Page 72 of Corrupt

His little gasps spilt into my mouth with every deep roll of his hips and the world shrank to heat and breath and the warm slide of his skin against mine. Our kisses shifted. Soft to hungry, hungry to soft. As if we couldn’t decide whether we were losing each other or finding each other.

He whispered my name as if it meant something.

I whispered his back as if I finally understood why.

We never needed drugs to drive us. I’d known that. Didn’t want to admit it. But it was us. Only us.

Then he whispered, small and raw right into my ear, so faint I almost thought I imagined it, “I feel like I’m falling.”

Yeah.

So did I.

We kept swaying, barely even moving apart, enough friction to draw pleasure through us both, enough closeness to keep me anchored to him and not the world spinning outside this room.

“S’okay.” I held his gaze, eyes wide open, no hiding left in me, and said, “I got you.” And for once it didn’t feel like a line or a promise I couldn’t keep.

It felt real.

He slid his fingers through the back of my hair, and the quiet sounds he made as I pulled him closer, those little breathless whimpers, absolutely wrecked me. Tore right through whatever armour I had left.

“You wanna fall with me?” I whispered against his mouth.

“Yeah…” Tristan breathed, kissing me with a trembling exhale. “Yeah, I do.”

Then we came. Slow. Deep. Together. Him shaking in my arms, face buried in my neck. And I spilt into him for a third time, holding him tight enough to keep the moment from slipping through my fingers. And for the first time in my entire fucking life, sex didn’t feel like escape.

It felt like closeness.

Actual, terrifying closeness.

And I wasn’t sure I’d survive wanting him this much.

Chapter fifteen

Tristan

Jesus. Christ.

I was a wreck.

A ruined, sweat-drenched wreck with no bones left in my body and absolutely no desire to move. From this bed. From this man. From this moment.

The high was easing. Sliding off me in soft, slow waves and leaving behind a hazy clarity feeling almost tender. A moment of sanity after hours of impossible bliss. I didn’t know what time it was. Could’ve been Sunday already. Could’ve been midnight. Could’ve been next week.

Didn’t care.

Everything beyond this room felt fictional.

Unreal.

Irrelevant.

All I wanted was this bed. This heat between us. Razor’s arm curled around me. The low hum of his breaths warming my cheek. I could have stayed like this forever. Sprawled across his chest, one leg hooked over his thigh, our bodies half-wrapped, half-tangled, his fingers tracing lazy lines down my arm, an absent-minded affection people did without realising they were giving themselves away.

We didn’t talk.

We just breathed together, waiting for our thoughts to return to us, and whatever reality waited to roll in and shatter the fragile peace hanging over us. But there was a sweetness in the quiet. Soft. Earnest. Almost terrifying. And I curled my fingers against his ribs, not gripping, just touching. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift away. If anything, his hand paused for a moment, right over my shoulder, before stroking down my arm again.