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I shove him down onto the couch hard enough that he drops into the cushions with a rough exhale. Before he can recover, I’m climbing over him, straddling his lap, knees bracketing his hips as I crash my mouth back to his.

The kiss turns devastating and months of yearning pour into it. Every unanswered message, every night I refused to think about him, every time I told myself I was over this.

My hands frame his face, then slide into his hair, gripping tight as I kiss him deeper, messier, like I can crawl inside the heat of him and finally stop hurting.

Tristan’s hands find my waist, then my ass, pulling me down against him until there’s no space left. The feel of his bare skin against mine is almost too much. It’s familiar, and devastatingly addictive. I roll my hips once, just to feel him, and the sound he makes against my mouth sends an intense pulse of heat straight through me.

“Fuck—” he breathes, but I don’t let him finish.

I kiss him again, harder, pouring everything I can’t say into the way my mouth moves over his. His hands pull me closer like he’s afraid I’ll disappear again if he loosens his hold even slightly.

I missed him. God, I missed him so much it feels like it’s tearing through me all over again.

I break the kiss with a sharp inhale, forehead still pressed to his, both of us breathing hard.

Then I reach for the lube.

The cap clicks open. I pour a generous amount over both of us, watching the clear slick coat the hard length of his cock and then my own. Then I wrap both hands around us together, pressing our cocks flush, and stroke.

The sound that leaves Tristan is low and rough. Mine breaks on a gasp. The heat of him against me, the wet slide of my fists working us in the same rhythm, is almost too much after so long. I buck into the tight channel of my own hands, hips rolling without permission, chasing the friction like I might die without it.

Our eyes stay locked.

Neither of us speaks. We don’t need to. Everything we haven’t said to each other is right there in the way we look at each other—hunger, anger, relief, the raw edge of wanting someone so badly it hurts. His gaze is dark and glazed with pure heat, and I know mine must look the same.

I stroke us harder, twisting slightly at the top, and Tristan’s head tips back for half a second before he forces his eyes open again.

Then his hands close over mine.

“Stop,” he orders, voice wrecked. “Open yourself for me, spitfire.”

The command sends a full-body shiver through me.

I let go, and immediately his larger hands take over, wrapping around both of us, stroking with a firmer, more deliberate grip that makes my thighs tense around his hips. The sensation of his palm, his fingers, the controlled way he works our dick together while watching every reaction that crosses my face is devastating.

It feels too good.

I reach behind myself with one hand, still braced against his shoulder with the other, and press two slick fingers against my entrance. The stretch burns in the best way. I push them inside slowly, exhaling hard against his mouth as I start to open myself for him. The dual sensation of his hands stroking our cock and my own fingers working deeper into my hole makes my vision blur at the edges.

“Oh fuck…” The word leaves me broken.

Tristan’s grip tightens. His eyes never leave mine as I rock between the two points of pleasure. Every nerve feels lit up. Every breath comes shorter than the last.

I add a third finger, stretching myself further, and the low, punched-out sound Tristan makes tells me he’s watching every second of it.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “That’s my good boy.”

My heart stumbles at the praise.

I work myself open until the stretch feels right and until the burn fades into something needy, something that only one thing will fix. My fingers slide free. I don’t give either of us time to think.

I pull Tristan’s hands away from us, grip the base of his cock, and rise up on my knees. The blunt head of his cock presses against my hole, and for a second I just hold there, breathing hard, feeling the heat of him.

Then I start to sink down.

Slow.

Inch by inch.