Page 279 of The Professor's Wife

I kissed him back with everything in me.

He fumbled for the key card with one hand while the other remained tangled in my hair. He got the door open and we stumbled inside.

The door shut behind us, and he pressed me against it, kissing my mouth, my cheek, my throat. His hands moved over me as though he needed proof I was there.

Suddenly, he pulled back.

“Fuck, I’m filthy.”

“I don’t care.”

“Daze—”

I grabbed his face and kissed him again.

That ended whatever argument he meant to make.

He lifted me, and my legs closed around his waist. His hands gripped the backs of my thighs as he carried me toward the bed, our mouths barely parting long enough to breathe.

He stumbled once and winced.

I pulled back. “You’re hurt.”

“Don’t stop, Daze,” the plea fell from his lips. “Can’t have you stop.”

I kissed him again.

We fell across the mattress sideways. My dress caught beneath me, and he pushed it up impatiently while I worked at his belt.

Neither of us undressed properly. We were chasing relief. His forehead pressed against mine when he entered me, his breath breaking against my lips. For several seconds, he didn’t move. I felt him buried, my body already familiar with his size and touch.

My heart stilled as his eyes searched mine with raw emotion.

“Tristan?”

His mouth covered mine before I could ask. He moved hard and fast, one arm beneath my back, holding me so tightly against him that every breath belonged to both of us. He kept kissing me through it. My mouth. My jaw. The corner of my eye. As though he had been afraid he would never touch me again. I took every kiss. Every touch. Every eager attempt at gripping me. I gave him everything. Let him have it all as he found his relief inside me.

The pleasure built quickly, sharpened by panic and the realization he hadn’t gone. He was still here. I clung to his shoulders, feeling dirt beneath my fingers and the tremble in the muscles of his back.

“I thought you were gone,” I gasped, unable to stop the words from tumbling from my mouth, even at the crest of pleasure.

His face buried against my neck.

“No,” he groaned.

My release struck hard. I cried out and tightened around him, and his body lost its rhythm. He held me through it, thrusting deeper until he went rigid above me.

His groan vibrated against my throat, deep and long.

For a while, neither of us moved. Our breathing filled the room. Then Tristan lifted his head and stared at me again. That same look from before was present in his eyes.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I whispered.

He blinked as though the question dragged him back into the room.

“Like what?”

“Like…that.”