Page 102 of Salt Kiss
I move between her legs and mount her immediately. “Fuck,” I curse as I’m swallowed again by liquid heat, my passage eased by what we just did. “Fuck, baby.”
I find her wrists and pin them above her head, my whole weight on her now, and her throat is arching underneath me. I thought coming would take the edge off, give me longer to enjoy being inside her, but there’s nothing that could have prepared me for having Isolde Laurence like this. Writhing underneath me with her cum-wet pussy speared by my cock, her throat bared to my teeth.
I grind my lap into her, seeking the right kind of friction and feeling her quiver underneath me when I find it. When I find the perfect angle to rub against her clit as I fuck into her. And all that’s left is to run my tongue over her pulse, to nip and suck where her throat meets her shoulder until she moans.
My hips churn, roughing my cock in and out of her, and then I lift my head to watch her. To watch as her eyelids flutter and as her mouth parts, as her hands claw and flex above my grip, as she whispers my name.
Tristan.
She quakes underneath me, her hips seeking, and I push in to the hilt and let her rub herself on me as much as she can while she’s pinned to the floor. Her head thrashes and her shoulders lift as she breaks apart, all satin quivers, and I’m fucking done for.
I sink my teeth into her collarbone and pulse, letting loose for the second time, trying to push deeper and deeper and deeper as I jet my release into her body.
And finally she goes still underneath me, her eyes closed and her hands limp. Her ribs are moving fast, hard, and her mouth is twitching into a smile.
“You were pretty good at that too,” she says, and I let go of her wrists to tickle her sides.
“Pretty good?” I mock growl, dipping my head to kiss the smile off her face.
“I mean—” She’s laughing and it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard and also every laugh is squeezing me inside her and it’s killing me. “You might have to do it again for me to judge properly.”
“That can be arranged,” I murmur, moving my face so I can nuzzle her hair, nose into the corners of her jaw and throat. Drag my mouth over the tops of her breasts. When I meet her eyes again, she’s still smiling and I’m smiling, and I think we both realize at the same time that we’re just...happy.
She presses her hand to the side of my face. “I love your smile.”
I turn my face to kiss her palm. “I love yours.”
Her eyes are searching my face. “You deserve to smile more, Tristan.”
“This seems like a stones and glass houses situation.”
“Maybe we just need more reasons to do it,” she replies.
I kiss her palm again. She’s right, but also there’s no erasing our lives as they are. Dead mothers, war, unwanted marriages, being in love with Mark Trevena—it’s all here to stay.
I lift all the way off her. My cock slips free with a rush of fluid, and we both take in a sharp breath.
“Will you stay here for a few minutes?” I ask as I rise to my knees and fix my clothes. “I’m going to get something to clean you up.”
She hesitates, her delicate face strangely vulnerable, but then she nods.
“I’ll be back,” I say, wanting her to know I mean it. “Please don’t go.”
“I won’t,” she replies softly, and I get to my feet and rush out of the chapel.
Even though it takes me less than three minutes to dart to the spa, find a robe, a washcloth, and a bottle of water, I’m still terrified that I’ll open the chapel door to find it empty. That she’ll have realized the monumentally stupid thing we just did—again—and she’ll have fled to her room to get away from me. Because even if nothing counts until the wedding day, surely that excludes the bodyguard? Mark’s own former lover?
But when I open the chapel door, she’s still there. She’s sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest and her eyes on the crucifix on the wall, her hair hanging down her back.
She’s lovely and lonely and my heart hurts just looking at her.
I step inside, shut the door, and go to her. I unscrew the bottle of water and make her drink while I kneel behind her and slowly start unzipping her dress.
“Do you regret it?” I ask softly, not knowing what I’ll do if the answer is yes, and not knowing what I’ll do if the answer is no...because I don’t know what the answer is for me yet. Only that, regrettable or not, this was inevitable.
From the moment I saw her and thought of blooming roses and frozen forests, this was inevitable.
“I regret that we have to weigh our regrets,” Isolde says. I peel the dress from her body, and she looks over her shoulder. Her eyes are rimmed red, but they are clear now, and dry. “I would do it again, just so you know. The other day. Tonight. Whatever else is to come. I would do it all again.”
