Page 67 of Antihero
He reaches under and down, cupping me, finding me wet. He responds to that with a growl against my nape. I’m gasping, clutching his arm, my knees already weak as he slides a finger against my slickness. “Liar,” he coos, slipping two fingers inside me, the heel of his hand pressing on my apex.
Blind, I can only writhe in his grasp, happily helpless. Until he removes his hand. I nearly lurch, losing that sensation. But his words immediately spark what I’d lost. “I want you on your knees.” Hand weighing on my shoulder, he guides me down to the soft rug, following, nudging my knees apart. He pushes between my shoulder blades, the nighty bunched around my waist, exposing my ass as my face comes down against the rug. He kneels close behind me. I burn with need for him, bumping backwards, needing and inviting. I feel him undoing his pants,but before he enters me, he braces a hand on the floor in front of my shoulder, the other curling under by waist to cup my breast as it points to the floor.
“Please…” I whimper, his tough sending shivers through me.
“Mm, because you asked so nicely…”
He nudges where I’m open, ready for him, sliding in an inch. My mouth opens, and I don’t care if I’m drooling into the carpet as he dives that bit further, than further, further, until he’s flush inside me, and I can’t seem to catch my breath despite my panting. A few thrusts, and I’m crying out, fuelled by his own grunts, pressing back hard to meet him.
“Touch yourself,” he orders.
I do, finding myself slick. I stretch my fingers to feel where he enters me, sliding slowing out, then thrusting back in. Near screaming just from that, I find my own point of pleasure, and my free hand winds into the fur of the rug, clutching on as though I’ll lift straight off if I don’t. But he grounds me too, pressing my chest down, stroking that primitive part of me as I crash, spiralling upward in ecstasy.
A second to catch my breath is all I get before he leans over me, murmuring in my ear. “We’re not done. You’re mineallnight.”
I can only whimper, feeling my longing swoop back up as he pulls me to my feet, spinning me around and then shoving backwards so that I sprawl out on the bed. Then the ribbon’s whipped from my eyes, and I gasp.
He’s glorious. Shirtless, with his cock standing out proud and straight above his edged-down black pants. Before he let me see again, he pulled the mask back down. This is one of the first ones I got him—a black hood with an elongated white porcelain ghost face on front. I can’t see his face at all. Tristan follows me as I wriggle backwards on the bed, making as though to run away. He grunts as he grabs my legs, then tugs me back underneath him.
When I continue wriggling, he pins my wrists above my head, that mask hovering over my face, tilting slightly like he’s observing my face as he uses his other hand to rub the head of his cock along me. My heart skitters with a thrilling mix of fresh arousal, aftershocks, and something like fear mingled into the excitement. I glance past him and my thrill only increases. In one of our few kitschy concessions within this house, we secured a large mirror to the ceiling. Because, as we learned in a car-filled garage once, we both like to watch. I see us reflected back. Him on top of me, my bent-up knees seeming so small beside his might. My hands pinned above my head, and the exposed top of his toned butt toning even further as he thrusts forward and—
I cry out, arching, gasping as he fills me in one great thrust, and he groans like the monster he’s masked to be as he slams into me, grating against me, stroking where I’m sensitive and fast lifting towards another climax.
I curse, moaning his name, pleading because I know he likes my breathless begging as much as I like to groan the words. I shake through another climax, and this time he joins me, grunting against my neck, hands tightening on my wrists where he’s still got me pinned, his cock throbbing inside me.
I go lax after his last thrust, and stroke his back as he releases my hands. Mask tugged off, green eyes sparkle down at me. Still inside me, Tristan lightly kisses my lips.
“Mm,” I moan appreciatively. “Remember the first time we had sex?”
“Of course.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You choked me out afterwards.”
Tristan gives a cheeky smile. “Maybe I could’ve handled that better.”
“Maybe?” I laugh. I stroke along his lower back, and he rocks his hips from side to side, grinning in a way I know means it tickles.
“I’ll pin you down again.”
“Promise?”
He laughs and rolls off me, staying close along my side. “Well, maybe give me an hour.”
I roll to face him, staring into his face. Sometimes I still see him like I did the night we escaped, facing each other under a violent sky, telling him I loved him. I tell him now, and he squeezes my hip where his hand idly rests. He leans in, brushing my lips with his. “I know.”
I smile, playfully slapping his shoulder. “Say it back, Mr!”
“You know I love you.” Tristan kisses me properly, but before it can turn into more and drain us completely, he rolls away, sitting up to go and free our dog. “But I also love Toast.” He flicks on the lamp.
“The snack or the dog?”
“I knew I’d regret naming him that.”
Less than a minute later, Toast, given leave to, barrels in, leaping onto the bed where I’ve snuggled under the covers. The puppy curls up against my side, happy and demure to be allowed to sleep on the bed. Tristan comes back in, climbing into the bed on the other side, curling around Toast to rest his hand on my thigh as I stroke the dog. I soften into the bed as I think about Toast growing, about our future. About how wonderful the past year has been, and even the one before it, living rough, staying hidden, always moving. I wouldn’t change a thing. But would Tristan? Our lives stretch out long now, full of possibility.
“What’s wrong?” Tristan asks, and I blink, realising my thoughts were written so clearly on my face.
I lift my chin to look at him and ask, “Are you happy?”
