Crossing the line

The moment of truth

Well, there it was. The dreaded moment of closure. The one that would tell him if he had imagined all of this; her love, their complicity, the future, based upon a drunken tryst. For he knew better than anyone how desire died when the connection wasn't right. He had witnessed it firsthand; a fading marriage as his burden.

Tristan sat beside Frances and brushed the ringlets over her shoulder, taking in her lovely features.

— "We can sleep if you are tired. There will never be any pressure from me"

Her response was plain as day; she reached for his nape and captured his lips in a searing kiss. One that melted his insides and called forth resources he didn't know he had. Enthralled by her taste, by the ballet of her tongue dancing with his own, he felt a discharge of fire in his veins. His fingers slid into her hair, massaging her skull as he shifted their weight and laid her down on the bed. The little lamp by the side gave him more than enough light to contemplate her swollen lips, and he took the time to watch her face.

— "Will you have me, now ?" he asked.

— "A million times over", she whispered, her eyes burning.

Tristan snorted them, his thumb caressing her lower lip.

— "That will be a lot of times a day, little fairy", he murmured.

Her eyebrow quirked up, as if daring him to put his threat to execution.

— "Then what are you waiting for ?", she said, climbing on her knees.

— "I want to see you, this time"

Frances nodded, then reached for his deep red shirt to unfasten the buttons, one by one. Her little hand snaked upon the skin of his chest as soon as the gap allowed it; he let her explore him, wondering if she would enjoy his body. And when her mouth replaced the wandering hand, he knew she did. She discarded the shirt with a hum, dropping open mouth kisses over his chestnut hair, her hands snaking around his waist to caress his spine. Tristan shivered; he'd never been worshipped so tenderly.

— "Are you cold ?", she asked with a worried frown.

Cold ? No... he was burning, from head to toe with a furious desire. The overwhelming need to bury himself inside her beautiful, plush body. And he wanted to feel every inch of her today that he was sober. Tristan took a great inspiration and cupped her cheek. He kissed the tip of her nose, hoping to lessen the brazier that was sure to burn in his eyes.

— "Definitely not"

The young woman blushed at his tone, flustered. Tristan stood and pulled the sheets to give her a little space. Frances scooted back, dragging her loose t-shirt over her head in the process. His eyes followed her movements as she shed her jeans, his own hands unbuckling the belt that kept his pants in place. He was drinking the sight of her, letting his jeans fall to his feet without taking his eyes away from her lean form.

White skin, except around her neck – had she worked in the sun ? – and forearms. The reddish ringlets contrasted over her collarbone, dancing above skin that he longed to kiss and caress. Their first time... their first time had been so messy, so intense that he couldn't remember much except drowning into her. Entirely.

Today, he wanted to take his time. He wanted to know her. And so he did... Forgotten the trials of the past four months, the exhaustion of a long day and the slight hunger. The sensation had migrated to his lower stomach, tightening muscles and pumping blood in his veins. Burning desire. Yet, Tristan caressed, kissed and watched, mesmerised, the twists and turns of her body as he worked it like a finely tuned fiddle.