Page 96 of Dirty Little Mistake

The corners of his lips lifted, predatory and patient. My hands found the hem of his shirt, trembling with want. "Don't tease me, woman." Each word dropped like honey, slow, and sweet with a warning.

I tugged his white polo up, and he shifted his weight, pulling each arm through until I tossed it to the side.

"Tell me what you want." His voice was rough, dark, and dangerous. He rolled his hips—slow, deliberate—the hard length of him pressing exactly where I needed him. The friction was exquisite torture—almost enough, nowhere near enough.

"I want—" The words crumbled on my tongue as his teeth found my neck. His hand skimmed up my thigh, each touch a match strike against my skin, building heat stroke by stroke.

"Say it." Command and plea tangled in those two words, his breath hot against my throat. His fingers climbed higher, tracing maddening patterns that had me arching and trembling. "I want to hear you say it."

"Fuck me." The words tumbled out raw, desperate. "Please, I need?—"

His growl vibrated against my throat. "Show me how much."

His lips found my throat—soft at first. Testing. Tasting. Then teeth grazed skin, and thoughts fractured into sensation.

Up my thigh, his fingers danced, each touch electric. Higher. Slower. Like he had forever to drive me mad.

When he nipped at my pulse point, pleasure sparked white-hot behind my eyes. His name caught in my throat—prayer and curse tangled into one desperate sound.

Need bloomed between my legs, hot and heavy and hungry. Every brush of his fingers closer to where I ached for him sent tremors through my core.

Not enough.

Not nearly enough.

But God, how perfectly he played this torture.

My hips moved, chasing his touch, showing him exactly how much I needed him right now until his hand dipped below my panty line, his fingers sliding through my slick flesh, teasing me. I bucked my hips into his hand, begging for more. The wave rushed in without warning, ice-cold water swirling around our tangled legs.

My whimper echoed over the tide, splashing around our feet as the pad of his finger found my clit applying the perfect amount of pressure that set my body on fire. My toes curled into the wet sand as my fingertips dug into his ribs.

My heart rate spiked when he slipped a finger inside me, filling me as his teeth grazed my throat, and his thumb continued its slow torture. He pumped in and out, and my breath hitched as I teetered on the edge of the explosion. My pussy clenched around his fingers, sucking him in when he added another finger. My abs tightened, and my legs trembled as he increased his speed, moving in a rhythm that made my body vibrate.

"Fuck," I cried out as my thighs clenched around his waist.

"Come all over my fucking hand, baby." And I did, barely having time to recover as his hands disappeared and his cock stroked my soaking wet flesh, his wide head hitting my sensitive clit. He positioned the tip of his cock at my entrance as his eyes met mine. "This pussy belongs to me." He thrust his hips forward, filling me as his lips traced my jawline. "Fuck… my cock fits this pussy perfectly."

"Oh my god," I moaned. He stilled inside me, and I thought I was going to lose it. I thrust my hips up, but his hips pinned mine to the sand. "Please, Trystan."

"Please, what, baby?" He breathed against my ear.

"Please fuck me," I moaned. "Please make me come."

The steady rhythm of waves faded beneath the erratic drumbeat of my pulse as his lips moved from my ear down my jawline back to my throat as he withdrew before slamming back into me over and over again, grinding a little deeper each time. Every thrust brought me closer and closer. My nerve endings sparked and fizzed like a live wire, each point of contact between us a new surge of electricity.

My back arched into him as I sucked in a choppy breath. My entire body tensed, and my toes curled deeper into the sand as I soared over the edge of ecstasy, and with one more thrust, Trystan followed me.

With our heavy breathing in sync, his body collapsed onto mine.

A laugh bubbled up as a wave splashed around us. "I don't think we are going to make it back to the party."

"Yeah, we both have that freshly fucked look."

Reality crashed back in with the sound of approaching voices—a cacophony of laughter and clinking bottles that shattered our bubble of solitude. Footsteps pounded against the weather-worn boardwalk, each thud matching my racing heart as our private world crumbled.

"They're moving the party to the beach." My voice cracked with panic as I shot upright, sand cascading from my clothes.

"Shit," Trystan muttered. We scrambled like guilty teenagers—clothes wet and disheveled, sand everywhere, trying to look like we hadn't just been fucking on the beach.

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