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I cry out as he sinks deep, the stretch burning in the most perfect way. My cock is still twitching, still spilling the last weak spurts of cum against my stomach as he bottoms out.
“Fuck, Tristan,” I curse. “Holy shit.”
My hands fly free from my thighs, reaching desperately for his waist, needing something to hold onto, but he swats them away, grabs both of my wrists in one strong hand and pins them above my head against the mattress, caging them there.
Then he smacks me across the face—sharp, stinging, perfect.
“I told you to keep your hands where they were,” he growls, his voice dark and dominant. “Did I say you could move them?”
The sting blooms hot across my cheek, and a broken, needy moan spills from my lips. I love it. I love when he takes control like this. When he reminds me exactly who I belong to in these moments.
“No… I’m sorry…” I gasp, already rocking my hips, trying to take him even deeper.
He wraps his free hand firmly around my throat and leans down to kiss me while he begins to move. His thrusts are deep and steady—not frantic, not gentle, just controlled and powerful. Each one sinks him to the root, the thick length of dick dragging against every sensitive place inside me like he’s speaking to me from the inside, claiming me with every movement.
The kiss is messy and intense, all tongue and teeth and shared breath. When we finally break apart, Tristan’s eyes stay locked on mine. He doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
We’ve never done this before.
We’ve never fucked face to face. Never looked at each other while he was buried this deep.
This feels too raw.
Too open.
Too intimate.
“You feel so good,” he murmurs, voice low and rough as he thrusts deeper. “You take my cock so well. My perfect stubborn slut.”
The filthy praise makes my cock twitch weakly between us, still sensitive but also coming back to life. Then his tone softens just a fraction, still dark but laced with something warmer.
“You’re so beautiful like this, baby. Looking at me while I fuck you. Letting me have all of you.”
The words hit deeper than the thrusts.
Something blooms behind my ribs that has nothing to do with lust or obsession. It’s quieter, heavier. It makes my stomach swoop and my heart ache with a terrifying certainty. I’m not just obsessed with Tristan Sinclair anymore. I’m in love with him. Completely. Hopelessly. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
I close my eyes for a second, trying to hide it, afraid he’ll see everything written across my face, but Tristan’s grip on my throat tightens just slightly as he leans closer, still moving inside me with those deep, steady strokes that leave me gasping.
“Look at me,” he says softly. “Don’t hide from me.”
I force my eyes open.
Tristan is already watching me, something dark and soft tangled in his gaze. Then he leans down and kisses me. The kiss is hard and rushed, almost desperate, full of want and need. I kiss him back just as fiercely, fingers still pinned above my head, until he suddenly breaks away.
His hand releases my wrists.
In the next breath he’s kneeling up between my legs. He spreads one of them wider, then lifts my other leg and rests it against his shoulder. The new angle makes me feel even more open, more exposed, and I suck in a shaky breath.
“Tristan—”
He doesn’t give me time to finish whatever the hell I’m about to say. He starts thrusting again. Harder this time, deeper. Each powerful snap of his hips drives him against my prostate with ruthless precision. The stretch is intense. The wet sound of him moving in and out of me fills the quiet room. My back arches off the bed as broken sounds spill from my throat.
“Fuck— wait—”
He doesn’t wait.
His hands grip my waist and pull me up in one smooth, controlled motion. Suddenly I’m straddling his lap, knees on either side of his hips, his cock still buried deep inside me. The shift makes him sink even further. A low, startled moan escapes me as I adjust to the new depth. One hand finds the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his hair. The other presses against the mattress for balance.
