Forbidden Bride

It doesn’t matter how much I want this, have begged the universe for it. We can’t. Not like this. “No, I’m not.”

“Good.”

Pulling the bathroom door open, Tristan sweeps me inside and locks the door behind us, and then his mouth is on mine again, and now that we have privacy, my body is a traitor. I’m kissing him back, my hands finding their way to his shoulders and then around his neck. My ass presses against the sink as he leans into me, and I can feel all the incredible hardness of his body and…other things.

Our tongues dance together, and this is better than everything that I imagined. Pure fire and heat and aching need gathering together and pulling me closer to him. “Tristan, we should stop.”

“Should we?” He looks down, and I see the same fire and lust in his eyes. “If you really want to stop, tell me. I will.”

But I can’t say that, and he knows it too. I don’t want him to stop. I want him to keep going until we both have everything. A small smile tilts the corners of his mouth, but his eyes are serious. “If you want me to stop, I will. If you want to throw me out of this bathroom and never see me again, I’ll do that too. It would break me, but I would do it.”

I want to ask him why he’s here, and what changed his mind. There’s the question too of why he left, but when his lips crash down on mine—harder and deeper, I lose everything I want to say. Because nothing is more important than kissing him right now.

“I’m sorry I missed your birthday,” he whispers in-between plundering my lips.

I try to wrap my head around the words but my brain is short-circuiting. Tristan’s lips are like a drug that I’m addicted to and I can’t get enough of the way they feel. Fuck, I’m in so much trouble. But in this moment, I don’t care. We’re locked away from reality, and even the strongest person would have a hard time saying no to a dream dangled right in front of them.

“You’ve missed a few of them.”

“I’m hoping my present will make up for it,” he says.

“What is it?”

He smirks, and sinks to his knees in front of me. “Hopefully still a first.”

Oh god. He’s lifting up my skirt and I can’t even breathe. And there’s no way in hell that I’m going to stop him because the amount of times that I’ve imagined this moment is in the thousands and I want to feel his mouth on me.

“Hmm,” he makes a sound when he’s bunched the fabric around my hips. “Last time I was here I don’t remember there being any panties in the way.” He brushes his mouth against my thigh, and I gasp.

“If I’d known that this was going to be on the schedule then maybe there wouldn’t have been any.”

Tristan chuckles against my skin, and fuck, I don’t think there’s ever been a more erotic feeling. Granted, I’m not exactly experienced in real life erotic feelings since I’ve been limiting myself to my imagination and my vibrator, but that laugh makes me feel things in places that I didn’t even know existed.

Lips brush against the fabric, a barely-there ghost of a touch, but my reaction is anything but light. I moan, unable to keep myself quiet, and while I was wet before, suddenly soaking. My body knows better than I do what’s about to happen, and it’s begging for it.

Another touch, this time with his tongue over the fabric of my panties, wet on wet. I’m gripping the sink, my knuckles white from holding on so tightly. Tristan makes a sound of appreciation. “I can taste how wet you are for me.”

Only for you, I say in my mind. But there’s no way I can say that out loud. There’s nothing I can do but feel his mouth on me. He doesn’t move the fabric out of the way, instead he lazily runs his tongue along the thin lace, letting it add texture to the strokes of his tongue. And fuck this feels better than anything I’ve ever felt.

My fantasies have nothing on the real thing. “Holy shit,” the words slip from my mouth before I can stop them.

Fingers hook in the elastic of my panties and pull them down. I can’t believe that I’m letting him do this after I haven’t seen him in four years. I can’t believe it, but I am. Further and further down the panties fall until he’s guiding them over my ankles and high heels. And then his palms are on my thighs.

“Open for me,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. And I obey. I spread my legs wide, blood painting me with a fierce blush.