It’s not enough. I need more. I’m trying to climb him and kiss him all at once, until I trip over a knot of grass and Tristan steadies me.
“Careful.”
“More,” I beg, my lids fluttering.
His lips slide briefly over my own, then he pulls back. “Your first time with me will not be in the rain where anyone could see.”
Frustration swirls in my stomach, my body arching and grinding and seeking purchase against him and coming up with nothing.
“Please,” I say again. “I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.” I gasp as his fingers tweak my nipple.
“I know, sweetheart.” His hands are urgent but gentle as he slides the strap of my dress up and grabs my hand. We stumble to the side of the main house, where the cliffs are closest and no one ever goes. I’m shaking when he sinks to his knees.
“What are you doing?”
He pushes the drenched material of my dress up my thighs, his fingers shaking. His stubbled cheek brushes against my skin, then presses, like he’s soaking me in.
“Tristan. Come on.” My fingers tangle in his wet hair. My hips are arching against his face.
He spears me with a glance, his eyes gleaming in the half light, his shoulders tense. He looks like a feral god on his knees, and I feel like a sacrifice. His broad chest is moving with his shallow breaths and the muscles of his arms are taut. My pulse stumbles.
“Let me have this.” His fingers skate over the front of my underwear, and I shiver.
“Let you have what?”
His fingers hook into the top of my underwear, and I tilt my hips to help. My heart is thrashing in my chest now. He’s not looking at my body as he slips my soaked underwear down my legs. Instead, he’s holding my gaze, trying to tell me something with his eyes that I don’t understand. But the moment is stretching, and I gasp at the feel of rain sliding down my stomach and over my clit.
His gaze finally traces my bared skin, and a breath pushes unsteadily from his throat. “You have no idea how much I—”
His sentence is swallowed by the slick delve of his tongue between my legs.
I make a strangled sound that I try to muffle with my hand.
The world slides sideways.
Tristan’s tongue is hot and clever and so, so good as he circles it gently around my clit. He makes a pleased sound as I shift restlessly against the cool stone, then shoulders my legs wider. He licks me with slow, patient drags, then theother side, then a curling flick against my clit that makes me whimper.
He laughs, and I clutch at his hair. “Tristan.”
My hips arch against his face, and he goes back to teasing me with gentle strokes that get me nowhere.
Finally, I sag against the wall and accept that he’s going to do this the way he wants and I’m along for the ride. I let my head tip back, and right as it meets the cool stone, he sucks my clit, and I sob his name.
His shoulders shake, then his frame shifts, and I see one large hand wrap around his cock before his shoulders block it from my view.
“Let me see,” I pant.
He laughs against my skin before he starts fucking his hand in earnest. His tongue works insistently between my legs, and I start to melt, crumpling against the wall as pleasure builds. I can’t close my eyes because I don’t want to miss the way his veined forearm moves and the bunch and release of his biceps, but my lids are heavy and my body is trembling and the heat pooling below my stomach keeps growing.
His finger’s at my entrance, teasing me with the promise of being filled, when he pauses and looks up at me with those dark green eyes. “You want this?”
“Please,” I choke, trying to work myself onto his hand. I exalt when he pushes that finger inside me.
“Tristan,” I gasp. “Fuck.”
“Not practice.” There’s something darkly possessive about the way he says it.
“Not practice,” I agree. The word sends my stomach into free fall.
