Page 37 of Reckless Obsession

“You’re so goddamn good at this, spitfire,” he growls filthy-praise on the next thrust, voice cracking with need. “Grow your hair out, I want to grab them harder whenever I feed you this dick.”

I let out a wrecked moan around him, my throat convulsing, arousal peaking high as he owns every gasp.

“Yes. Just like that,” he grunts, his voice low and wrecked. “Jesus, Maksim.”

That’s all the warning I get before he slams harder deep in my throat, dragging every thick inch out, then easing back in deep as his cock pulses hot against my tongue, veins ridged and slick; I feel every twitch, every swell as he grinds deliberately chasing his release, and I continue to rub my jeans roughly as unbearable pleasure builds in my balls.

He buries deep one last time and erupts. Hot jets of cum flood my throat, and I gulp him down greedily, my throat working desperately, my body quaking in sync with his throbs.

“That’s my good boy,” he grits out, his voice overflowing with pure ecstasy, every syllable laced with the raw unraveling of his complete release.

Those words—my good boy—strike something deep within me, igniting my entire body in a blaze that steals away every last defense I have left, leaving me utterly exposed and yearning as I circle my hand desperately over my jeans, grinding against the confining fabric in helpless abandon. My orgasm slams into me with so much intensity that stars burst across my vision as my cock pulses relentlessly against the denim, filling my shorts with wave after wave of hot cum.

I whimper helplessly against the thick girth still stretching and throbbing inside my mouth, his release flooding my throat and spilling over my lips to trail messily down my chin.

It is filthy, messy, and so perfectly ours. Finally, with a last shuddering grind, Tristan eases out with a slow drag that leaves my lips tingling; a final string of saliva and cum snaps between us as he pulls free. His cock glistens, hovering close while we both pant ragged, our chests heaving in unison, the air thick with musk and our shared heat.

The silence after that doesn’t fall gently. It crashes down between us, thick and suffocating, swallowing the last ragged echoes of what we just did. It’s thick enough that I can hear the way my own breathing hasn’t steadied yet.

My body is still trembling, not from fear or exhaustion, but from the aftershock of him. My lungs burn as I try to pull in air that feels too heavy and warm. His taste lingers thick on my tongue, cum drying sticky on my chin, a filthy badge I wear proudly.

There’s a strange warmth settling low in my chest. A fragile, reckless kind of happiness.

He didn’t retreat. He didn’t choose control over me this time. He lost it.

For me.

That memory alone makes my pulse stutter again, and a smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it.

I lift my eyes to him, and the warmth growing in my chest dies as quickly as it came because Tristan is staring at me as if he doesn’t recognize the scene in front of him. Like he’s just come back into his body and is trying to piece together what the hell he’s done.

His gaze moves over my face, taking in the traces of dried tears, then over my mouth, and the mess he’s made of me. Something shifts in his expression, and my stomach drops.

It’s not disgust. But god, I’d rather it were disgust.

This is worse. It’s awareness. It’s the moment a man realizes he crossed a line he promised himself he wouldn’t cross again. His jaw tightens, but it’s not hunger anymore. It’s control snapping back into place.

No. No, don’t do this.

Don’t look at me like that.

Don’t turn this into a mistake.

I watch his composure rebuild in real time. The distance slides over his features like armor locking into position, then he steps back abruptly.

It’s barely a step. Just enough to create space.

But the space feels enormous.

A quiet curse leaves him as if he’s angry at himself.

My heart constricts so painfully it almost steals my breath. There it is. The regret I knew would come. The same regret from years ago, dressed in a different suit but wearing the same expression.

Something flashes across my face before I can stop it. I don’t even know what it is. Maybe it’s panic or my hope cracking, or maybe it’s hurt, or maybe it’s the humiliation of realizing I let myself believe this time would be different.

Whatever it is, he sees it. His eyes soften immediately, and that softness is almost unbearable because it’s not desire now.

It’s concern. Or worse, pity.