Page 65 of The Temporary Bride

Before I can find the words for it, my orgasm hits, my whole body clenching and then releasing in waves that roll through me one after another. My thighs clamp around his head as I cry out into the quiet living room, the sound of it mixing with the old Hollywood score still playing from the TV. He keeps going, drawing out each surge of pleasure until I’m shaking and gasping, completely wrung out as I slump against the cushions.

He finally pulls back and looks up at me from between my legs, his face flushed, his hair mussed from my hands. There’s a gleam of satisfaction in his blue eyes, and I’m a little embarrassed to note that his chin is completely wet.

“Still feeling your ankle?” he asks. “Tell me the truth.”

I take stock as my pulse slowly returns to normal. The ankle is there, a dull throb at the edge of my awareness. “A little,” I admit.

“Got it.” He smirks and drops his head again.

My clit is sensitive from the first climax, and I gasp at the contact. He backs off a little, slowing down and building back up until I start to chase his touch again. Then he holds my hips and starts to eat me out in earnest again, as if he didn’t just do this already.

“Tristan,” I breathe, my fingers finding his hair again.

He hums against me in response and keeps going.

The second orgasm takes longer to build, which somehow makes it more intense when it finally arrives, cresting over me in a long, rolling wave that leaves me limp and boneless against the cushions. I lie there staring at the ceiling, my chest heaving, my legs trembling, while he presses soft kisses to the inside of my thigh and gives me a minute to recover.

Then he starts again.

By the third time, I’ve stopped being embarrassed about the sounds I’m making. By the fourth, I’ve stopped being capable of much coherent thought at all. My body feels exhausted in the best possible way, every muscle worked past the point of tension into something loose and warm and heavy. I’m dimly aware of the movie still playing, but I have no idea what scene it is.

“One more,” he murmurs against my pussy, and I make a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

“I… oh fuck, I can’t,” I tell the ceiling.

“You can.”

He drags his tongue slowly through my folds, and my hips rise to meet him without any input from me at all. He slides his fingers back inside me, curling them as he flicks my clit with his tongue. I can feel his breath when he speaks, his voice vibrating through me.

“Come on your husband’s face.”

It sounds like a command, but there’s an edge of something like a plea in the words. Heat spikes through me so fast it knocks the breath from my lungs, and I give him exactly what he wants.

Chapter 22

Tristan

Chloe comes hard, crying out my name, her body shaking through it. I keep my mouth on her, working her through every last wave, my hands flat on her thighs to hold her steady as she trembles beneath me.

Her fingers are twisted in my hair, her hips rolling against my face, and I let her, focused entirely on drawing it out as long as possible. My cock has been pressing painfully against my pants for the better part of an hour, but I ignore it. Right now, the only thing that matters is her.

When she finally goes still beneath me, her grip on my hair loosening and her breathing starting to slow, I press one soft kiss to her clit. She shudders hard, her thighs jerking together around my head, a small broken sound escaping her.

“How’s the ankle?” I ask, leaning back to look up at her.

She stares at the ceiling, chest still heaving, one arm thrown over her face. “What ankle?”

I laugh at that, genuinely, and take a moment to just look at her before I shift and pull her legs carefully into my lap. She’s spread out across the couch cushions, flushed from her chest to her hairline, her hair a complete mess—and I really, really like it. I make sure not to jostle her injured ankle as I settle her legs across my thighs.

She lifts her head to look at me, blinking slowly. “What are you doing?”

I nod toward the TV, where Bogart is still holding court. “We haven’t finished the movie.”

She glances down at herself, taking in the fact that she’s wearing absolutely nothing, then looks back up at me. “Like this?”

“Yes,” I tell her simply and start working my thumb into the arch of her uninjured foot, easing the tight muscles there.

She bites her lip, something between shy and amused crossing her face, and I brace for the argument. But she just lets her head drop back against the armrest with a small exhale. A few seconds later, when my thumb finds a particularly tight spot and works into it, she makes a soft sound of pleasure.