He nods, like he expected this response.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, noting the wheels turning in the back of his mind.
I agree to his alterations before he’s finishedexplaining. At the end of the day, Hadrian and I are fucked up people for two reasons—our version of justice is different, and we’re petty as fuck.
Hadrian’s eyes narrow in brotherly concern on Tristan's and my intertwined hands as we leave the cathedral.
I know Hadrian and my sister had a moment in time. But she wasn’t his be all, end all.
He’s always been free to move on, but all these years later he’s never made a move on the person he’s coveted the most. I really wish he would.
“You okay?” Tristan asks as we head to the car.
I nod. “We’re only left with the Spider.”
Tristan squeezes my hand.
The safe house isn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but that’s probably because Tristan moved me here after a near death experience. I don’t miss my bed or my soft, light blue sheets I always washed with a particularly good smelling detergent. None of those things matter, at least not as much as my sensitive ass would have thought, because Tristan is next to me.
My hand reaches out, tracing a winding tattoo around his rib cage.
He’s on his back, one arm slung over his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that,” he says in a hoarse voice.
“Like what?” I mumble, pushing my face into my pillow.
He didn’t let me have a beer earlier, and he shoots me a look but says nothing when I slide closer.
When we kiss, I realize just how long it’s been without feeling his lips. There’d been a quick interaction during my foggiest time, a moment to relieve the most basic urge.
It wasn’t nearly enough.
His tongue slides into my mouth, his head lifting as we kiss. I lean back, thinking I’ve done enough to tease him into something more enticing. He doesn’t follow my movements. He remains on his back, his arm tugging me back toward him.
I make a little noise, dissatisfied he won’t go with my plan.
“You started this,” he replies, forcing me upright until I straddle his waist. He tucks one hand under his head, staring up at me expectantly.
I pout, but he only lifts an eyebrow and then forces my T-shirt over my head. Vulnerable in my nakedness, I lean over, kissing him everywhere. His lips, his cheeks, down his collarbone. His cock hardens, one of his hands running over my waist, but otherwise he lies back and lets me do all the work.
When I make an annoyed noise under my breath, he merely smirks. But he does run his hand over my pussy, grinding his palm against my clit.
“Come on,” he orders. His hands run up and down my ribcage, careful over the bandage on my side. His fingers graze my nipples, which demand attention.
He helps me position myself, and when I sink down on his cock, it’s worth it to see his reaction. He throws his head back and hisses under his breath.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I’m really sorry.”
He forces my movements, his hands directing the way I roll my hips. “For what, Isolde? Running off with a guy you knew wanted to kill you. For killing him? For being out of it the past week? What are you sorry about, Iz?”
I bite my lips, the piercings on his cock rubbing my insides. “Please, play with my ass.”
He raises a brow at the demand.
“P-please,” I beg, head bowing as my hips canter and I grind myself on his cock.
His hands tease my pussy, spreading my arousal. Histhumb circles my ass, stretching me. “Tell me what you’re sorry about.”
Heat burns through me. Love and devotion and a sense of shame. “I’m sorry, I struggle to let you in sometimes.”
