Page 96 of The Tryst

I feel alive in other ways, too, thanks to his kisses, to his hands.

Tingles race down my skin, skating over my flesh, sliding between my thighs. He journeys from petal to petal. I can’t see him kiss me, but I can feel him moving around the art while he traces the musical notes with his finger.

By the time he’s circled the flower, I’m a puddle of need and desire—but it’s deeper than before. This is something more. “Nick,” I moan.

He grabs my face, turns me toward him. “You,” he utters, then he shifts me fully, tugging me against him. We’re side by side, and he reaches for my thigh, hooking my leg over his hip.

He runs his forefinger over my top lip. Then the bottom one. He’s memorizing me with his touch, and I don’t ever want to be forgotten. I want to be more than remembered. I want to be his present.

I rope my arms around his neck and tug him close. “I want you. So much,” I say, trembling everywhere, my voice, my body, my heart.

“Want you too,” he answers.

The rest of our clothes vanish in a flurry, then I find a condom in the nightstand drawer. “Bought these for you. When you were coming to meet me at Hugo’s,” I tell him.

“I did the same. You’re the only one I’ve been with in a long time,” he says, then he takes a beat. “But first, let me fulfill a promise.”

After he sets the condom on the sheets, he moves down the bed, settling between my legs.

I ache for him. But he doesn’t make me wait this time. He doesn’t tease. He French kisses me, his beard deliciously scraping my thigh.

“Oh god,” I gasp, as he spreads me open, licking me, moaning obscenely.

In no time, it seems, I’m arching against him, gasping out, then coming.

I’m still panting when I open my eyes to find him kneeling, rolling on the protection. “I couldn’t help myself,” he says in a wholly unnecessary apology.

“You’re forgiven,” I say.

He notches the head of his cock against me.

For a second or two, I feel caught once again. Caught by his gaze, by his heart, by his big emotions.

They scare me, but I also don’t want to deny them anymore. “This time is different,” I whisper.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.”

I shudder out a breath as he enters me.

I’ve missed him so much.

When he’s all the way in, he lets out a long, sensual groan. “My brave, bold Layla,” he says. Braced on his palms, he eases out then thrusts back in. “My Layla. My Lola.”

I’m both to him now. He’s telling me he sees all of me. Wants all of me.

As he rocks in and out with a new passion, the moment is almost too much. Almost too intense. But I stay in it. I loop my hands around his neck, wrap my legs tighter around him. “Deeper,” I urge.

He nods savagely.

My heart beats harder. Louder. Our gazes lock for several seconds, the connection burning bright and powerfully.

Then, he complies, driving into me. “Yes,” he mutters, swiveling his hips. I rise up, meeting him thrust for thrust, grabbing his ass.

He watches me as he fucks me. Watches me with an adoration that’s rich with possession. That’s brimming with emotion.

My heart gallops faster, my skin tingling everywhere from the sheer pleasure but also from the intimacy. True and real.

If something happened to him, I would hurt. But I want him anyway. Desperately, recklessly, and truly.

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