Page 56 of The Professor's Wife

“Do you want this to end?”

I knew he wasn’t talking about the sex.

Whatever this was, it had already begun to mean too much to him. I could see it in the way he looked at me, like there was something here he was afraid to lose.

“No,” I admitted.

The instant the word left my lips, his mouth crashed against mine. His kiss was long and deep.

I ran my hands down his back, gripping his ass and trying to draw him deeper. His thrusts came faster and harder. We spiraled together quickly through hot breaths and kisses filled with teeth and tongue.

He fucked me so thoroughly that my walls gripped him, my body unwilling to let him go.

When I came, the world narrowed to that quiet pocket of morning inside the van. His warmth wrapped around me, cocooning me in his scent and tender touch until nothing existed beyond the man holding me and the small space containing us.

Nothing had ever come close to that kind of tranquility.

Bacon and eggs cooked on the stovetop, and the smell was to die for. Tristan filled two plastic cups with orange juice and handed me one.

I watched him as I sipped mine.

As though sensing my stare, he raked a hand through his messy hair like he wanted to tame it. Sitting down, I smiled into my cup as he returned to the food.

Within seconds, the only sounds in the air were birds chirping and food frying in the pan.

The morning was slow, golden, and quiet. I felt like I had stepped into someone else’s life—one where peace wasn’t a stranger but a familiar friend.

We ate with our plates balanced on our laps, perched on the folding chairs again, the fire pit now cold and empty. I looked out at the trees and the way sunlight filtered through the branches. It was beautiful.

“This is…nice,” I said, surprised by how much I meant it.

Tristan glanced over. “Yeah?”

I nodded. “I’ve never been in nature like this before.”

He leaned back, stretching out his legs. “Do you want to stay another night?”

I hesitated, but only for a second. “Yeah, I do.”

He smiled. “Then we stay.”

Before we did anything else, Tristan glanced down at the heels I had left beside the van and frowned.

“Gotta get you shoes, Daze.”

“Just some flip-flops will do.”

The campground office sold a cheap pair, along with toothbrushes and a small collection of travel-sized toiletries. Tristan bought what I needed before I could dig through my purse or begin protesting.

“You can pay me back by not breaking your neck on a trail,” he said.

The day unfolded like a dream.

We hiked a short trail that looped around the campground, nothing too intense. Just enough to feel the earth beneath our feet and the sun on our backs.

I hadn’t changed back into my dress. Tristan’s shirt fell well past my bum, and I had rolled his shorts several times at the waist to keep them from sliding down.

I must have looked primitive and wild.