Tristan’s heartbeat slows beneath my cheek. His skin is warm, and his hand is gently stroking down my back in lazy, reverent lines that make me feel more than safe—I feel wanted. Not just for what I gave him, but for me.
And that changes everything.
He cups my jaw, thumb sweeping across my swollen bottom lip, smearing the mess there.
“You don’t have to finish.”
I shake my head. “I want to know what you taste like when you come.”
His eyes go black. “Minerva.”
“I want it in my mouth.” Despite my burning cheeks, my voice stays steady. “Please.”
The word please undoes him.
He sits up straighter against the headboard, hand sliding into my hair, not pushing, just anchoring.
“Then take what you need, baby. I’m yours.”
I dive back down with new purpose, lips sealing tight, hand pumping in time with my mouth. I take him deeper than before, letting him hit the back of my throat once, twice, tears pricking my eyes from the stretch, but I don’t stop. I want it too much.
He’s chanting my name now, low and desperate.
“Fuck, Min, your mouth, so hot, so tight, gonna come, baby, gonna—”
His hips stutter. I pull up just enough to keep the head between my lips and suck hard, tongue working the underside.
He comes with a guttural groan, pulsing hot and thick across my tongue. I swallow on instinct, again and again, until he’s spent, until the last shudder leaves his body and his hand in my hair goes limp and trembling.
I pull off slowly, licking him clean because I can’t help it, then crawl up his body. He hauls me into his chest, arms banding around me, face buried in my neck.
“Holy fuck,” he breathes against my skin, voice hoarse. “You just wrecked me good.”
I hide my smile against his throat, tasting him still. “Data collected. Hypothesis confirmed: you taste even better than I calculated.”
He laughs, shaky and stunned, and kisses me deep and filthy, not caring that he’s still on my tongue. “Stay right here. I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”
I curl into him, warm and triumphant and utterly, perfectly his.
Kepler can sleep in his crate tonight.
Chapter Fourteen
Tristan
I can’t bake for shit. Never have, probably never will. I get the baking soda mixed up with the baking powder, I end up mixing too much or too little, I fuck up my ratios, and I inevitably end up with a goopy, inedible mess that is somehow both burned and raw. I don’t know how the folks on theGreat British Baking Showdo it. I once exploded an angel food cake in my oven. If Paul Hollywood had seen that abomination, he would have had me dragged straight to the guillotine, or whatever execution devices the Brits are known for. Maybe the rack.
So baking isn’t an option, but I keep thinking about what Minerva said, about making things with her hands. About love. Whenever I eat her food, or I go through the highly detailed charts she puts together, or open the luggage she packed just so, I have proof that she’s paying attention to my needs. As my assistant, I appreciate her attention to detail. As my… friend with benefits? Situationship? Regardless of the label, I want to do something for her that makes her feel as cared for as I do.
I want her to feel treasured. Not tolerated. Not handled. Treasured.
But what am I supposed to do for the woman who thinks of everything?
The answer comes to me after an away game while I’m doomscrolling on my phone. Since meeting Kepler, I’ve sought out the occasional ferret video, so they pop up in my feed from time to time. I watch one featuring a mama and her kits, which look like tiny hair sausages. Then, a video of two adults learning to use the talking buttons designed for dogs and cats. Then—
I sit bolt upright in bed, clutching my phone in both hands. “Yes. Holy shit, yes. That’s perfect.”
Flopping onto my back again, I bookmark the video for later. I’ll have time to sketch out my idea on the flight back to Vegas. I can’t bake to save my life, but this, I can do.
