Page 86 of Claim

I was right on the edge of losing any control when my fingers closed around something familiar.

Baby oil.

Thank fuck.

I should’ve felt ashamed. Rooting through Lennon’s drawers. Thinking about having him in here. It should’ve twisted me up with guilt.

But it didn’t.

I needed this. Needed him. Needed to be inside him to make sense of what this was between us. And I’d never been good at denying myself.

Or him.

I tore my mouth from his and turned him as I ruffled down my joggers and sat on the edge of the bed, holding his hips to bend him, settling him where I needed him. Then I kissed between his arse cheeks, tracing his entrance with my tongue, one hand holding him open, the other flicking the lid of the oil. I squeezed some out, worked it between my fingers, then slid some over myself as Tristan arched, opening instinctively. Offering himself without thinking. I circled him with my tongue, felt his body shudder, his breath break.

His whimpers alone were almost enough to undo me.

Almost.

But I pulled back and pressed inside him with my fingers instead, feeling the way he took me, the way his breathing hitched, the way his body answered before his mouth ever could.

Preparing him.

Taking care of him.

Getting him ready to have me.

When I spoke, my voice didn’t sound like Razor. It was Rich. It had always been Rich with him. “Hey, come here. Sit on me. Need you.”

I guided him. Felt the moment stretch. Felt the brief hesitation, then the trust. His breath left him as he lowered, as we finally slotted back together, the sensation ripping through me so hard my hand fisted the sheets.

“Oh, fuck… Rich…” He dug his fingers into my thighs as he settled fully, tipping his head back, body fitting to mine as if it had always known how. I tore his shirt from him, needed his skin, needed to touch every part of him I could reach, my mouth finding his back, his shoulder, his neck.

“Move,” I rasped into his ear as I caught his hips and helped him up, then down. “God, Tris. Feels so good.”

I watched myself slide in and out of him, watched the way his body opened to me, and he fell back into my chest, throat bared, head turning so I could kiss him.

“Missed you, Tricky,” I breathed into his mouth as we found a slow, almost unbreakable rhythm.

He didn’t even need to move.

Being inside him felt unreal. Weightless. Enough.

“Missed you too, Richie.” He slid his hand into the back of my hair, fingers curling, pulling me into a deeper kiss, tongues tangling as if he needed to taste the words back.

And in this strange, twisted thing we were making of ourselves, I reached around him, wrapped my hand around his length and felt the slick heat there. He rocked on me, small, helpless movements, and I bit his shoulder as I felt the tension gather.

“Shit…” I gritted my teeth, working him harder, holding him through it. “I’m gonna come.”

Then it hit me.

I came with a sound I didn’t recognise, body shuddering, tightening my hand around him as I followed him over, keeping him there, feeling the way he broke around me.

Then I dropped back across the two beds and he came with me, settling on top of me, back to my chest. That was all either of us could manage. Shoes still on. Trousers tangled around our ankles, my prison-issue joggers bunched on my tag, breathing as if we’d run somewhere and never quite arrived. But I held him. Let my pulse even out. Then I found his hand and laced our fingers together.

After a moment, his voice broke the silence. “How far away is the nearest shop?”

I turned my head. “Huh?”