Page 51 of Honey Cut
“Tristan,” she whispers.
I can’t meet her gaze. We haven’t been this close since the fitting room, since I ate her cunt until she left my mouth and chin slick with her satisfaction. And there’s a good reason that I’ve been keeping my distance. When I look at her—when I touch her—I become not myself. My twenty-nine years of being good, my years of military discipline, my inner sense of right and wrong—it all just vanishes. There’s only her and the need to have her as close to me as possible, the raw, primal urge for slick flesh, for hard things, tight things, wet release.
“You should get changed,” I say, my voice harsh. I still can’t look at her. I pull my hand away and step back.
She drops her hand slowly.
“I’m sorry you had to?—”
I shake my head. We can’t go down this road because it leads nowhere. To bitterness and blame.
“It’s my job.” I take her by the waist—efficiently, carefully—and lift her from the counter. I set her on her feet without looking at her tits or her stained mouth or her lust-glazed eyes. “Do you need any help getting out of this gown?”
“The buttons on the back,” she says after a minute, and turns. It’s like last night all over again, except this time I’m not terrified her husband will see the blatant lust scrawled all over me. I am terrified that I won’t control myself, though. We’re alone, and each button is a fresh glimpse of smooth ivory skin, and I bet her cunt is still so wet right now that it would take nothing to push inside.
The minute I finish unbuttoning her, I step back. “I’ll wait out here,” I announce. Unnecessarily.
She looks over her shoulder at me, the barest brush of turquoise iris and black pupil, and then nods, her chin pointing down. She leaves in a rustle of silk, and I notice with horrible, pathetic relief that she goes into the second bedroom in the apartment, not into Mark’s room.
They’re not sharing a room yet.
If nothing else, they’re not sharing a room yet.
I give myself thirty seconds once she’s gone. Thirty seconds to brace my forearms on the counter and hang my head and let the swirl of yearning and envy pulse through my body and shiver down to the tip of my aching tumescence. To accept that watching Mark cuff her and crop her and then ride her was like discovering sex all over again, somehow. That there’d been something tonight that I hadn’t known about before, although I’ll be damned if I can explain to myself what it was. I knew Mark was an irresistible sadist; I knew that when Isolde fucked, she was a delicious mix of fragile and brave.
So why was it any different watching them together?
“Tristan?” comes Isolde’s voice, and I’ve lost track of time somehow, let the thirty seconds unwind into God knows how long.
I straighten up as she comes into the kitchen, trying to discreetly smooth my suit jacket over my hard-on. Not that there will be any hiding it after seeing her now because she’s in the shortest filmiest white dress I’ve ever seen, her tousled hair loose over her shoulders and still caught with stray petals.
Her nipples press against the fabric, and when she walks, the dress catches on the tops of her thighs and clings to her hips and ass. I think—my mouth goes dry—she’s not wearing any panties underneath.
She laughs a little, and I realize I’m staring. I rip my eyes away and clear my throat.
“I suppose that means that I look the part,” she says, coming closer. There’s still a flush on her cheeks and chest, and her voice is husky from sex, but she sounds more like herself now, more lucid.
“You look stunning,” I say, keeping my stare pinned on the window and the DC skyline just beyond. “No one will be able to—” I have to clear my throat again. “They won’t be able to help themselves. They’ll all want you. And that will please Mr. Trevena, I think.”
“Tristan,” she says again. She’s come even closer while I was looking away, silent in her bare feet. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, I do. Even without the provocative outfit, she is obscene. Prurience embodied. The mussed hair with its flowers, the lips tinted with juice. The blooming marks above her collar.
“Iamsorry,” she says. Softly. And when I lift my hand to stop her, she takes it in her own. “I’m sorry I asked you to stay when you wanted to quit. I’m sorry that I couldn’t help myself those times before the wedding. It’s not fair to you. None of this—is fair to you.”
Her fingers are so slender around mine, and yet so strong, a distinct roughness to the pads and her upper palm. She has the hand of a fighter, after all, not only an heiress.
“I don’t know if I could have left,” I admit to her. The apartment is hushed, a cloister, the opposite of the music- and moan-filled hall just a short walk away. “I know I should have walked away, and sometimes, I still think about it, about how it wouldn’t hurt so much if I—” I pull in a breath. “But I think it would still hurt. At least here, I get to see you.”
“It hurts me too,” she whispers. “The way I feel about you…”
My heart squeezes up into my throat, but she doesn’t finish her sentence. She bites her lip instead and then pulls my hand to her, to the place only barely covered by her dress.
I groan when my fingertips make contact with her snatch—hot and slippery. No panties, no impediment. When she goes back into the hall and kneels at Mark’s feet or sits on his lap or whatever he has her do, her pussy will be so available. So easy for him to show off. So easy for him to use.
“We’re alone,” she says quickly, pushing my fingers inside of her. I groan. “No one would know. We could be so fast.”
“It’s a bad idea,” I say, but I’m already getting my cock out, ripping at my suit trousers while I test the slick haven of her cunt with my fingers. I walk us both backward to the hallway, to her room, but I can’t quite make it there.
