Page 216 of Reckless Obsession

“Tell me—”

Tristan’s hand catches the back of my neck before I can finish the sentence, and his mouth slams into mine.

The kiss steals the rest of my question.

For one shocked second, I go rigid.

Anger surges through me, hot and immediate. I plant both hands on his chest and push hard, trying to force space between us.

“Tristan—”

My protest disappears against his mouth.

He kisses me deeper.

Desperate.

His fingers tighten in my hair, holding me in place with a frantic certainty that makes my breath shudder. His other arm circles my waist, pulling me flush against him and eliminating the last inch of space between us.

I should shove him away.

I should bite his lip, knee him hard, demand the answer he keeps trying to bury.

Instead, my fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt. His scent breaks through every defense I have left. My body remembers him before my anger can save me. It remembers the shape of him, the heat of him, the way being close to him always made the rest of the world feel distant and unreal.

A broken sound catches in my throat.

Tristan softens immediately.

His kiss changes.

The violence of it fades into something aching and almost reverent, like he realizes he has crossed a line and is trying to give me back the choice without fully leaving me.

His mouth lingers against mine.

“Maksim,” he whispers against my lips.

I should tell him to move.

I should demand the truth.

But I have missed him so badly that the ache is physical.

My hands tighten in his shirt, and then I kiss him back.

Harder.

Fiercer.

I take control of the kiss like I’ve been starving for it, because I have. My mouth claims his with months of withheld want, all the anger and longing tangled into something desperate and consuming.

Tristan makes a low sound against my lips, and I swallow it, pushing him backward as my hands start pulling at his clothes with zero patience.

He pulls at the Nightwing suit with just as little patience. The damn thing is stubborn, with tight, ridiculous layers, and for a second it almost slows us down. Almost. Between the two of us, we force it open, drag it down my arms, and shove it past my hips. Somewhere in the chaos, my hand finds the small tube of lube in the pocket, and I toss it onto the couch without looking.

The last of the fabric hits the floor.

The second we’re bare against each other, the three months of absence hit like a physical force. Skin on skin. Heat on heat.