CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Tristan.”
His name slipped from Ophelia’s lips as his soft kisses trailed down her throat and toward her breasts. She was not at all sure why there was a lump in her throat; or why when he made her admit that she was beautiful suddenly made her want to cry. All she knew was that their time together was running out, and that the thought of that made her heart tremble with sadness.
She pushed that sadness away as Tristan’s warm mouth enveloped her taut, left nipple, and she arched her back, giving herself over to him as she fisted his hair. Her breathing grew deep and heavy as he took his time worshiping her breasts, drawing out and suckling with just enough pressure to make her tremble and yearn for more. He felt different tonight. Their wonton abandonment from before had swirled with something else, something more than the base physical need for pleasure or touch.
Ophelia closed her eyes and her mind to such a realization, and gave in fully to her need as Tristan’s worshipping mouth made its way over her ribs, down her abdomen, and to her sex. She gasped his name again when his reverent kisses brushed over that taut bundle of nerves between her legs, and she instinctively moved to spread her legs wider. Tristan stopped her though, gripping her calves and hitching them over his shoulders.
He kneaded her calves, sending another jolt of pleasure through her body before he possessively gripped her thighs and held her to his upper body. Soft whimpers began to pour from her throat as his skilled tongue began to tease that sensitive spot above her mons, and even as she started to gyrate her hips he did not relent. His tongue drove her higher, further toward the place of utter release she’d only felt once before- and then just as she felt as if she was about to teeter over the edge, Tristan slid his tongue further down, delving into her hot, wet center.
Ophelia’s mouth dropped into a wideOas her back arched on its own volition and her body began to spasm.
“Oh, God,” she breathed, her lashes fluttering as an entirely different sort of pleasure began to build.
“Not God,” Tristan rasped, then swirled his tongue in a way that made her see stars.“Me.Say my name, Ophelia.”
“Tristan.”
His name drew out on her next breath in a blind act of obedience.
In response a sinfully delicious sound erupted from Tristan’s throat, causing a flood to cascade from within.
“Oh my,” Tristan murmured, then lapped wickedly at her dewy center.
Ophelia opened her eyes and looked down just as he lifted his head; a handsomely devilish smirk spreading across his face as she felt his fingertips glide from her thigh to her core.
“What?” She breathed, then barely managed to fight the urge to let her eyes roll back as he sank his middle finger into her hot, tight, sheath.
“Flooding for me already,” Tristan’s deep voice mused, his eyes drifting down toward her most intimate parts.
Ophelia blushed, feeling suddenly exposed as his gaze fixed on that particular part of her. It was one thing to feel him there- but quite another to know that he was looking at her.
“You like something,” he taunted, slowly thrusting his middle finger in and out of her. “Something more than my tongue.”
Ophelia felt her blush grow hotter, scorching beyond her cheeks and down to her chest.
“I want to know what it is,” Tristan rasped.
Ophelia’s breath grew quicker as the rhythmic thrusting of his middle finger was sending delicious jolts of pleasure.
Now he wanted to talk?!
“Later,” she pled, moving her hands from his hair to the pillow beneath her head. She gripped hard at its edges and thrust her hips, wanting more, but Tristan’s hand moved from her thigh to her lower abdomen, pinning her in place and adding a heady pressure to her building release.
“I do not think so,” he teased, then lazily drew his tongue over her clitoris.
“Oh!” Ophelia gasped, bucking her pinned hips.
“I think you will tell me now,” he murmured, his finger moving a little faster inside her.
“No,” she whimpered, fighting against his command.
“Oh you will,” he coaxed, “Or I will stop.”
As he said so Tristan’s hand stilled, causing an immediate dropping sensation in Ophelia’s lower belly; suspending her perfectly between ecstasy and torture.
“Tristan, do not make me,” she pled, desperation filling her.
