Tristan reaches for the back of his shirt, pulls it over his head in one clean motion, and drops it beside us. He toes out of his shoes, unbuttons his pants with a quiet, tentative glance at me—giving me every chance to pull back—then steps out of them like he’s shedding the last layer keeping us apart. The heat of his body hits me a second later, solid and overwhelming and exactly what I want.
Once he’s naked, my hands move before my courage catches up.
They start at his chest, tentative, like I’m asking a question I don’t quite know how to phrase. His skin is warm under my palms, solid, reassuring. I expect him to tense or correct me or take over completely, but he doesn’t. He stills, breath hitching, like my touch matters.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, voice low. “You’re doing perfect.”
Perfect. The word lands strange and heavy.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit, because honesty feels safer than pretending.
“You don’t have to,” he says. “Just tell me what you need.”
I laugh weakly, the sound brittle. “I don’t know that either.”
He smiles, not amused. Understanding. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”
That does something to me. Thetogetherof it. The lack of urgency. I’ve spent so long believing that desire is somethingyou either perform correctly or lose access to entirely. He makes it feel like a conversation instead of a test.
I slide my hands lower, exploring, fascinated again by how reactive he is to me. The way his breath changes. The way his body answers without hesitation. It’s intoxicating, realizing that I can cause that, that my touch isn’t a burden or a mistake.
“Min,” he whispers, like my name is something precious. “Look at me.”
I do. His eyes are dark, intent, and easy around the edges. There’s hunger there, yes, but it’s threaded through with care. He’s watching me like he’s making sure I’m still here with him.
“I want you,” I say, the words trembling but real. “Because you see me. And you don’t make me feel… wrong.”
Something flickers across his face. Vulnerable. Almost startled.
“You see me too,” he says quietly. “Nobody’s ever taken care of me the way you do. Not like this.”
He guides me back onto the bed, slow and deliberate, giving me every chance to change my mind. I don’t. Gently, he tugs my pants and panties off. I let him settle between my knees, his big hands warm and steady as they slide up the backs of my thighs, parting me gently, reverently. He pauses whenever my breath catches, eyes locked on mine, waiting for my nod before he moves again.
Every touch is a question. Every soft “okay?” against my skin is answered with a shaky yes.
When his mouth finally finds me, it’s nothing like the memories I’ve buried. There’s no rush, no demand—just devotion. He starts with the lightest press of his lips against my inner thigh, then the other, kissing his way closer as he memorizes me. When his tongue finally traces me, it’s one long, slow lick from entrance to clit, gentle and exploratory, like he’s savoring his first taste.
I gasp, fingers twisting in the sheets.
He hums, the vibration sending sparks up my spine, and does it again—slower this time, flattening his tongue, dragging it through my heat with deliberate care. My hips try to lift toward him, but his hands slide under me, cupping my ass, holding me exactly where he wants me.
“Easy, baby.” His breath is warm against me. “Let me take my time with you.”
He circles my clit with the lightest pressure, barely there, teasing until I’m trembling. Then he seals his lips around it and sucks gently—once, twice—before soothing it with slow licks that make my thighs shake against his shoulders.
I’m unraveling, breath coming in faint, broken sounds I didn’t know I could make. He notices every one. When I whimper, he hums again. When my fingers find his hair, he groans like my touch is the best thing he’s ever felt.
He slides one thick finger inside me, slow and careful, curling just right while his tongue keeps that ideal rhythm—circle, flick, suck, soothe. My back arches. The pleasure builds in slow, rolling waves, deeper than anything I’ve ever felt alone.
“That’s it.” His steady voice anchors me. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
He adds a second finger, stretching me gently, stroking that spot inside while his mouth never falters. The combination is overwhelming in the best way—too much and exactly enough all at once. I feel myself tightening, climbing, and he senses it, doubles his focus, tongue moving faster now, but still controlled.
When I come, it’s slow and shattering, rolling through me in pulses that leave me shaking and breathless. He doesn’t stop—stays right there, licking me softly through every aftershock, moaning like he’s addicted to the way I taste when I fall apart.
Only when I’m limp and oversensitive does he ease back, pressing gentle kisses to my thighs, my hipbones, working his way up my body until he’s hovering over me, dark and light all at once.
“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he whispers against my lips, letting me feel how soaked his mouth still is. “So responsive for me. So perfect. Gonna need to do that again soon, Min. Every damn day if you let me.”
