Page 138 of Reckless Obsession

Something shifts in his eyes. Not anger and not hurt, exactly. It’s more like an understanding.

“Okay,” he says softly.

The word disarms me more than an argument would have.

“Okay?” I repeat.

“I know I gave you reasons not to.” His thumbs brush beneath my eyes. “But I’m here now.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

His mouth slams into me before I can finish what I’m about to say, and my world stops.

Chapter 25

MAKSIM

“Open your mouth for me, baby,” Tristan murmurs against my lips, his voice low and deep, pulling me back to the surface.

I do the only thing I can—I open for him.

The moment I do, he takes over.

A pathetic, broken sound escapes me as the kiss deepens. This isn’t like the first time we kissed. That one was reckless and charged, born of bad decisions and pure heat. It isn’t like the second either, which was hurried and desperate, something filled with jealousy and pretense afterwards.

This kiss is slower.

Deliberate.

Tristan kisses me as if he’s trying to memorize every inch of my mouth, like he’s been starving for this exact moment for years. His lips move against mine with aching tenderness, tongue stroking deep and unhurried, coaxing soft, needy sounds from my throat that I don’t even try to hold back. There’s heat, a simmering fire that makes my knees weak and my body burn for him, but underneath it is something softer. Something almost reverent.

His hands cup my face like I’m something precious and worth having. His thumbs brush gently over my cheeks as he tilts my head exactly how he wants it, deepening the kiss until I feel dizzy with it. I can taste the faint taste of the wine we had on his tongue, feel the steady warmth of his body pressed against mine, the way his chest rises and falls with the same ragged rhythm as my own.

This kiss feels like an answer to every question I’ve been too afraid to ask. To every doubt I’ve carried for eight long years. It tells me I’m wanted. Not just desired in the heat of the moment, but wanted. Chosen. His.

I tighten my grip on the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like I’m afraid he’ll disappear if I let go. He makes this low, relieved sound against my mouth that sends a shiver racing down my spine. My heart is pounding so hard it feels as if it might crack my ribs open.

Just as I’m about to pull him even closer, desperate for more, he breaks the kiss.

My eyes fly open, searching his.

He looks just as affected as I feel—his breathing uneven, his gaze dark, his lips parted like he has something to say. Probably something reasonable. Something careful. Some bullshit about slowing down, about giving me space, about not wanting to push me.

Absolutely not.

“Shut up, Tristan,” I breathe.

Then I fist his shirt and crash my mouth back onto his.

The kiss turns fiercer in an instant.

The tenderness fractures, giving way to the raw, desperate passion that’s always simmered between us. Tristan’s mouth claims mine with bruising intensity, tongue stroking deep and demanding, like he’s trying to devour every sound I make. I kiss him back just as hungrily, fingers fisting in his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. There’s nothing soft left now—only heat, only need, only the years of wanting finally crashing into each other.

A low growl rumbles in his chest as one of his hands slides down to grip my ass possessively, fingers digging into the flesh through the thin fabric of his shorts I’m wearing. Before I can even process it, he lifts me effortlessly.

I’m built solid, big enough that most people think twice before trying to pick me up. But Tristan is bigger, taller, broader, and strong enough to handle me like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, ankles locking behind his back as I let out a stunned, embarrassed sound against his mouth.

“Oh my God,” I gasp, breaking the kiss just long enough to stare at him. “This is so embarrassing.”