Page 45 of Corrupt

As if watching someone dangerous step into a memory I wasn’t sure I wanted to share.

Then he turned and met my gaze, breath coming a little too fast for someone who’d only climbed three flights of stairs, and I suddenly realised I wanted him here. There was something coiled under his skin. I could sense it as if I’d known him for years instead of this fucked-up nothing amount of time where we’d been…nothing to each other. But there was something tight about him. Volatile. Fraying at the seams. It came off him in waves. My instincts kicked in before sense did, and I opened my mouth to ask if he was okay. But he crossed the room in three strides, grabbed the front of my tee, and kissed me. Hard. Bruising. Urgent. No preamble, no warning. His mouth on mine, hands locking at my hips, whole body crowding me back and around, pushing me, guiding me until the backs of my knees hit the sofa. The pile of papers spread across it rustling in warning.

“Wait—”

He swallowed the word with another kiss. Rougher. Sharper. And pushed me back into the sofa cushions, straight onto my case notes, tomorrow’s prep work, all of it crumpling under me.

“Can we—” I tried to gesture towards the bedroom, towards literally anywhere that wasn’t my career spread out beneath us, but it was pointless. He was gone, lost in whatever was tearing him open from the inside.

And the truth?

So was I.

Because him over me, over my work, over the carefully built structure of my entire fucking life, was a fight I wouldn’t win tonight. Didn’t want to win. And he didn’t care about the papers. He cared too much about everything else, and this, me, was the only place he could put it.

So I dragged him closer. Kissed him deeper.

He tore at my tee, shoving it up my chest, dragging his teeth along the line of my ribs enough to make my head snap back. His breath was hot, uneven. Not lust alone. It was deeper than that. He was hurting. So I untucked his shirt, undid the buttons as he invaded my neck.

“Fuck, Tris…” he muttered, voice cracked, as if he was shaking apart inside.

That was the first time he’d uttered my name. Not Tricky. Not some little throwaway tease. My name. And it punched straight through me. Left me dizzy. I grabbed his waist, dragging him down, pulling him between my legs. And he pressed in, denim grinding against cotton, heat meeting heat, skin meeting mine. The rug beneath the coffee table bunched as he pushed us both down, half on the sofa, half sliding onto the floor with my papers in an avalanche around us.

He cupped me through my boxers, rough and sure, squeezing hard enough to knock a sound out of me. My hips arched helplessly.

“Jesus. Richie…”

He grunted, low and wordless, dropping his forehead onto my shoulder as he shoved my boxers down far enough to get a fist around me, hot and desperate. No hesitation. No finesse. Just pure need. So I fumbled his jeans open, pushing past the waistband, closing my hand around him. He hissed through his teeth, hips jerking forward so sharply that the papers slid under us again.

Then he was moving, sliding down me, tugging my underwear off with rough impatience. Before I could gather myself, before I could fix the indignity of being half-spilt onto the floor, his mouth was on me, wrapping his lips around my cock as if it was oxygen. The only thing keeping him upright.

“Fuck, Rich—” I tried to shift, to get leverage, but he was relentless. He sucked me hard, obscene, unapologetic sounds filling the room. Then he hummed when he slipped off, the vibration ripping through me, as he devoured my balls, mouth wet and greedy while his hand worked me in ruthless strokes.

“C’mon, Tris. Lose it for me.” He pulled back long enough to breathe the encouragement against my skin before sealing his mouth around me again.

I gripped the edge of the sofa, knuckles white, tipping my head back as the papers beneath me tore and slid, contracts and careful arguments shredded under my spine. My body tightened, pleasure coiling sharp and fast, no room to think, no room to run.

“Richie…fuck, Richie…I’m close—”

He slapped my hip, urging me on, and I snapped, coming with a choked sound I didn’t recognise, spilling into his mouth as my whole body shook. He took it all. Licked me clean as if he needed to prove to himself he could. Then he was up and over me, straddling my hips, his cock in my mouth before I’d even caught my breath.

“That’s it,” he groaned, threading his fingers through my hair. “Fuck, yeah.”

He braced his hands on the cushions either side of my head and fucked my mouth hard, desperate, chasing something far past pleasure. I looked up at him through my lashes and knew immediately that he wasn’t here. Not really. His eyes were closed, his face tight, as if trying to outrun whatever clawed at him from the inside.

And he was using me to do it.

The realisation didn’t hurt. It settled. Because whatever he was fighting, he needed this. Needed me. And that mattered more than anything my mind was screaming at me to be afraid of.

“Jesus, fuck, Tristan…”

He came with a strangled groan, jerking his hips tight as he spilt into my mouth, pulling out at the last second so he dripped down my chin. Then he collapsed forward, forehead pressed to mine, breath shuddering between us.

He stayed there.

Breathing.

Shaking.