Page 137 of My Unfinished Heart

I’d laugh, but I’m too busy absorbing the shock and heat and clench of him. My forehead drops onto his, and I thrust. He thrusts back, and we’re in it.

He wanted to feel how much I want him? I make sure he does. He wanted us closer, I get as close as I possibly can. He wanted to show off his hot little ass? I make full use of it.

It’s part revelation, part endurance. An outpouring and a marathon.

“You were definitely made for me,” I say at some point.

“I never once doubted that.”

Jesus fucking Christ, he’s amazing. Once an insane fantasy and now a perfect match. I don’t take a single second I’m with him for granted. Not after missing him for so long or being so incredibly uncertain what our future holds.

Also, he’s not wrong about our potential for internet stardom in terms of our sex game. He puts me through my paces in multiple positions. If he comes, and he inevitably will, he lets me kiss him through his aftershocks and then rallies, switching things up until I’m back inside him, chasing another edge. At the beginning of this crazy week, he complained—wondered out loud if he wasn’t “doing it” for me.

I think he knows by now—after seeing a few of the impressive loads I’ve left inside him—that he does it for me like no other.

Today is no exception. As he’s coming for the third time on his hands and knees, completely collapsing onto the mattress with exhaustion and a series of uncontrollable muscle spasms and moans, I join him in his complete undoing.

My orgasm is loud, long, and unintentionally dramatic. I hold his ass against me like a flesh light until I fully empty myself inside him. My balls are so raw and tight, I nearly pass out as they convulsively spurt what I’ve managed to store up. I’m loud, too. Cursing the ache and the way he’s still managing to milk my cock in his hole, despite how spent the rest of his body is.

In the aftermath, my brain spins, and I forget everything that isn’t Tristan and this amazing thing we’ve managed to find together.

As I run my hands down his sweat-slicked back, I regret that my need for him is only slightly lessened. Like how running water over a burn only helps alleviate the sting as long as the liquid rushes over it. The burn is still there, waiting, and I feel this in my core.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me, angel.”

“Can’t,” he murmurs into a pillow. “I’m already dead.”

“Can I interest you in a shower?” I ask.

“Can you walk?”

“Probably better than you can.”

“Tell me you like me for more than my ass.”

“I just called you my boyfriend.”

“A. You’ve said it once before. And B. That was like an hour ago, and you were barely inside me.”

“Doesn’t count?” I ask.

“Oh, I’m counting it. I have a whole journal entry planned for it already. But on the off chance you’ve read this situation wrong, I am one hundred percent going to be requiring things of you that no woman you’ve ever tricked into being with you would dare.”

“Like what?”

“Location sharing. Taking me with you everywhere. Meeting my mom. You’re super fucked.”

“Oh, I’m in, angel. You may or may not regret it, but you’re fucking stuck with me.”

On Friday, almost two weeks after the fight at their house, Connor breaks his silence and sends Tristan a text. In terms of timing, it’s not too bad. We were finishing up some takeout sushi on the couch and trying to act like we could sit through a movie without one of us whipping out our dick. He was telling me all about how he was going to teach me how to cuddle and making up random rules about it when his new phone buzzed on the coffee table.

He picks it up, reads the message and hands the phone to me saying, “It’s your brother.”

Conner

Come get your shit. You made your choice, and I want you gone. We’re finished. I’ll be out of the house Saturday from 4-7. Come then because I don’t want to see your face.

When I look up from the screen, Tristan is standing, picking up the containers from the table.