Page 103 of Honey Cut
Has he really not seen it yet? Divined the truth for himself? Am I that skilled at deception now that I can keep even this elemental fact hidden?
I put my hands over his. He deserves this, no matter what happens. “I love you,” I say. “I love your open heart, and I love your loyalty, and I love how deeply you feel the world around you. I want to keep you safe, and I want to give you everything of me, and I can’t, and it kills me.”
His eyes are closed. And then he presses his forehead to mine. He’s shuddering, trembling.
“You know I love you,” he whispers.
“Yes.”
“You know I love him.”
“Yes.”
“You still do too.”
I hesitate but then speak anyway. It doesn’t make a difference if anyone knows the truth. “Yes. I still love him.”
“Isolde,” Tristan says, and his voice is that of a sinner kneeling in church. “We’re not real in the dark.”
His kiss when it comes is wet with my tears but softer than anything, softer even than the fog on our skin. His tongue parts my lips, tender at first but soon pushing in with that wild need that overtakes him in his desire. I let it, welcome it, this one thing that pushes through the numb and empty night.
His hand comes around to my neck, cupping my nape, and his other hand drops to my neck and then to my trench coat, palming my breast hard. You’d think we’d been separated for years, that our bodies had burned in isolation for decades, that this was a lifetime of pent-up longing and not only a few days.
“We shouldn’t,” I say as my hands find his neck and the tidy knot of his tie. “We can’t.”
“We shouldn’t,” Tristan agrees, his mouth dragging from mine over to my jaw. His hands are dropping to the belt of my trench coat and pulling impatiently. Heat kindles behind my belly button, sends flying sparks everywhere through my body. “We know it’s wrong.”
“And we both love him.” I unbutton Tristan’s suit jacket and press my hands to his chest underneath. I can feel the incessant drum of his heart against his ribs. He’s the only real thing in the entire world. His heartbeat. His lips on my neck. His hand sliding up the outside of my thigh and finding the top of my stocking.
“We do both love him,” mumbles Tristan against my throat. He pulls back right as his fingers find the crease of my hip. He watches me as his hand moves under my dress and ghosts over the silk waist of my panties. We both shiver. “Much good it does us.”
“No good at all,” I agree. Falling in love with Mark was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
Tristan and I are looking at each other as I part my thighs, and so I see the violent shudder moving through him. He drops his touch reverently, stroking my folds over the silk until my thighs are as wide as they can go while I’m perched on the edge of this fountain. Then he pulls my panties aside and bends to taste me.
I jolt, the hot velvet of his tongue sofuckinggood, and then he finds my clit and nurses on it a moment, just until I’m spearing my fingers through his hair and pulling like I want to punish him for how good it feels.
He lifts, his wet mouth shining in the night, and slots his lips over my own, feeding my own taste back to me as his hands drop to tear off my panties and then to work open his fly.
“Won’t last long,” he warns in a grunt as he edges a little closer on his knees. The tip of him is invisible in the dark, and blunt and hard. We both suck in a breath at the first touch, and then all hope is gone, all control is gone. He shoves in rough, wild, and I have to hold on to his shoulders because even on his knees, even with the first few strokes, he’s knocking me off-balance.
“Sometimes I think I can stop myself,” he mutters. His hands find my ass, holding me on the edge of the fountain as his cock splits me open. “That just a touch would be enough. But it’s never enough. Why is it never enough?”
I don’t know. I just know that wanting him—loving him—is a ray of light in a darkness of my own making. And when we are skin to skin, I am not alone.
His erection is huge inside me, and I’m only barely ready for it, and the friction is hot and biting. It curls my toes.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I have to come already.”
And he does, his hips wedged between my thighs, his thick flesh pumping semen inside me with thick spurts. “Your cunt is too good, Isolde.Fuck.”
His face is in my neck as he finishes, giving me a final stroke or two for good measure, and then he’s dropping down onto his hands and?—
“God help me,” I exhale as he starts eating me again, deep, ravenous noises vibrating from his mouth to my swollen sex. It’s so wet down there and wet fromhim, but he doesn’t hesitate to swirl his tongue into my channel, as deep as he can get, before moving up to lave at my clit.
My nipples were already hard from the cold, but now they hurt so badly and all I can imagine is a hot mouth around them, maybe teeth, maybe with stubble scraping the curves of my breasts around them. I imagine dark-gold hair, large hands digging into my waist.
Maybe one hand would be on the back of Tristan’s head, steering him, controlling him. Forcing him to kiss his own orgasm off my needy flesh…
