Your Bedroom – Night – After
The air is thick. Still.
Your skin is still warm from him — not just the heat of his body, but the way he touched you like he meant it. Like he wanted all of you.
The sheets are tangled beneath you. His shirt is hanging off the side of the bed. You can’t tell whose heartbeat is louder — yours or his — because you’re still pressed together, chest to chest, like neither of you could stand to pull away just yet.
Tristan exhales against your neck, his lips barely touching your skin.
“Damn,” he whispers, breath shaky.
You don’t answer. You just run your fingers through his messy hair, still a little damp at the roots from sweat. He shifts, pulling you closer, like even the inch of air between you is too much.
His voice is lower now. Almost hoarse. “You feel so good…”
You feel it — not just in your chest, but in your gut. That ache. That fire that’s still there, even though you already gave in once — maybe more than once.
He presses a kiss under your jaw. Soft. Slow. But when he pulls back to look at you, his eyes are darker now — clouded with something heavy, wanting.
“Can I just…” he trails off, eyes flicking down to your mouth again.
He kisses you.
This time it’s slower. Less rushed than before, but somehow deeper — like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you now that he knows how you taste. His hand slides along your ribs, firm, then rests just above your hip like it belongs there. Like you belong to him.
When he pulls back, you’re both breathless again. But he doesn’t move far. His forehead rests against yours, and you can feel the smirk in his voice when he says, “You’re seriously gonna kill me.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Me?”
He hums. “You. With that mouth. And that noise you made when I—”
You cut him off with another kiss, and he grins into it, hand tightening on your waist. It turns hungry fast. Tongues, teeth, messy. Like neither of you has ever been kissed the right way until this.
And maybe that’s true.
Maybe this is the first time it’s felt like everything.
Tristan pulls away again — just enough to breathe. His lips are red, a little swollen, and when he speaks again, his voice drops into something raw:
“I want to do that again,” he says. “Over and over.”
You smirk. “What, just now?”
“No,” he says, eyes searching yours. “This. You. Me. Being like this. Not just tonight.”
He slides his hand up your chest, slow and warm, and rests it over your heart.
“Let me stay,” he whispers. “Let me wake up next to you.”