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I don’t know quite how this happened.
One minute, Trystan and I were standing practically nose-to-nose, shouting at each other… and now we’re kissing like we might die if we stop.
It’s like all the emotions that were rising up inside me suddenly crystalized into a single feeling.
Desire.
His lips are warm and firm against mine as he kisses me feverishly, driving all the breath from my lungs. His tongue strokes against mine, hungry and demanding, and his hands are all over my body. We stumble across the small kitchen, tripping and weaving from side to side as we go. I have a vague notion that I want to get to the bedroom, and I think we’re moving in that direction. But then my back hits the wall in the little hallway that leads toward the bedroom, and I forget all about where we were going.
Trystan’s body pins me, his lips still devouring mine as his hands slide up under my shirt, meeting bare skin. Fireworks explode in my nerve-endings as he reaches higher, massaging my breasts through my bra, making my nipples pebble against his palm.
My emotions are still high, anger mixing with stark need, and it makes me bolder than I would normally be. Up until now, I’ve pretty much let the men take the lead in all of our sexual encounters, but something about coming off that fight with Trystan has given me courage I didn’t know I had.
He said I don’t let him steamroll me. And he’s right.
I never really have, and I don’t think I ever will. Especially because I can see the man he is underneath all his confidence and bluster. He’s a good man, a sweet man. Dedicated and hardworking, always expecting the best from others because he accepts nothing less than that from himself.
And right now, I want to tell him what to do.
“Take off my shirt,” I demand, because it’s the easiest thing to start with. My voice is raspy with desire but firm and strong, and at the sound of it, Trystan draws back, looking down at me with blazing eyes.
A slow smile spreads across his face. Our earlier argument is still hovering over us, and instead of feeling like a separate event, this feels like a continuation of it. Like we’re both trying to prove a point to each other.
Trystan takes a step back and drops his hands to the hem of my shirt. With a deliberate movement, he draws it up over my head, and I raise my arms to help him. My nipples, already hard from his touch, tighten even more, and my breasts feel full and heavy as his gaze drops to my chest.
“My bra,” I say evenly, breathing hard. “Take it off.”
Now Trystan’s smile is positively sinful. Heat and pride reflect in his eyes as he tugs the straps down my arms and reaches behind me with one hand to unclasp the band. The pride is for me, I realize with a little flare of arousal. Trystan might be set in his ways and overbearing sometimes, but he likes being challenged. He likes this.
So do I.
“What now, Sable?” he murmurs, and just the sound of his voice makes my core clench. “What do you want now?”
“My breasts.”
He arches an eyebrow at me, challenging me right back.
“Put your mouth on them,” I clarify, and although my cheeks heat a little, I hold his gaze steadily, my entire body humming with arousal. “On my nipples.”
“Fucking hell.” The words are barely past Trystan’s lips before he drops his head to my chest, nuzzling his face between my breasts as he palms them, squeezing them together. As I look down at him, I could swear he’s trying to suffocate himself in my cleavage, and the thought makes liquid heat pool in my core.
“Nipples,” I demand, drawing even more confidence from the incredible feelings ricocheting through me, and the fact that every command I give him seems to turn Trystan on even more. “Suck them. Lick them. Bite them.”
He growls low in his throat, switching his attention to one of my breasts and drawing it deep into his mouth. The pressure on my nipple is so sharp it almost hurts, but I dig my toes into the floor and arch into his touch, loving the way the bite of pain drips down to my core as pure pleasure.
Trystan does exactly what I instructed, sucking and lapping at my nipples before tugging them between his teeth, teasing them with the tip of his tongue. My head lolls against the wall, my entire body going slack as all my focus narrows down to the places where he’s touching me.
“What else?” he mutters against my skin as he attacks one of my breasts again. He’s breathing harder, and his hands are roaming over my body again. “I’ll do this all fucking day unless you tell me you want something else, sweetheart.”
I groan softly.
He means it. I’m sure of it.
He would happily keep doing this for hours, and part of me is tempted to let him. My entire body is flushed, my skin tingling, and if this goes on much longer, I think I’ll orgasm without him ever touching me below the waist.
But I want him to touch me there.
I want his hungry, forceful mouth buried between my thighs. I want him to do everything he’s doing right now, but lower.
