Page 78 of The Temporary Bride

The word comes out before I can stop it. He pauses just slightly, enough to let me know he heard it, and then keeps going, his cock sliding through my wetness with a patience that’s starting to drive me insane.

The last threads of my stubbornness snap, and I keep going, speaking so fast that the words almost run together. “Please, Tristan. Fuck! I need you inside me. I need you to fuck me. Please, please, just⁠—”

“There it is,” he practically growls, satisfaction filling his voice. “Good girl.”

Then he lines up and drives inside me.

The stretch of it pulls a gutteral sound out of me. He’s big, bigger than I was fully prepared for—even knowing what I know—and he stills completely once he’s buried inside me, both hands wrapped around my hips. I can feel every inch of him, an intense, aching pressure that makes my fingers splay wide against the glass as I try to remember how to breathe. My body feels like it needs a moment to catch up with what just happened.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans, his voice strained. “So tight, Jesus. You feel incredible.”

“I’m not… you’re just… big,” I manage, which isn’t particularly eloquent but is the most honest thing I’ve said all afternoon.

“Not too big for you, dimples.” One large hand strokes a trail down my back, soothing and grounding me. “You’re taking me so well. Just breathe.”

I do, a long slow breath in and out, and the tension in my body gradually eases, my muscles adjusting to the feel of him, the overwhelming fullness of it softening into something I can actually process. When I shift slightly, testing, the sensation that moves through me makes my eyes fall shut.

“Good?” Tristan asks.

“Yes.” I nod, keeping my eyes closed for the moment.

He pulls back slowly, just a few inches, and then pushes forward, and my breath comes out in a rush. He does it again, and again, finding a pace that starts slow and builds with every stroke, his hands keeping me right where he wants me.

Every time he pushes forward, I feel it all the way through me, and I blink my eyes open as my hips start rolling back to meet him on every thrust, chasing the sensation.

“That’s it.” Tristan sounds just about as wrecked as I am, which makes me feel a bit better, honestly. “Just like that. Fuck.”

He finds a rhythm, his hips meeting mine with a sound that fills the empty office, and I clench around his shaft and hear him groan in response. His hands tighten on my waist, adjusting the angle slightly, and on his next stroke, he hits something that makes me grab the window frame with both hands and hold on for dear life.

“There…” I breathe, not meaning to say it out loud.

“Yeah?” He does it again, making sure to hit exactly the same spot. “Good girl. Tell me what you want.”

“That,” I say immediately, nodding wildly. “Right there, please don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He keeps that angle, that pace, and I can’t stop the needy, breathy cries that fall from my lips as pleasure cascades through me. He fucks me hard, both of us well past the point of patience, and I press my cheek against the cool glass and try to remember that we’re still in an office building with a real estate agent somewhere down the hall—but holy fuck, it’s very hard to keep that thought in my head right now.

I manage to stay mostly quiet for a while, muffling the sounds I’m making, my breath fogging the glass in front of me, my body moving with every thrust. Tristan varies his pace, sometimes slower and deeper, rolling his hips so that I feel every inch of him on every stroke, and sometimes harder and faster, his hips snapping against mine until the sound of it fills the room.

Every stroke sends sensation rolling through me from my clit all the way up my spine, my nipples aching with arousal, my skin buzzing with it.

His hand comes around to my stomach, sliding lower, and when his fingers find my clit and start working it in tight, steady circles while he keeps moving inside me, I lose whatever thread of composure I had left. The combination of his fingers and the relentless pressure of him moving inside me and the weeks of tension finally breaking all at once is more than I can handle.

“I want to feel you come on my cock,” he says against the back of my neck, his lips brushing my skin as he speaks. “You’re so close. I can feel you tightening around me. Let go for me.”

And I do.

I come loudly. Very loudly.

His name leaves my mouth in a cry that echoes off the walls of the empty office as my body shakes, my hips jerking back against his. He keeps moving, working my clit, drawing it out far longer than I would’ve thought possible.

Somewhere in the middle of my own climax, he comes too, his grip on my hip tightening so hard I’ll feel it tomorrow, a rough sound tearing out of him as he pushes deep and stays there. I can feel him pulsing inside me, filling me up, warmth flooding my pussy as I go up onto my tiptoes, whimpering and moaning.

Slowly, the pleasure starts to ebb, both of us breathing hard in the aftermath as the room goes quiet.

When he finally pulls out, I feel his cum start to slide down my thigh. It feels filthy and wrong, but also… hot as hell.

Why is that so fucking hot?