Page 91 of Salt Kiss
Her eyes meet mine, blue green and nearly black with pupil. “Tristan,” she whispers.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”
She moves her hips over me, once. Hard. On purpose.
And pleasure skates right down my shaft to my balls, and it’s my turn to suck in an agonized breath, and I stare up at her, my thoughts driven away by the pressure of her sitting directly on me. I can feel the shape of her sex through her bike shorts.
Fuck it now, some silky instinct coaxes.Expose her cunt and push into it and fuck.
The ship does the next part for us, rolling over a wave, the gravity pressing us together again, and she shivers, goose bumps creeping everywhere on her skin.
She’s looking down at me with an expression I haven’t seen before, beyond dazed, beyond stunned. It’snaked, almost—vulnerable. Lids hooded, eyebrows up, like they’re frozen in a question. Mouth parted and lips wet. She still hasn’t stopped shivering.
Almost like she looks when I’ve rescued her from a nightmare, but somehow so, so different.
“Do you need it?” I hear myself ask, and I have no idea where the words come from. I just know that they need to be asked. “Do you need it right now?”
She nods, quick and miserable, her braid moving over her breast as she does.
I get why she’s miserable. I’m miserable too. Because here I am on Mark’s yacht, wearing his clothes, with his pretty bride’s pussy rocking over my erection. Because I had righteous things to say aboutcheating, about how he and I had to stop because otherwise it would be wrong, and yet here I fucking am, not with him but withher. And this is cheating, there can be no doubt.
When Mark told me that I should take his place, that I should give her anything she needs, I know he didn’t mean this.
But I look up at her parted mouth, her pert tits moving with ragged breaths, and I think of the salt water dripping off her lip. I think of how she saidI feel the same way.I think of her in that sinful white swimsuit, of her whipping around this space with her honeysuckle knife flashing in her hand, and of the nights spent with my hand on her chest, helping her breathe in the dark.
And God, it’s wrong,it’s so wrong, but somehow knowing that she belongs to Mark, that I can feel his ring on her finger digging into my wrist—it makes me into someone or something I don’t recognize.
Filthy, greedy, angry.
Whether it’s to get closer to him—or to punish him—I don’t know. But I say to Isolde in a rough growl, “If you need it, honey, take it. Take it fast.”
Her mouth falls open even farther, that one crooked tooth, that tempting tongue, and her brows are pinched together even more, like she doesn’t know what I’m saying, but her body does, her body knows, and she grinds down on me with a twist of her hips.
She twists again, searching for something, her eyes never leaving mine, and then she finds it, a low moan escaping her lips.
She lets go of my wrists and braces her hands on my chest and starts riding me, hell-for-leather, rutting that needy pussy hard enough to drive the breath from both our lungs.
And every twist, every rock and thrust, has me straining underneath her, my neck arching, my fingers digging fruitlessly into the mats by her knees. My balls are full, so fucking full, and my mind is full of fantasies about emptying into her—that pink place, that wet mouth. All over her goose bump-covered tits and her sweet ass.
Fuck, I want to see that ass. I want to grab one cheek and pull—spread—and see everything. Slick cunt and cinched opening and soft folds and plump clit. I want to come all over that pussy. I want to fuck it—God, I want to fuck it.
And because I’m lost to her, to the needy little movements of her hips, her worried brow, her open mouth, my mind goes to darker places, worse places.
I want to come inside her and then have Markknow. I want to come inside her and then watch Mark come inside her too, his way slicked by my seed. I want us both bare in her, so bare, pulsing and breeding, and then I want Mark to punish me for daring to use what’s his, to shove me down and hurt me until I’m crying, and then wedge his cock inside me until I spurt all over the floor.
Maybe it’s because I’m thinking of him that I notice the change in Isolde above me, the way her fingers twist restlessly in my shirt, the way her eyes go round and worried, her whole face pleading as she moves faster and harder above me.
She can’t get there.
Even though her nipples are bunched so stiff that they’re stretching the fabric of her bra, even though she’s getting my shorts wet through her own clothes, she can’t get there. And it’s just a guess, just a whisper, a whisper in Mark’s voice maybe, but I reach up and grab her hips and dig my fingertips in hard enough to bruise.
The noise that leaves her then is brutal in its filth, wholly animal. She shudders above me, her fingertips digging into my chest in return, a hectic flush crawling up her stomach to her chest.
She needs—I don’t know if it’s surrender or if it’s pain—but whatever it is, she needs it to finish.
And I’m here to serve.
With a grunt, I flip us back over, the impact sending a short breath from her lungs, and I’m between her thighs immediately, rutting, humping, shameless as I brace myself with one forearm and slap her breast as hard as I can.
