Page 25 of Honey Cut
“You did this,” I accuse, but my words turn breathless as I meet those midnight eyes. “You’re the one getting married.”
“For business, Tristan,” Mark says, stepping so close now that our chests touch. He slides a hand to the small of my back and presses us together. I shudder as our stomachs meet, our hips. He’s hard. So am I.
His mouth is by my ear now, and he trails a long kiss along my jaw, nuzzles into my hair, and inhales, like he’s scenting me. “It’s only for business,” he says again between nuzzles. “Can’t you forgive me?”
“You told Isolde the marriage needs to look real.” I can barely talk. The hand on my back is holding me still as he works his clothed erection over mine.
“It does. But I’m not married yet.”
Pleasure is a scissor in my groin, shearing its way into my thighs and up into my chest. It feels so good, and his hand on my back is commanding and firm, and it’s so easy to melt back into being his.
“I don’t want to hurt Isolde,” and it’s a slip for me to say it, a huge slip, because what I meant was thatIdidn’t want to hurt Isolde by doing this with Mark right now. That even though she and I are in this tangled knot together, even though she doesn’t know that I love her and probably wouldn’t care even if she did know, the idea of betraying my own feelings for her is miserable.
But Mark hears it in the way I should have said it: that I’m worriedhewill hurt Isolde with this. “We always said the wedding was the starting point,” he murmurs. His lips whisper along my ear. “Who does it hurt, Tristan? Really? The marriage isn’t real. Isolde doesn’t love me.”
I think of a girl in a green dress, sitting barefoot on the deck of a yacht, ocean spray caught in her hair and spattering her bare arms.
He infected me.
So Mark doesn’t know how Isolde really feels about him. I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a tragedy at this point, or if it makes a difference. They’ll marry anyway, stay faithful to each other anyway. Does it matter if Mark thinks Isolde’s part is purely utilitarian?
I’m rocking against him of my own accord now, my thoughts getting harder and harder to hold on to, my principles getting harder to hold on to, because he feels so fucking good. He’s so solid and warm and steady, and his open mouth is on my neck, just below my jaw, and his smell is all around me, the smell of stone and rain, a city street after a storm. Each stroke of his erection over my own is like the slide of a bow over violin strings, and the music is drowning out everything else.
“If you can come like this, you may,” Mark whispers, and I should step back, I should safe out, I should do anything but shudder and fuck myself against him harder.
Mark’s hold on me tightens, and then his free hand is in my hair, cupping the back of my head. His mouth slashes over my own in a hot, open kiss—invasive and demanding. I make a broken, helpless noise, shivering, fucking, so close to coming, and how did I deny myself this? This deep kiss? This powerful body?
Him, wickedness incarnate?
“You taste so good,” he breathes against my mouth, and I only have a second to remember that my lips might still taste like Isolde’s cunt before I’m coming. It’s so fucking twisted, but it makes me come harder, longer, my erection pulsing long and wet into my boxer briefs. I press my face into Mark’s neck, clinging to him, gasping, lost to my own depravity and the intoxicating scent of him, and I could do this forever, come against him, with him, no matter how messy or unconscionable.
The tremors have barely ended when Mark pushes me back against the kitchen island, spins me around with a roughness that sinks deep into the pit of my stomach, making me ready for more. He tears at my belt, my pants, everything until it’s down at my knees and my ass is bared.
I brace my hands on the counter, ready, and when I feel the covetous press of his fingers to my hole, my dick stirs back to life. But he doesn’t fuck me there. He just presses and touches with one hand while he unbuckles himself with the other. And then I hear the sound of skin on skin—his hand working his rigid flesh—and then before I can beg him to put himself inside me, let me suck him, anything—he’s giving a sharp noise and there’s the slippery warmth of his satisfaction spattering across my backside.
I know he used Isolde’s mouth earlier, but he still comes for ages, his breathing harsh as he gives himself over to his orgasm.
When it’s over, a light rain has started outside, and lightning is flashing in the distance. His semen is rolling down my skin, his shadow is like a blanket, and guilt is bubbling inside me. Isolde and Mark both today, and neither of them know about the other.
What has happened to me?
Mark’s forehead drops briefly to the place between my shoulder blades, and I close my eyes against the sudden tears. I still love him. I love Isolde. I’m obsessed with them both but have nowhere to put the obsessions, no way to vent them. I have no idea how I’m going to survive their marriage.
Mark lifts his head, and then I’m cleaned off with a kitchen towel. I turn.
“Sir, I?—”
Mark presses his fingertips to my mouth. There’s a lingering flush in his cheeks that reminds me of a vampire that’s just fed.
“Shh,” he soothes. “We both needed that, I think.”
Yes, but will I ever stop needing it?
Mark seems to have the same realization because he presses his eyes closed. “I knew you were going to make things more complicated.”
“Should we—” I have no idea what to say, what to do. What towantto do. “Should we tell Isolde that we…?”
He opens his eyes. “I’ll leave that up to your conscience.”
