulling a gasp out of me.
His mouth follows, lips and teeth worshipping my breasts while he keeps fucking me through it, not slowing down.
The combination of sensations is so much, almost too much—but it’s exactly what I need, what I’ve been craving for days without knowing how to ask for it.
“You feel so fucking good,” he says against my skin, his voice strained. “So tight around me. So perfect. I’ve missed this.” He drives harder on the next stroke, and I cry out, the sound carrying down the empty road. “That’s it. Let me hear you. Don’t hold anything back.”
I do just as he asks, practically screaming his name.
There’s nobody here to hear, and I’m past caring anyway.
My nails rake the back of his shirt, and every sound I make seems to push him harder, his rhythm getting more urgent, his cock driving deeper with every stroke until my whole body is rocking with the force of it and I’m clinging to his arms to stay on the hood.
“Tell me how it feels,” he says, breathing hard. “Tell me, Chloe.”
“So good,” I choke out, barely coherent. “You’re so deep. So big. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He keeps the pace hard and relentless, one hand moving up to cover my breast while the other stays firm on my hip, and the pleasure winds tighter and tighter with every stroke, climbing fast. I’m close, my body straining toward the climax, when Tristan suddenly goes completely still.
His gaze cuts to something over my shoulder, and his jaw tightens.
“Car coming,” he mutters. “Come for me before it gets here.”
My pulse kicks up so hard that I feel dizzy for a second.
A blend of nerves and arousal shoots through me as he reaches between us and finds my clit with his fingers, working it in tight, fast circles while he starts thrusting again.
The knowledge that a car is actually coming, that there’s a real possibility of someone seeing me getting fucked on the hood of this car, sends a burst of adrenaline through my entire body—and that’s the thing that pushes me over the edge.
I come hard, my back arching, a cry tearing out of me, and then Tristan’s arms band around me and he’s hauling me off the hood as my legs go around his waist. In two quick strides, he steps around to the side of the Audi, angling us so that I’m mostly shielded from whoever is coming, hiding enough of our bodies from them that they—hopefully—will have no idea what’s happening.
He’s still hard inside me, still moving, slower now but deeper, each stroke making his pubic bone grind against my clit as the car approaches from down the road and then passes in a rush of wind and displaced air.
“No one else gets to see you like this,” he growls against my ear, rolling his hips against mine again. “No one but me. You’re all mine, Chloe Thorne.”
Hearing our last name like that, and the possessiveness in his voice, sends another wave of heat through me on top of everything that’s still moving through my body from the orgasm.
I wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers threading into his hair, and he holds me against his chest and keeps moving, his mouth grazing my ear and my temple and the corner of my jaw.
He whispers praise and filthy promises as his teeth scrape my skin lightly, and when he sets me back on the hood so he can pick up the pace again, I lie back and gaze up at his backlit silhouette as heat starts to build in my core again.
This climax hits differently, starting somewhere deeper and spreading outward gradually, and I stop trying to chase it and just let it come.
“Give me one more,” he grunts, the muscles in his neck straining as his thumb finds my clit. “I know you’ve got one more for me, dimples. Come on.”
His rough touch—and his confidence that I can handle it—make a desperate, needy sound fall from my lips. I clench hard around him as I fall apart again. It crests and breaks and rolls through me, longer than the first, and I tilt my head back on a whimpered moan as Tristan curses under his breath.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
The last word is barely intelligible as he lets go too, his cock pulsing inside me as jet after jet of cum fill my pussy.
The look and feel of him losing every last shred of control draws out my own pleasure, and I don’t even know if it’s another orgasm or just echoes of the previous one, but I writhe beneath him as sensations flood every atom of my body.
Afterward, he pulls me upright and wraps his arms around me, and we stay exactly like that.
His face is pressed into my hair, both of us breathing hard.
The road is empty again, and the sky has shifted colors a bit near the tree line.
Neither of us says anything for a long time as Tristan presses his lips to my neck, my shoulder, and the curve of my jaw, worshipping me in a different, softer way than he just did.
Eventually, he leans back enough to look at my face, his hands stroking down my arms.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I tell him, and it’s one hundred percent true.
He kisses me softly, his hands cupping my face.
Then he helps me off the hood, steadying me with a careful grip until I’ve got my footing back on the gravel.
He smooths my skirt back into place and tugs my shirt and bra down, putting me back together so that I look a little less freshly fucked.
When I reach down to clean up where his cum is slowly leaking out of me, he catches my wrist.
“Leave it,” he says quietly, his eyes on mine. “I want you to stay full of me.”
I nod, and he holds my gaze and smiles hungrily as he does his belt back up. He walks me around to the passenger side and holds the door, then gets in on his side and starts the engine. His hand finds my knee before we’ve even pulled back onto the road, his thumb moving in a slow back-and-forth.
We drive home in the quiet, the car full of the scent of sex that still clings to our skin. I’m vividly aware of the marks his hands left on my hips and his cum still warm inside me, and I realize at some point that I have no desire to clean any of it up.
I like being marked by him.
By my husband.