He shoves back down my throat, my pussy clenching in response. Spit gathers at the corner of my lips, and tears spill from my eyes. I accidentally swallow around his cock, but that only makes him groan.
His fingers tighten in my hair, but I don’t have a chance to yelp.
I take him as deep as I can, swallowing his cum, which seems to go on forever. When his hips stop moving—when he’s let out every bit of pleasure—he brushes my hair back, his cock stillin my mouth.
He nods, and I tear my mouth away from him, only to begin cleaning his cock. Only after I’m finished do I finally sit back on my heels.
Tristan keeps brushing my hair out of my face, his chest lifting and falling with deep breaths.
I’m completely wet, my thighs squeezing tight, as I stare up at him.
“Go eat your breakfast,” he tells me, pointing to a chair.
My shoulders sag, but Tristan isn’t joking. He pulls his sweatpants up, turning back to the stove and picking the spatula up like nothing’s happened.
“Go sit down,” he says over his shoulder.
I think about crawling, not because I’m that sexually depraved. The adrenaline of my high has begun to fade, a sleepy feeling taking over. I’m jolted back awake when I standand feel my arousal sliding down my legs. I sit down carefully, knowing I’m soaking the wooden chair.
I have no idea how Tristan didn’t burn the food, but he brings me a plate, pressing a kiss to my forehead. He ignores the hopeful look on my face.
“Eat,” is all he says.
“So were you drunk or something when you got your piercings?” I ask, munching on toast.
Tristan laughs, bringing me a cup of orange juice. When he’s in the kitchen, he’s just like Abe. Back and forth, putting the guest first, loading them up with food and drink.
“It might have been a decision made after a night of drinking,” he admits, pouring himself coffee. He sets it on the table, pulling out a chair. A second later he nods, and I all but jump into his lap.
He settles me and then pulls my plate over, reminding me to eat. I hate to break it to him, but I’m not interested in eggs and bacon right now.
“How long have you had it?” I ask.
He grimaces. “Almost ten years.”
I pat his face. “You’re going to be an old man with a Jacob’s ladder.”
He makes another face.
“That’s hot,” I tell him. “I’m sorry, I’m messing up your sweatpants.”
I hope he takes the hint and plays with my pussy.
He drinks his coffee instead. “I was with the Irish.”
“You let the Irish convince you to get a Jacob’s ladder?” It’s not in me to share intimate details about the men I’m fucking, but I just know Ren would die of surprise if I ever told her this tidbit.
He takes another gulp of coffee, his arm tightening around my waist, toying with the hem ofmy shirt.
“You ever speak to the Irish?” I ask, learning my lesson not to beg. “I know you worked for them.”
He used to be on their payroll, opting to work directly instead of with an intermediary like Ren.
“I didn’t burn any bridges,” he says, and my breathing stills when his finger skims my pussy. “I had things to handle as the Ghost.”
With the lightest touch, he circles my clit before shoving two fingers deep. I accommodate him easily; I’m so ready for it, but I can’t help the whimper that comes out of me.
“I didn’t want to be a triggerman all my life,” he admits. “It’s decent work, but I wanted to be my own boss. The syndicates like either working with their own or going somewhere like Fujimori’s.”
