Page 40 of The Temporary Bride

He’s a good kisser. Annoyingly, frustratingly good, assertive without being overbearing, using just enough pressure to make it clear he’s running things here while somehow giving back everything he takes. We’ve only been at this for a few seconds and already I’ve lost track of where I am, his mouth working against mine until my lungs are empty and my thoughts are nowhere to be found.

A groan rumbles in his chest as he pulls back just far enough to speak. “Fuck. You taste amazing.”

Then he moves down to my jaw, trailing his lips down the side of my neck, and my head tips sideways before I’ve consciously decided to let it. His lips are warm against my skin, and I feel it everywhere they’re not touching, a trail of heat that makes it very difficult to remember why any of this was supposed to be a bad idea.

“Your mouth says you’re not mine,” he says against my throat, his breath warm. “But your body seems to have a completely different opinion.” He chuckles at whatever noise I make in response. “Yeah. You like that.”

It’s smug and I should be annoyed by it. And I am, a little, underneath everything else. But all I actually manage out loud is a soft whimper, which is humiliating, and he chuckles again. Then his hands are at my waist and he’s lifting me like I don’t weigh anything, settling me on the edge of the table and stepping between my knees before I’ve fully caught up with what’s happening. He looks down at me with that focused, burning gaze of his, and one hand slides slowly up the inside of my thigh, his fingers warm against my skin, until they find the edge of my panties.

He stops there. Waiting. His eyes on my face.

I hold his gaze for a second, my heart slamming, and then I drop my chin just a fraction of an inch. It’s not quite a nod—I can’t bring myself to admit I want this that much—but it’s enough to get me what I need.

He pushes his fingers beneath the fabric and drags one thick digit slowly over my pussy to my clit. I curse under my breath at even that slight contact, my pulse skyrocketing from just that one pass of his finger.

“Fucking hell,” he grates out quietly. He stops with his fingertip resting right where I need it most, not moving, just letting me feel it. “You’ve been wet this whole time, haven’t you? Did spending my money turn you on that much?”

I can’t answer. Partly because of where his finger is and partly because the honest answer is more complicated than yes or no. I expected him to shut down the painting purchase. Some part of me wanted him to, wanted the excuse to call all of this into question, to prove to myself that he was exactly who I thought he was. A man who likes control, who takes what he wants and doesn’t consider anyone else in the equation.

Instead, he bought five more paintings.

He’s not who I thought he was, and I’m thrown by the loss of what I thought was solid footing.

He swirls his finger lightly, and my breath snags in my throat. The teasing, barely-there pressure of it is somehow worse than if he’d just fucking give it to me, and I think he knows that.

“That’s what I thought,” he says with that infuriating smirk. “The painting was definitely worth it then.”

He slides one finger inside me, and the air goes right out of my lungs. He starts to slide it slowly in and out, moving deliberately as if he’s learning something, and I have to press my lips together to keep quiet. When he adds a second finger, the stretch of it makes me exhale hard, my back arching slightly.

He curls them forward, finding a spot that makes my thighs tremble. Before I can make a noise that carries through the walls, he brings his free hand to the back of my head and pulls my mouth back to his, kissing me deeply, swallowing whatever sound I was about to make.

I kiss him back with my eyes closed, completely lost in it.

His fingers work me steadily, driving in and twisting, pulling almost all the way out and pushing back in, the rhythm building gradually until I’m moving against his hand without meaning to, chasing it.

Some distant part of me can barely believe this is happening. I’m kissing Tristan Thorne at his workplace in the middle of the afternoon. His fingers are inside me. How did we get here?

When I sat in that conference room and listened to the lawyer read the terms of Julian Thorne’s will, I thought the whole thing was some kind of elaborate final joke. A dead man’s power play. I never could have imagined that a few weeks later, I’d be sitting on a table in the Thorne Enterprises office on the verge of an earthshaking orgasm.

Tristan is good at this. Too fucking good.

He reads every reaction, adjusting until he finds exactly the right angle, then stays there until my toes start to curl. His thumb comes up to work my clit in deliberate circles while his fingers keep moving inside me, and the combination of sensations is overwhelming.

The pleasure builds exponentially, and I dig my teeth into my lower lip and try desperately not to make too much noise. As if he can sense that I’m losing that battle, he brings his mouth back to mine, swallowing my soft sounds as his pace picks up, growing more insistent.

“Give it to me,” he murmurs against my lips. Then he draws back, his eyes locked on my face, watching me with a hunger that tips me over the edge before I’ve fully braced for it.

I can’t look away from him. I almost wish I could, because something passes between us as my orgasm crests, and I feel like he’s seen too much somehow—like he knows something I was trying to keep secret.

He never stops working my clit, drawing it out, and I have to clench my jaw to keep quiet as the climax crests, rolling through me in waves, my body shaking. He keeps going until I’m gasping for breath and every last bit of pleasure has been wrung out of me.

When the orgasm finally passes, he draws his fingers out slowly. He brings them to his mouth and licks them clean, watching me the whole time, and my face goes so hot I could probably heat the whole room.

“I don’t care how beautiful those paintings are,” he murmurs. He reaches up and drags his fingers lightly along my cheek, and I go very still at the unexpected softness of it. “There’s no comparison. Nothing comes close to this—the sight of you spread out for me, flushed and messy and sated.”

There’s something about the huskiness of his voice that sends another jolt of arousal shooting through my body. Unbidden, my focus drops to the impressive bulge at the front of his pants, and a thought pops into my head, fully formed and vivid.

I could slide off this table right now. I could get on my knees and undo his belt, take him in my mouth and watch that composed expression of his finally crack wide open.