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And goddamn. His name on her lips is a prayer, a siren song. He will not have sex with this inebriated woman. He won’t. But maybe…
He wants her to move her panties, let him see the damp pink of her pussy, but if she does his control will shatter like glass. He’ll break every promise he’s made to himself. He’ll break every rule. He won’t even care.
“I can’t.” Her words are a whine, desperation teasing each syllable. “I need you, Vic. Oh god.”
He can’t either. Can’t touch, can’t taste… but maybe he can talk? If he keeps every part of himself over here, away from the gravitational pull of her body and voice?
“I’ve got you baby,” he says. His voice sounds like ten miles of bad road and he clears his throat twice.
“Please,” she whimpers again.
“Those aren’t your fingers, Tristan. They’re mine. I’m the one. Circling your clit. Do you feel me? Harder baby. Pinch that little nub and twist.”
She follows his directions, throwing her head back to thunk against the window. He almost steps into her. Almost lets his hand cup the back of her head. Just to make sure she’s okay, but it’s a trap. If he touches any part of her it will be game over.
“Yes,” she says, and he’s glad she’s coherent but he also wants her lost to pleasure.
“Bring your free hand up to your tit, kitty cat. Do you like your nipples played with? Show me.”
She does and he could come from watching her alone. His cock aches and he wants to fist it, pump his hand up and down until he can release some of this tension and heat and want. But no. He’s going to maintain some control here. If he touches himself, he reasons, that’s crossing the line. Then it’s sex. He won’t do that. He presses both hands to his eyes then braces them on the top of his head. As far from his erection as they can go.
“Good girl,” he says as she pulls on her swollen nipple. He wants to bite into the curve of her breast like it’s a ripe apple. He wants to leave a mark. He wants to brand her as his. He wants the world to know.
Another keening wail and his hips jump on their own, even as he stands five feet from her.
“Slide two fingers into that dripping cunt, Tristan. Slide my fingers deep and rub the heel of your hand against your clit.”
He has to close his eyes as her hand starts to move.
“Fuck yourself on my hand,” he says.
She shatters with a wail. His name pulled out of her in a never-ending stream of sound. Her panties are almost sheer with her come and there isn’t enough air in this room. Not enough to keep his head from spinning.
She slumps and he lunges toward her, his arms banding around her waist as she loses her footing. Her head nestles against his chest. Eyes closed and a sleepy smile curving her lips. Her cheeks are stained red and her mouth is swollen as if he had devoured her lips for real, and not just in his fantasies.
He lays her down on his big bed, tucking her under the covers in her underwear. Her eyes are closed and her breathing slow as he steps back. He’ll sit in the armchair. He’ll wait and when she wakes up, sober, they’ll talk about what happened. He’s done staying away from her. They’ll need to make this work.
She begged him for relief.
She called his name when she came.
Rules be damned, she’s his.
“Where are you?” She mumbles, one arm sliding out from under the covers to reach for him. “Come back.”
And he’s sliding in next to her before he realizes he’s moved.
She plucks at the buttons on his shirt.
“Off,” she demands, sounding every inch of a queen even with her eyes shut and hair is tangled mess.
He didn’t pack pajamas. He doesn’t share a room on the road and never wears them. But he can’t ignore her request any more than he can stop his heart from beating or the sun from rising every morning.
He’s still sporting a massive erection. It’s tenting the front of his boxer briefs, but he can keep it away from her. If he maintained control through her orgasm, he can handle this too.
He strips down, leaving his clothes in a muddled pile by the bed, and climbs on top of the covers. He’ll stay up here, she’ll stay under them, and it will be okay. It has to be.
And it is until she nestles into his side, fighting the down comforter as she tries to work her arms free, and helping her get free is instinct. One slim thigh comes over his stomach and he shifts so his dick won’t poke her, even as she presses her mouth to the skin over his heart. The organ that’s pounding a concerning, unsteady rhythm inside the cage of his ribs.
Her body goes limp, loose, pliant. Her breathing steadies, even as her lips touch his skin. And this is okay. This is fine. They haven’t technically broken any rules. Not yet. He’ll just stay awake and everything will be fi………
