Page 71 of False Heir

The concern in his voice, always so present when it came to me and our unborn children, made me love him more—if that was even possible. I smiled and nodded, shifting to lie on the couch, my body curling slightly to accommodate the swell of my belly.

Tristan moved behind me, spooning me with a care that contradicted the raw desire I saw flash in his eyes moments before. His hands, those strong, commanding hands that could orchestrate the rise and fall of empires, now caressed my belly tenderly. The juxtaposition of his power and gentleness never ceased to amaze me.

One hand continued its tender caress on my abdomen while the other slid down between my legs again, rekindling the fire that had barely dimmed. He positioned himself carefully, entering me slowly. Every push, every careful movement was measured, considerate—designed to bring us both pleasure without compromising my well-being or that of our babies.

“Is this good?” Tristan’s low rumble tickled my ear.

I moaned softly, pressing back against him, feeling every line and angle of his body as if it were my own. “Yes,” I assured him, my voice shaky with the waves of pleasure that were beginning to crest within me. “It’s perfect.”

Tristan moved with a restraint that was all the more potent because I knew the strength he held in check. For me. For us. For the future that grew more certain with every beat of our hearts. The outside walls might be cold with winter’s touch, but inside, warmth bloomed.

I reached back, fingers weaving through Tristan’s short hair, anchoring myself to the moment, to him. There was a rhythm to this, to the way he was fucking me, to the way he breathed against my ear.

The sensations spiraled, coiling tighter like the intricate patterns of the ink on his skin, each line telling a story of who he was, who we were together.

With each deliberate movement, Tristan ensured my comfort, his hands a constant presence that both claimed and cherished. The power he wielded elsewhere, here it was wielded for my pleasure, for our mutual surrender to the moment.

“Your pussy feels so fucking good,” Tristan whispered in my ear.

And then, as if a dam within me burst, I unraveled under his touch, my voice ringing out into the late evening air, calling his name like a sacred incantation.

And then he was coming too.

His body stiffened behind me, his grip tightening as he groaned my name, the sound echoing through the silence of the room. His final thrusts were deep, powerful, pushing us both over the edge into the realm of sweet release.

Our breaths came in ragged pants. Tristan’s chest pressed against my back, his heartbeat matching mine in a rhythm that spoke volumes about our connection. His arms closed around me protectively, one hand still cradling our unborn children through the fabric on my top.

“Better?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “As long as we can stay here forever, I think everything will be okay.”

Chapter Thirty: Tristan

I watched Adriana curl up on the couch, her short dark hair framing her face like the halo of a saint who had seen too much. The weight of our world faded away as she bit her lip in anticipation.

“Can you go again?” I asked, already knowing the answer from the fevered look in her eyes.

“Tristan,” she breathed out, her voice laced with hunger and a hint of desperation, “all I think about is you fucking me.”

I positioned myself behind her again, feeling the heat from her body beckoning me closer. My hands found her swollen belly, a sign of the new lives we created—lives that were both a miracle and a complication in the treacherous world we inhabited. As I cradled the promise of our future, I slid into her slowly.

“Tristan...” Her voice broke, a whisper of vulnerability that clung to the charged air of the hideaway apartment. My name on her lips felt like a prayer, an invocation of raw need that resonated deep within my bones.

I eased into a rhythm, the kind that whispered of patience and reverence. Adriana’s breath hitched as I moved within her, my hand splayed across her abdomen, feeling the rise and fall with each shared breath. The late afternoon light failed to penetrate the curtains of our Boston hideaway, granting us the anonymity that twilight offered—a shield from prying eyes and the ever-looming gaze of the Callahan Domain.

“Tristan,” she murmured again, the sound laced with pleasure that echoed off the walls of our secret sanctuary. My grip tightened as I set a deliberately slow pace.

Her back arched slightly, pressing against me, inviting a deeper connection. Her skin was warm beneath my touch, a contrast to the cool leather of the couch. She moaned softly, a crescendo of ecstasy building within her as I maintained the slow, purposeful cadence that centered wholly on her satisfaction.

“Good?” I managed to ask, my voice rougher than I intended, betraying the intensity of my own pleasure.

“More than good,” she gasped out, her words punctuated by another low moan that shot straight through me. I could feel her body tensing, her muscles clenching around me as I guided her towards the brink. Her hands clutched at the cushions, her fingers digging into the soft fabric as if anchoring herself to the moment.

“You close?”

“Tristan, please,” she pleaded, her tone threaded with a raw need that matched my own.

“Anything for you, Ade,” I promised, my movements becoming more insistent, fueled by the desire to watch her unravel beneath me. Her response was immediate; she writhed with abandon, her body greeting every thrust with an eagerness that spilled over into impassioned cries.

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