Page 252 of The Professor's Wife

“For you.”

His hips drove deeper.

I gasped, turning my face toward his.

“Again.”

“You.”

His fingers moved in time with every stroke.

“For you, Tristan.”

“Fuck.”

The word broke from him.

The pleasure rose too quickly, and I gripped his forearm, feeling the muscle tighten beneath my hand.

“Tristan—”

“I’ve got you.”

The words sent me over.

I cried out as my body clenched around him. He buried his face against my neck and followed, his movements losing their careful rhythm as he held me tightly against him.

He came inside me right there and then, his body quaking against my back. A moment later, he hissed in my ear that he hadn’t meant to do that.

“Fuck,” he admonished himself.

Before I could tell him it was all right, he was kissing me again.

And that was where we stayed for the entire morning and most of the afternoon. There wasn’t an inch of me he hadn’t tasted. There wasn’t an inch of him I hadn’t touched or traced.

He seemed to only show his vulnerability when he was inside me. The mask was gone. The anger extinguished.

Later, with him stretched beneath me, I tasted him until his hands twisted in the sheets. I gulped around his length, choosing to take it deep, until I gagged and sputtered, loving how filthy we were.

As I moaned around his cock, he let out a sharp exhale, as though defeated, telling me, “Your fucking sounds, Daze…”

Shortly after he wrung the fifth orgasm out of me, I was too tired to move. I didn’t clean myself up. I simply buried myself under his covers and fell asleep.

By the time I had awoken, the room was dim. Only one lamp glowed beside the bed. Sensing his presence, my eyes caught Tristan’s straightaway. He was sitting on a chair, still naked, watching me with an indiscernible expression.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“You got somewhere to be?”

I frowned, not liking his response. I glanced around the room. Caught the clock on the dresser.

Five p.m.

Anxiety and panic laced through me, but I remained calm. I took deep breaths, not wanting Tristan to see. Oliver wouldn’t be back yet. I was all right.

“Are you hungry?” he asked next, his voice less stiff than before.

I was starving. I should have said no and planned my departure, but I looked at Tristan. He watched me carefully, his face guarded.