“So wet for me.”
She parted her legs, and together, they fell into a frantic rhythm of giving to each other. Felicity stared in awe as Tristan bucked his hips, his jaw flexing, cheeks flushing, muscles rippling all under her hands. He jerked, swearing and moaning her name, and then his release painted his lower stomach. Felicity watched it all in fascination.
He was exquisite, and he was hers, for now. For too little time. Another wave of rapture stole her breath, smaller, gentler, sweeter in its delicacy, as she floated down from it.
“A man’s release is rather crude. Not as lovely to watch as you, love.”
“No, I like it. It’s so... primal.” She reached out and touched a drop of pearly liquid, then she touched it to her tongue.
“Flick,” he said, shocked.
“I can’t taste you? That doesn’t seem fair.”
He sat up and cupped the back of her head, their mouths slamming together, tongues tangling, tasting their shared pleasure. Felicity was panting as they broke apart.
“There are moments when I think you are made for me, Flick.”
His words stunned her, and she didn’t know what to say. They etched on her heart and her throat tightened.
He got up and took a handkerchief from his coat and wipedhimself off, then he dampened a towel from her washbasin and wet it. He sat beside her and waited.
“Open for me.”
Felicity blushed as she parted her legs and Tristan gently cleaned her. Then he helped her dress and redressed himself.
Their intense moment was fast coming to an end, and she wasn’t ready for all the feelings that came after. His tenderness, his thrilling, filthy words—and now he had to leave. It felt wrong. He should be staying with her, holding her.
How did the ladies share so much of themselves like this with so many and not lose their heart each time? Because Tristan was certainly leaving with pieces of her. She’d exposed more than her body, and so had he.
“You are made for me.”
“I wish you didn’t have to go,” she said.
He turned back from the door. “We both know I can’t stay.”
“I know.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t want to, Flick.”
Her heart ached at his words. “I hate this.”
He strode back to her and cupped her face, his eyes solemn. “We knew it would get harder.”
“I didn’t know, Tristan.” Her throat tightened. “I didn’t know that the more I gave myself to you, the more I’d want to give. How is this going to work?” How was she ever going to feel this for another? She wouldn’t. When she left the Den, she’d be leaving her heart with him.
“It’s not,” he said. “That’s why it must end. You’ve given up so much to save yourself. I promise you will have the future you deserve.”
But it couldn’t include him. That was what he left unsaid. They were on different paths and soon they would veer apart and go their separate ways.
He kissed her forehead. “Goodnight, Flick.”
“Goodnight, Tristan.” He left and her heart split in two. She’d gone from feeling wonderful to dreadful as the door clicked shut, thankful he wouldn’t see the tears she was about to shed over losing him.
Chapter Thirteen
Tristan returned tohis rented rooms in the early morning. He should feel elated, satisfied, smug even. He should feel sated, with the taste of her fresh in his mind, his hands now familiar with every intimate corner of her body. But what he felt instead was loss. He was going to lose her.
Hugstead had to go and be the perfect match for Flick. Tristan didn’t have to ask the widow what was spinning through her diabolical mind when she made this match. He knew. It was obvious, even with his limited acquaintance with Hugstead, that he could offer Flick a comfortable, secure life. He was likeable, damn him. One of the better men Tristan had met in his work for the widow.
