Page 118 of The Professor's Wife

I couldn’t stop.

Didn’t want to stop.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

We were only a few minutes from the van when we found the pool of water. We could hear it on the side of the road. We’d been driving for over an hour in the heat, pausing only once to look at the map when I heard it.

It was tucked between rocks, fed by a trickling stream, shaded by tall pines that filtered the sunlight. The water was clear, cool, and inviting. I didn’t hesitate. Neither did Tristan.

We’d given up finding a place to dip our feet into, but it had found us.

We stripped down and slipped in, the shock of cold against our skin making us gasp and laugh.

This morning’s meltdown was needed. I felt the weight of guilt ease when I thought of June. Tristan listened to my grief, and he hadn’t tried to feed me beautiful verses to ease the pain. He was just there. And I didn’t know how much I needed that until then.

We swam, splashed, floated. And then, as we drifted closer, our bodies brushed. His hands found my waist. Mine found his shoulders. We kissed, slow and deep.

As my hand traveled down his hard abdomen, I bit his lips teasingly. “Hello,” I whispered, finding his length hard andready. I wrapped my hand around it, and he let out a groan that warmed my lower belly.

“Hi,” he said, raggedly. I squeezed him and in response, he kissed me hard, his hand finding my breast, squeezing back. When he broke away from the kiss, he looked down at my floating breasts, his eyes drunk.

“The things I want to do right now,” he said.

“So do them.”

His kiss was all tongue, his breathing hard and erratic. His other hand slid between my legs, running delicately between my folds. I moaned at the pleasure, and he swore, breaking the kiss, teeth chattering.

“Are you cold?”

He let out a harsh laugh. “I’m shaking because I want you, but I don’t want to race to the finish line.”

“Just want to edge me?”

“You’re edging me too.”

“Isn’t it hell?”

“The best kind.”

We played with each other like that for some time. I stroked him and he worked that nub of nerves in response. We moaned in unison. Our tongues became one. Our breaths hard and unsteady. If we wanted to, we could have climaxed, but this was so naughty, so enjoyable. It promised the most amazing fuck for later, and I couldn’t resist reducing Tristan to his basic needs. When he fucked like that—when his want for being gentle on me was replaced by the overwhelming urge to dominate, I lost myself to the pleasure. I was addicted to it—to him.

“I love the sounds you make,” he gritted out. “Love when you come around my finger or dick, your walls so fucking tight around me, Daze. It does my fucking head in.”

He verbalized what he loved between kisses, between licks and sucks. Tristan never held back. I loved that about him.How much he needed me. Somewhere along the way, it stopped terrifying me. I shared in his desperation. In his feverish desire. I couldn’t get enough of him, either.

Eventually, I climbed out, dripping and breathless, and reached for the towel. Tristan followed, his eyes never leaving mine. We couldn’t stop touching—fingers tracing skin, lips brushing damp shoulders. It was torturous and beautiful.

Then I nicked my hand on a jagged rock.

“Shit,” I muttered, inspecting the thin line of blood.

Tristan’s glazed eyes immediately focused on my cut. He took my hand gently. “Stay here. I’ll grab the first aid kit from the van. Want me to bring back the sandwiches I made?”

I nodded, watching him shrug on his briefs and jog off up the trail, his wet hair clinging to his neck, his back strong and sure.

I sat on the edge of the pool, the breeze cooling my skin. Despite the sting in my hand, I was still throbbing for Tristan. Still pining for his touch and cock.

Looking around, I was still smiling when I saw him.