Rhapsody (The Teplo Trilogy #2) (45 page)

He couldn't take his eyes off of her as she stood in the middle of her room. Christ, how could one little dancer become the center of his world in such a short amount of time? He didn't know, but she had. And he wasn't nearly foolish enough to question it now. He didn't
have
to question it anymore. She was so much more than someone he needed to protect and keep safe. She was light and laughter, forgiveness and peace. She was…

"You're the most important person in the world to me, you know that?" he questioned as he crossed toward her and pulled her into his arms. Her head rested beneath his chin as she clung to him, hugging him tightly. "You're absolutely
everything
to me."

He'd been in hell without her, yet being without her had given him clarity like he'd never had before. For the first time since his parents died, he'd been forced to take the blinders off and really look at life. He'd been able to really
see
a life beyond what he did every day. And she had been front and center. He hadn't given up being undercover for her. Rather, he'd been able to give it up because of her. Because, for once, he'd thought about the future and realized there was something he wanted more than revenge. He wanted peace.

"You are too," she told him, tilting her head back to look up at him. Her eyes shone, happiness and joy bright lights in warm brown depths. Her hand came to rest upon his jaw. "Everything."

His lips found hers. Hers parted easily, willing him to deepen the kiss and take what he wanted. To cement this new beginning between them and lay to rest the weeks of heartache and frustration that had led them to this moment in this room.

Within seconds of feeling her tongue moving with his, he was breathless and aching. That part of him that lived for her pleasure quivered with anticipation. He had no desire to rein it in.

"I love you," he reminded her as her lips trailed across his jaw. His good hand fisted in her shirt, ready to pull it over her head. But he had to hear it one more time first. He had to say it one more time. "I'm yours, Lillian Maddox."

Her eyes lit up, emotion stripping him where he stood. "Show me," she said. Her hands slipped down his shoulders to the buttons of his shirt. She smiled up at him, her lips swollen from his kisses and her eyes wide and dilated with desire and happiness. "Make me yours again."

He growled softly and swooped.

Like flame to kindling, they ignited. Greedy hands and seeking mouths roved and explored. Nips to his jaw were met with soft bites to her throat. He answered the gentle scrape of her nails across his back with soft tugs to her hair. On and on it went, until he could stand no more and pulled her shirt from her beautiful little body.

"Shit," he breathed as the garment hit the floor at their feet. Her chest heaved as she breathed, the swells of her breast all but overflowing the transparent bra. Her nipples were hard pebbles pushing against the fabric, begging for him to rip it away and replace it with his hands, his mouth—he hardly knew which he wanted more.

She reached for him before he could decide and began to unbutton his shirt. As button after button pushed through the eyelets, her fingertips brushed across his chest. His head fell back, a soft hiss of pleasure breaking from his lips.

Feeling her hands on him after so long without her was bliss. Joy. Fucking radiance.

And it just got better.

As she slipped the last button through the hole and parted his shirt, her hand skimmed across his stomach before her fingertips delved into the waistband of his jeans. His cock jerked at having her so close and yet so far. He moaned, unable to hold the greedy sound back.

"Shit, baby."

"Shh," she whispered, those talented little fingers of her already popping the button and sliding the zipper down. She pushed the jeans and his boxers down, and then the torture really began. She never touched his cock as it sprang free, but her hands were everywhere, running up and down his chest and stomach. They swept across the faint bruises and jagged, still healing scars, and then pressed boldly down his lower stomach. Her fingertips hovered right above the tip of his cock. Her palms slid across his hip and brushed a mere centimeter from his balls.

His good hand shot out, grasping onto the dresser to keep himself upright as the urge to feel her hands wrapping around him speared through him, overwhelming him. As usual when they were together like this, he didn't merely
want
her hand there, he physically needed it.

"Beautiful," he growled in warning as she continued to tease and torment.

She paid no heed and continued on until he could take no more. Control snapped like a rubber-band pulled taut and released. He cursed harshly and grabbed her, jerking her into his chest. Her small laugh was his undoing. The feel of her hand finally wrapping around his aching cock defied description.

He kicked his shoes and jeans free before grasping her head and crushing his mouth to hers. He held nothing back. They kissed wildly, all tongue and teeth and frantic moans. Her hands fisted in his hair, holding his face to hers as he set to work on her bra. Getting the damn thing undone one-handed was a feat, but he managed it, and all but ripped the fabric from her body in his quest to feel her bare skin on his.

She didn't disappoint. As soon as the fabric disappeared, she pressed herself to him, wriggling shamelessly. His cock rubbed at her belly, her nipples laved across his chest. Being this close to her was heaven and hell in turns: exactly what he craved and not nearly enough of it.

Her skirt and panties followed her bra, jerked down her body and cast aside.

"Bed," he panted into her mouth, palming and grasping her ass.

She moaned loudly, the wanton sound an aria to his ears, before guiding him back toward the bed with one hand on his hip. Their mouths never left one another as they made that short trip. He spun at the last second and pushed her gently to the bed. Her legs bent, parted.

"
Fuck
," he groaned, his eyes riveted to her exposed center. Her pussy glistened for him, wetness turning soft pink into paradise.
His
paradise. He reached out with his good hand, and ran a finger through her folds.

"Oh!" Her hips lifted from the bed and then settled.

Tristan smirked down at her and then did it again. That teasing pass elicited the very same reaction. She was as out of control as he was. He loved knowing that. "Tell me what you want," he demanded, teasing at her entrance. His fingertip pressed inside and withdrew.

"You," she panted, her hips trying to follow the withdrawal of his hand.

His cock jerked at that word. He rewarded her by rubbing his thumb across her clit. "How do you want me, sweetheart?" His finger pressed inside of her fully this time. He nearly groaned aloud as her inner muscles clamped down and then released.

She was ready, beyond ready. But he wasn't.

He hadn't had her taste on his tongue in weeks. No way was he going to do without now that she was right beside him. Kneeling at the end of the bed, he spread her legs wider, not even waiting for her answer. The scent of her arousal hit him like a fist, and he was done teasing. His head descended, and he was there, his tongue making a firm pass through her folds. Her taste was a wrecking ball to any pretense of restraint.

She cried out her pleasure as he lapped at her, swallowing down every little bit of honey she could give him. And God, he couldn't get enough. Every little shift of her hips, every little cry of pleasure, and every furious swipe of his tongue across her folds made him crave more from her, made him ache to make her feel a little more. He was lost in her as he fucked her with his tongue, holding her to the bed with his hand and cast until she was begging him to stop and not to stop in the same breath. If any of his still healing injuries hurt, he didn't feel them. He felt only her.

"Please," she moaned as he sent her careening over the edge. Her body bowed off the bed. "Tristan,
please
."

He didn't stop until her shudders died and she whimpered with each pass of his tongue. He rose unsteadily to his feet and climbed over her. Those dusty pink nipples he'd been dying to touch and taste were tight pebbles. He showered both with little bites and soft kisses as he hitched her leg over his hip. They both moaned as his cock pressed into her folds.

"Goddamn," he swore, his eyes closing beneath the sensation even that slight contact sent shooting through him. He wanted her so badly he couldn't think. Not a single thought.

"Tristan,
please
!" she cried out, writhing beneath him.

He wanted to go slow and savor this moment, but fuck if he could manage it. He reared back and slammed himself inside her. His balls slapped against her ass and they both shouted. Being inside of her once more wasn't coming home. It was dying and going to heaven. His cock ached in the best ways possible as her tight heat strangled him.

"Shit," he breathed, the only word he remembered as he saw the rapturous, hungry expression on her face. Her nails scratched across his shoulder blades, trying to pull him closer. Wordless whimpers flew from her lips. And that look of bliss on her face remained. He pulled back and thrust again, as deeply as the first time. And together, they both cried out.

The sensation was too much.

And not nearly enough.

"So good," he groaned, unable to hold back any longer as her hips lifted and circled beneath his. He began to fuck her in truth, hard thrusts that sent his balls slapping a little harder at her ass each time. He couldn't stop though, and he couldn't slow. He was nothing but sensation, nothing but pleasure after pleasure stabbing through him until he moaned as loudly and as frequently as she did.

The bed creaked beneath them. The headboard banged rhythmically against the wall. The still healing scar on his side pulled tight, his ribs and lung ached. But none of it registered, none of it mattered. The feel of her pussy clenching and releasing around his cock, and the deep scratches her fingernails left in his shoulders were the only things he felt. The sound of her cries and of skin striking skin was all he heard.

And nothing had ever been so right before.

"I love you," he managed to gasp. "Christ, I love you."

"Yours," she sobbed in response. "I'm yours."

Yes.

God, yes.

His hand clamped around her leg as his orgasm ripped through him so hard it hurt. Semen shot from his cock in thick spurts, seemingly emptying everything he had into her. His balls, his heart, his fucking soul.

"Tristan!" she cried his name and then she was coming just as hard as he did, her center clenching and releasing as he continued to pump into her until his cock gave a final twitch. He collapsed half on top of her, the rush of blood through his veins a loud roar.

"I love you," her voice whispered to him through the haze.

He wasn't sure how long they lay there as sweat dried on their bodies and their heart rates returned to normal. He didn't know, and he didn't care. They were facing one another, their bodies touching and their eyes and hands exploring. Neither spoke, they simply stared, and touched. His hand upon her brow, brushing her hair back. Hers upon his side, tracing faintly along the edges of his surgical scar.

"Does it hurt?" she finally asked, lifting her eyes to him.

"A little," he answered, cupping her cheek in his hand again. "Not as bad as it did."

Emotion flickered through her eyes. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip. "I should have been there."

"Don't." He didn't want guilt and regret between them anymore. They'd had enough of both to last a lifetime, and he was done with it. He was done feeling guilty for reaching out and taking her. He was done feeling guilty for exposing her to the kinds of things he saw, and did. And he didn't want her feeling needless guilt now either. She'd done what anyone in her position would have done. He didn't begrudge her that. He couldn't. As he'd told her, he'd had nothing but time to think.

He'd been hurtling toward an oncoming train, determined to meet it head on or die trying. He could tell himself all he wanted that he hadn't intended to go into
that lab alone, but he would have. He'd been sabotaging himself, intent on proving that he wasn't good enough for her. And he'd almost succeeded. He'd almost died, because he couldn't see past the anger. And he'd almost taken her and Jason with him.

And that had scared the shit out of him. Woke him up and made him think about what he wanted, what he
really
wanted. The way he'd been living, investing every single thing he had into the job and getting more pissed off by the day that his efforts weren't enough. There was no happy ending to that kind of life. There was nothing but sacrifice and loss waiting for him there. He could give everything he had to it, and when it killed him, he'd be another sad statistic. Another tragedy in an endless parade.

He'd accepted that it would be that way for him. That his life would inevitably end that way, not because everyone's did, but because the people like him—the ones who let it fester like an infected wound—couldn't see straight enough to get off the tracks. They were blind to reality, trying to avenge people who couldn't be avenged.