Page 85 of Claim

Now there was only need.

Only gratitude.

I sank down in front of him, kissing as I went. Ribs. Stomach. Undoing him with my mouth before my hands finished the job. I worked his trousers open, dragging them down his hips, and pressing open-mouthed kisses to the hard line of him through his underwear.

God, I needed this.

Needed him.

Wanted to fucking devour this man.

“Fuck, Richie…” Tristan threaded his fingers into my hair, holding on.

I looked up at him. Met his gaze.

Then I slipped my fingers into his waistband and freed him.

Fuck.

He was beautiful. All of him. Every inch. And when he sprang into my hand, when the heat of him brushed my mouth, I leant in and dragged my tongue slowly up him, tasting him, tasting the restraint and want and everything he hadn’t said.

Then I took him into my mouth.

His breath left him hard enough to be a groan, and he hit his head on the door behind him. Somewhere, distantly, I thought Lennon might have been downstairs. The world might still have existed. I didn’t know. Didn’t fucking care, either.

“Fuck…” His voice broke as I took him deeper, and it went straight through me. I felt the way his body tensed, the way he gave even as he strained. I kept one hand firm on his hip, the other bracing him against the door. Not to trap him, but to keep him there. With me. Where I needed him.

He faltered, legs tight, breath wrecked, hips moving despite himself as I drew him in again. Every motion was a claim. Every suck and slide a promise. Every second he was in my throat was another way of telling him this is what he did to me.

I was painfully hard. Aching with it. Shaking.

It had been a long sentence. Maybe not as long as I should have had. But long enough to turn want into something feral. And it was he who had brought me back. Him who’d made this possible. So I shoved my hand into my waistband, grabbing my aching hard cock, knowing I wasn’t lasting like this. Not with him in my mouth. Not after so long.

“Wait. Wait,” he panted. “Come here.” Then he hauled me up to him.

He smashed his mouth onto mine, the kiss breaking and messy, teeth knocking, breath everywhere. Then he slid his hand straight into my joggers and closed it around me, no hesitation, wrapping his fingers around my aching length.

Holding me.

Grounding me.

Undoing me all at once.

“Oh, God…” The groan tearing out of me weren’t tough.

Weren’t controlled, either. It was all need, stripped bare. Because that—his hand—had my vision blurring, my head tipping back as if my body gave up on pretending it had any say.

Then he moved.

Slow. Certain. Letting me slide through his fist, guiding me in and out of it, and I stepped closer without thinking, closing the last of the space between us. Heat to heat. No air left. I covered his hand with mine, worked us both, our mouths never breaking apart. Then I dragged him away from the door, half-stumbling us back until the edge of the bed hit behind my knees.

The rhythm never faltered.

Our mouths never parted.

We groaned into each other as I reached back blindly for Lennon’s chest of drawers, yanked the top one open, rummaging while I kissed him and pushed him harder.

“Fuck, Tris…”