Page 33
A shadow flashes in his eye, and for a split second, he stills beneath me. Then his gaze hardens into pure challenge, defiant as a flame in a hurricane.
“YOU’RE A MORON, TRISTAN SINCLAIR,” he bites out, venom coating every syllable.
A slow smile curves across my mouth before I can suppress it. This one isn’t the amused or kind type; this one is dark and dangerous.
My hands release their grip on his jaw just enough, and then I slap him across the face. It’s not hard enough to injure, but hard enough to sting. His head turns with the impact, more from surprise than force.
He freezes.
So I do it again.
The second lands just as clean.
The third is slower.
Each one meant less to hurt and more to command, and the shock blooming in his eyes is exquisite, a drug that hooks deep into my veins.
A devilish satisfaction curls my mouth as the fourth slap lands harder enough to sting more and enough to mean something. It rips a sound out of him.
The sound that leaves him isn’t anger or pain. It’s a broken, seductive groan, and it shoots straight through me.
His hips jerk upwards instinctively, colliding with mine, and the friction sends a violent surge of heat down my spine. A betrayal of need that mirrors my own treacherous pulse. And my breath catches before I can stop it.
He’s hard.
The realization hits me like a fist.
And worse—
So am I.
“Again,” he rasps, his voice low and wrecked, needy as a prayer in hell. “Please, Tristan.”
My control fractures.
I tilt my head slightly, studying him, trying to understand what the hell he’s turning me into, what the hell he’s always turned me into.
Then I slap him again.
His moan spills out immediately this time, unrestrained, wrecked, and the sound goes straight to my dick, dragging an ache out of me. His hips roll against mine again, desperate, shameless, chasing friction like he needs it to breathe.
My hand snaps back to his jaw, gripping hard and forcing his glazed eyes to meet mine.
“Don’t,” I warn, my voice rough, barely recognizable. “Don’t make me lose control with you.”
But he doesn’t stop.
He never stops.
His eyes lock onto mine, dark, hungry and unafraid.
“More, Tristan,” he begs, pupils blown wide, voice a shattered plea. “Please.”
My name on his mouth destroys what little restraint I have left. I don’t know when it stopped being anger. I don’t know when the rough edges between us softened into heat.
All I know is that I am on top of him, hard, furious, and losing every ounce of discipline I have spent my entire life building.
And he’s looking at me as if he wants me to, like he needs me to.
