“I always knew you were kinky,” I muttered. I felt him chuckle deliciously against my collarbone. With no sight, that small contact made me shiver from head to toe.

“This isn’t for me, Danika. This is for you. To really let go, you need to give up control. All of it. Every bit.” He punctuated every sentence with a soft kiss against my flesh, starting at my neck, to my collarbone, and moving down to the center of my chest, kissing directly down the center of me, across my ribs, into my naval, nuzzling there.

I writhed, my legs shifting in restless motions, trying to find his legs, wanting so much more than just his mouth on me.

He stilled me with a firm hand to the thigh, and I went nearly limp when I felt his chest press down against me, his lower body slipping between my legs, pushing them wide, then wider.

His hand gripped over my other thigh, sliding to my inner thigh to spread them farther.

I gasped as he pressed his lips to my lower belly, kissing, then licking, then sucking just hard enough to startle me.

He grazed over my hipbone with his teeth, licking over the crease that led into my thigh. He lingered at the spot just where my groin met my thigh, suckling there.

“Tristan,” I gasped, bucking.

He lifted his mouth just enough to murmur against my skin. “Tell me, Danika. Tell me what you want.”

“I—I want your mouth on me.”

“Be more specific.”

“I want your mouth on my, my…”

“Pussy. Say, I want your mouth on my pussy.”

“I want your mouth on my pussy.”

“Please,” he prompted.

“I want your mouth on my pussy, please.”

I swore I felt him smile against my skin, but finally, mercifully, he moved his mouth into the center of me, moving his clever tongue along my cleft and to my clit, making those quick, tiny little circles.

He did this, staying with single-minded purpose on that one spot, with that one contact, until I was just close enough to that fine edge to be frustrated.

“Tristan,” I moaned.

He spoke against me, his voice so low and gravelly that it vibrated against me, teasing me further. “Did you need something else?”

“Your hands. I want your fingers inside of me, please.”

The moment the please left my mouth, he was shoving two fingers inside of me. I was slick, and they slid right in. He pushed them deep, dragging them out, working into a rhythm, his tongue working those agonizing circles that drove me wild.

He had me where he wanted me, mindless, gasping, and letting go as I came, crying out his name, again, and again.

His weight left me briefly, and then he was sliding over me, skin against skin.

He lined himself up at my entrance, pushing in just the tip. He shocked me as he rammed in to the hilt, his size still so overwhelming. But there was no pain. He’d judged it perfectly. I was ready for him.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped into my ear as he started up his hard, driving strokes. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” I was too weak to deny him anything, even absolution. And when he’d driven me to the edge again, rocking into me, again and again, his mouth on my neck, I couldn’t hold back those three devastating words. “I love you.”

He came, pouring into me with a rough groan that formed into my name, bringing me with him in steady thrusts.

He said the pasta was unsalvageable, and had to make fresh.

He pulled on his jeans, not bothering to button them, and I threw on his T-shirt, which came to mid-thigh on me.

He tugged me into the kitchen, setting me on the counter for our usual kitchen routine, if in a different kitchen.

He set the water to boiling, and came back to me, cupping my cheeks, his eyes so soft. I didn’t even want him to talk. His eyes were too perfect like that. They told me everything I wanted to know.

We made out like teenagers while he cooked.

He fit his hips between my thighs and took my mouth with slow, drugging kisses, his big hands cupping my face with the lightest touch.

He pulled back, touching his forehead to mine. “You’re so beautiful. Most beautiful girl in the world.”

“Oh, God, you’re going to make me lose my lunch,” an unwelcome voice burst out from the entrance to the kitchen.

Tristan straightened, shooting Dean a very unfriendly look.

“Get a room,” Dean muttered, rolling his eyes. He strode to the fridge, grabbed a beer out, and twisted the cap off.

“Some privacy, Dean,” Tristan ordered, his voice hard.

“Fuck you, man. This is the kitchen. You don’t get privacy in the kitchen.”

“You owe me, after that little scene earlier with your topless parade. Now give us some privacy.”

“You’d already fucked both members of the topless parade within the past week. I really didn’t think you’d be offended if one of them came to get me a beer without a shirt on. When did you turn into a fucking prude, Tryst?”

A few short sentences killed my good mood. We weren’t exclusive then, I told myself. It still hurt. And I had to wonder if and when Tristan would hurt me like that again.

Tristan took Dean’s words even worse than I did. He moved across the room, crowding the other man against the refrigerator. He stabbed a finger into the smaller man’s chest. “Watch your fucking mouth, and listen carefully. If you disrespect my girl again, we are going to have a problem.”

“Me? I’m disrespecting her? Would you say I’ve been more or less disrespectful than you when you were fucking everything in sight for the past two weeks? Does she know about that?”

I saw Tristan’s hands clenching into fists, and I was moving before I knew I was doing it. I ran to him, hugging him from behind, and pulling hard.

He let me take him back, and back, until my butt was hitting the counter.

“Please don’t,” I whispered, my cheek plastered to his shoulder blade.

Tristan pointed at Dean, and his voice was shaking with fury when he spoke. “None of this is any of your fucking business, but I will educate you just this once. She and I weren’t together then, but we are now. And if you can’t behave properly in her presence, you know where the fucking door is. That’s all you need to know.”

Dean threw his hands up in the air, looking annoyed, just how he’d started, as though the entire exchange hadn’t affected him a bit.

“Now give us some privacy,” Tristan growled.

Dean left without another word.

Tristan turned into me, lifting me back onto the counter. His mouth came down on mine, hungry and hard. His hands were everywhere, one slipping under his shirt to grip my ass, the other slipping up to tug at my nipple.

I gasped when he slipped between my legs, and his bared erection slid along my wet cleft.

I turned my head away, breaking the kiss. “Tristan! We can’t…not here. There’s no privacy.”

“He won’t come back,” he said hoarsely into my ear, pushing that first delicious inch inside of me.

“It’s still—ah—the kitchen…oooh.”

He shoved into me hard, pulling my hips to the edge of the counter for a better angle.

“Watch us. Watch my cock sliding into you, sweetheart. It’s too perfect.”

I glanced down. He’d lifted my shirt, and pulled his jeans down just enough to bare him. I watched his thick hardness pushing into me with breathless fascination.

His mouth took mine when he was seated to the hilt, but he ended the kiss abruptly, his eyes moving down to his cock dragging out of me. I couldn’t help it, my gaze following his. I moaned at the sight and feel of that heavy pull.

“Feels so good,” I gasped.

“Feels like heaven,” he growled, taking my mouth again.

One of those magic hands slid down, rubbing my clit in perfect little circles that brought me over the edge.

He followed with a rough shout.

“There’s no way Dean didn’t hear that,” I told him when I finally had my breath back.

He ignored my statement, pulling out of me. “Hopefully I didn’t destroy another batch of ravioli. I’m starved.”

That was a change of subject if ever I’d heard one. I watched him drain the pasta, trying to think a clear thought. He was so good at distracting me from absolutely everything but him.

He brought a ravioli to my lips. “Try it. You’ll like it.”

“I’m not a big fan of simple carbs,” I told him, but I took a bite.

He gave my mouth a brief kiss as I chewed. He was right, they were good. Maybe not homemade Tristan good, but certainly the best frozen pasta I’d ever tried.

He made us one huge plate to share, tugging me into his room. He started a bath, feeding me pieces of ravioli between tasks.

He dragged off my T-shirt and his jeans, tugging me into the bathtub while we were still eating.

“Really? Pasta in the bath? I’m going to feel like a bloated whale when we’re done.”

He just smiled, popping another piece into my mouth. He settled my back to his front, kissing my temple.

We finished the plate of food before he spoke.

“I know this is probably a sore subject, but I just wanted to explain myself.”

“Okay,” I said carefully, not sure I wanted to hear it just then. My heart felt very tender.

“I was a bastard after we fought. I…regret some of the things I did, and I’m sorry. I basically went on a two week binge. I don’t think I had a sober moment. I thought I could get you out of my system, but I learned that it doesn’t work like that. And I just want to be very clear about this. Now that I’ve made you promises, there is no chance that it will happen again. Okay?”

I nodded, the back of my head rubbing against his chest with the motion. “Okay,” I whispered, feeling a little at sea. The way I felt about him, I had to wonder what I would do if he went back on his word. Would I have the strength to walk away from him? I honestly didn’t know. I felt too wrapped up in him to ever walk away willingly.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

We were nearly inseparable after that. He slept at Bev’s house with me almost every night. He kept up his hard living, all hours lifestyle, and I was so completely obsessed with him, that I kept it with him.

We drank too much, slept too little, and had more sex in a two week period than I’d ever had in my life.

I was so infatuated that I fell asleep next to him, and still dreamed of him, as though being apart, even in sleep, just wasn’t an option for my lovesick brain.

The curve of his smile, the shape of his dimples, the twinkle in his golden eyes, made my heart race, every single time. The way he looked at me, his possessive touch, the way we made love, had me wrapped around his little finger. There was no question—I’d never been so in love. In fact, the way I felt around Tristan made me question if I’d ever even been in love before at all. Loving him was like that; so out of control that it was hard to imagine there could be anything to compare.

He never said he loved me back, even though I said it all the time, but I felt more loved than I ever had before, and that was enough for me.

I’d never considered myself to be a jealous person before, but there was no doubt that I was with Tristan. Women noticed him. Often. And many weren’t subtle about it. That was bad enough, but what really made me lose it was the few times when we ran into women that he’d actually slept with. When that happened, I turned into a nut job. I knew that I did, and still, I couldn’t seem to stop my knee jerk reaction.