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The stretch is intense, full, and almost overwhelming. A broken curse escapes my lips as I take more of him, thighs trembling with the effort to control the descent. Tristan’s hands fly to my hips, gripping hard, but he doesn’t rush me. He just holds on, jaw tight, watching my face as if he’s memorizing every second of this.

When I finally bottom out—when he’s buried inside me to the hilt—we both curse at the same time.

“Fuck—”

The sound of his voice mixes with mine. The sensation of being occupied by him again after so long hits harder than I expected. It’s not just physical. It’s the deep, perfect fullness I’ve been trying not to remember. The way my body recognizes him instantly, clenching around the thick heat of him like it never learned how to forget.

I stay still for a moment, adjusting, breathing through the intensity of it. My forehead drops against his.

“Fuck, baby,” Tristan rasps, voice wrecked. “You’re killing me.”

A shaky breath leaves me. I roll my hips once, testing, and the drag of him inside me pulls a low sound from both of us.

“Good,” I manage, almost against his mouth. “You’ve kept me waiting long enough.”

Then I start to move.

I rise up slowly and sink back down, taking every inch of him again. I set a steady rhythm, hands braced on his shoulders, using my thighs to lift and drop, chasing the exact angle that makes sparks shoot up my spine.

Tristan’s grip on my hips tightens. He thrusts up to meet me halfway, and the force of it punches a moan out of my throat.

I ride him harder, eyes open, refusing to look away as raw, desperate and long-overdue pleasure builds between us.

The wet sound of it fills the quiet apartment. Every time I take him to the hilt, heat sparks low in my gut and spreads outward until my thighs shake with the effort of controlling it. His fingers dig hard enough to bruise as he continues matching my pace with hard, powerful snaps of his hips that make me tremble.

“Yes, spitfire,” he rasps, his voice dark with praise as he watches me. “Ride that cock like it’s yours. Fuck, look at you.”

His words and our eye contact make everything more intimate. More dangerous. I roll my hips on the next downward stroke, grinding against him so the head of his cock presses exactly where I need it, and he groans while a broken sound tears out of my throat.

“You feel so fucking good,” Tristan grunts, one hand sliding up my spine and fisting in my hair. He pulls just enough to tip my head back. “I’ve missed you. I’ve fucking missed you.”

I bite my lip to stop myself from telling him all my emotions. To stop myself from confessing how missing him has caused me a full mental breakdown, how losing him has cost me my own sanity.

So I keep riding him harder, fiercer. The impact of my body meeting his in every thrust sends an unbearable rush of pleasure through me. My cock bounces between us, leaking steadily onto his stomach with every movement.

“That’s my good boy,” he murmurs against my throat, the words rough and approving as he keeps driving up into me without mercy. “Use me spitfire. Show me how much you needed this. Don’t fucking stop.”

My thighs burn. My cock aches. The full, relentless stretch of him inside me after three long months feels like both punishment and relief.

But I don’t stop.

I keep riding him, chasing the building pressure, letting the raw need between us dictate every movement. His hands are everywhere—gripping my hips, stroking up my sides, pulling me down harder onto his cock. I give it right back, rolling my hips with deliberate intent, clenching around him just to hear the low, punched-out sound he makes when I do.

“Holy shit,” I curse. “Tristan, I think I’m close.”

“I know.” His forehead presses to mine, breath hot and uneven. “Come for me baby, I’ve got you.”

The words push me over.

My orgasm hits hard and sudden, ripping through me in long, violent waves. I cry out against his mouth as I spill between us, thick ropes striping his stomach and chest. My body clamps down around him, pulsing tight with every spurt, the intensity almost too much.

“Fuck! Maksim…”

Tristan follows right after me.

His grip turns bruising as he thrusts up one last time and buries himself to the hilt. I feel him break—the hot, heavy pulse of him emptying deep inside me, filling me in thick, rhythmic surges. A low, guttural sound tears from his throat as he holds me down on his cock, riding out every last pulse while my own orgasm is still shuddering through me.

We stay locked together, shaking, breathing hard. I collapse forward against his chest, my forehead dropping to his shoulder, still trembling around him. His arms wrap around me immediately, one hand sliding into my hair, the other pressing firmly against my lower back, keeping me close as the aftershocks fade.