Page 16 of Honey Cut
He wastes no time, his fingers seeking the center of me and pushing inside. I’m mostly wet, but not quite, and the bite of friction as he wedges in has my toes curling on the thin carpet. Heat shimmers below my navel, burning my thighs, burning my chest and throat and mouth, and I’m already on fire, already quivering. I think I could come just from this, from his hand shoved down my pants, a little bit of pain to sweeten the fullness and the stretch.
I hold on to his jacket as his eyes hood and his fingers move slowly, testing the tight muscles of my cunt.
“I need this so much,” he says. “I think about it all the time.” He says this last part in a broken whisper, like he’s ashamed.
I press my face to his chest. It’s me who’s ashamed, me who needs it, needs this one thing that God can’t see.
I hear Tristan’s heart beating as he searches my body, rubs the inside of me, and the sound of my wet pussy getting fingered is sorawand the soap smell is so wonderfully and simply him, and I say the words without even knowing really what they mean, just knowing that they’re true all the same:
“You’re the only thing that’s real.”
He pulls back enough to look at me, his jaw tight, his lashes making shadows.
“I don’t feel real at all when I’m with you,” he tells me. “Like I’m in a dream. And it’s a dream where nothing matters but you.”
Our eyes meet, and I wish I could stop fucking myself on his fingers, but when I move my hips, the heel of his hand grinds against my clit and sends sparks shooting up into my stomach. And I’m so close—I’m quivering and trembling and it’s beendayssince I’ve been able to come properly, with wild lust and a little bit of pain, and?—
A shrill noise pierces the air, sudden and jarring: Tristan’s phone.
He doesn’t move his hand from where it’s penetrating me and instead uses his left hand to answer the call.
“Thomas,” he says, in an efficient, detached voice. A soldier’s voice, I think, ready to drop into action. If someone shoutedten-hut, he’d be instantly at attention, with flawless posture and his hands laced behind his back, still wet and shining from where they’d been.
“Yes,” Tristan says to the person on the other end of the line. His eyes flick down to where his hand is still shoved down my pants. “Yes, we’ll be right there.”
He hangs up the phone, and our eyes meet in the gloam of the empty dojo.
“Jago is double-parked,” says Tristan. “We have to go.”
My orgasm is close enough that my belly is cramping with it, and all I want to do is lock this pretty man inside this room and make him tear me apart. I want him as wild as he was on the sea; I want to see, over and over again, the rupture between his inherent goodness and his surrender to sin.
But cold and bitter reality is pouring in. If I have any hope of using my impending marriage for the Church…any hope of getting into that server room…the marriage has to come first.
I find Tristan’s hand and pull it free of my cunt. He puts his fingers in his mouth and sucks them, his lashes fluttering.
I readjust my clothes and step away, my pussy slick and my chest caving in.
“Let’s go,” I say hollowly, and together we get my things, lock up the dojo, and then leave.
Halfway to the penthouse, the ordinarily silent Jago says, “Mr. Thomas.” His voice is neutral.
Tristan doesn’t respond, doesn’t look up expectantly like a man waiting to hear the second part of a sentence. Instead, he twists so he can look out the rear window.
“What is it?” I ask, turning to follow his gaze. There’s a line of vehicles behind us, a mix of taxis, corporate SUVs, and delivery trucks.
“The old sedan,” Tristan murmurs, “a few cars back. We saw it on the way to the dojo too.”
Being a Catholic means that one rarely believes in coincidences; being one of my uncle’s saints means that I believe in none at all.
I study the car. “Same driver?”
“I think so.”
The car doesn’t follow us for long, though. One more turn and it peels off, heading east. Tristan and I both sit back.
“You’re safe,” he promises me. “Goran and I would never let anything happen to you. And you know Mark wouldn’t.”
I smile at him. He’s so unbearably sweet sometimes.
