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“Tristan…” I breathe out, gasping when he thrusts into me. “Ah!”
My head goes back, and he kisses my neck, nipping and sucking in sync with our hips. Again and again, harder, faster, and oh god. Fill me. Make me burn. Soothe the ache I suffer every time I see you, touch you, crave you.
Please, please give me all of you…
I wake abruptly, my heart racing, my sheets damp with sweat. I don’t move at first, desperate to linger in the fantasy for as long as possible. He was right there, so real my body is still burning with phantom sparks.
But as the scene fades, cold reality settles in.
Heisright here—I just can’t have him. Not until I can guarantee Pierce won’t hurt him. Just a few yards away, my fantasy is asleep on a couch that would be heaven if I could curl up with him. I know what it’s like to have a stiff, possessive vice tightening around my shoulders, but if it were Tristan…
I’m already dissolving into the fictional scene, nestling against his warm chest, scissoring our legs for deeper contact. I’d reach behind us to explore every defined muscle of his back, down to that hard ass, around front to a harder—
I groan into the pillow.
“What are you doing?” I mutter.
Torturing myself, that’s what. My fingers itch to slide down my body and release the flood of desire pooling between my legs. It would take almost nothing to trigger the surge. Just a few unfiltered memories of his naked body, a few revisions to my response when he put it on display that fateful night. This time when he tears his clothes off, I get up. Cross the hall. Run my hands over every sculpted plane and defined groove. Tasting, touching, tracing, squeezing…
Stop it!
I pull in a long soothing breath and shift to stare at the ceiling. I’m not doing myself any favors by entertaining these ridiculous fantasies. What I need is to be figuring out how to purge the forbidden ache instead. A cold shower would help, but there’s no way I’ll be able to go back to sleep after that. A glass of water. That would work.
I shove the sheets back and force myself out of the warmth. Cold air hits me as I move toward the door, and I hug my bare arms to brace against the draft. It should just take a second to grab a drink.
My pulse speeds up as I approach the living room, my eyes instinctively darting to the couch where I expect to see a sleeping temptation. Instead…
“You okay?” I ask, studying Tristan’s rigid form.
He’s sitting up, wide awake and staring at nothing.
“Fine,” he says.
We both know it’s a lie. Why did he bother telling it?
“How long have you been awake?”
“I never went to sleep.”
So much for a quick drink. I make my way to the couch instead.
He doesn’t respond as I lower myself beside him and mirror his pose—albeit a more casual, comfortable version of his upright vigilance.
“Were you ever going totryto sleep?” I ask.
“I did.”
“You just said—”
“I said I neverwentto sleep. I didn’t say I didn’t try.”
I roll my eyes and settle deeper into the cushions. “Fine. Smartass.”
I sense a slight lift in the tense cloud and relax. A thousand questions pound against my skull, but I don’t want to drag the moment back into hell. We’ve spent too much time there recently.
“Hey, want to see something?” I ask, pushing up from the couch.
He seems surprised, maybe skeptical, but it’s hard to tell in the dim light. I turn on the small lamp on the end table as I pass. Grabbing my laptop from my room, I return to find him settled more comfortably on the couch, and something eases in my chest. It’s alarming how much his state affects mine.
