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.

She was a beauty, her body tuned by sports, yet surrounded with a soft layer of fat and skin smoother than satin. Delicious rounded calves, muscular – from the ice skating – and powerful, long thighs that kept hidden a discreet mount of pleasure with chestnut curls, a soft, welcoming stomach despite the muscles rippling below the surface, full breasts that awaited his caresses… Such a womanly figure. The prefect pendant to his own masculine one.

He drank her moans with delight, kissed her body from head to toe – toes included - suckled and nipped, explored to his heart's content, his large hands travelling. And as he did, his heart beating a staccato, her own fingers traced trails of fire upon his exposed skin. Her own sensual lips alighted his body, little tongue exploring just as curiously. And he offered it all without wondering if she liked him; his mind was far too busy making love to her to be self-conscious. Tristan latched upon her lips when he was done, lowering his body against hers to enjoy her warmth. Her hips came to meet his and he grunted.

The foreplay had lasted enough to shred his self-control to tatters. Her arms wound around his shoulders and Tristan plunged in between her plush thighs. Slowly. How such a flexible, muscular woman could feel so homely as a mystery... Her legs rose to encase him, a safe heaven to keep him sheathed and soon, he was buried to the hilt in a gasp of pleasure. This time, he paused. Not like the first time. No. He really wanted to see her. Her parted lips, flushed cheeks and warm chocolate eyes… those eyes that watched him as if he was a walking miracle. She loved him, really loved him. And it hit him like a ton a bricks.

— "I love you"

The words were out of his mouth before he could take them back; better this way. There was no doubt in his mind, his heart had spoken in lieu of his reason. And while his hips met hers in slow, sensual strokes, Frances tightened her hold around him. The strength of her arms surrounded him, her legs locking behind his knees. He wasn't so sure, in the end, if those were tears leaking from her eyes; his own vision was a bit blurred.

His heart leapt in his throat, breath short as he buried himself again and again; he never wanted to pull away. The strength of her embrace only matched the tightness of her core. There was no doubt, as he dove deeper still, about how much she wanted him. Rippling muscles massaged him, calling him in, coaxing. In between gasps and moan, he could hear her body sing.

Stay… stay.

And he obliged, for he knew he belonged inside of her.

Unable to contain his body much longer, Tristan eventually abandoned himself to pleasure. Frances arched her back to meet him, accommodating his erratic movements at he grunted, so incredibly powerful as she rose from the mattress and pushed against him. Then, when he thought he'd leave her unsatisfied, Frances released a great sigh and her head fell backwards, eyes tightly shut as her body spasmed. Once, twice, one deep third time before they both fell on the bed, exhausted and panting hard.

Tristan's heart throbbed so hard against his ribcage; he could feel hers just as well. And her legs trembled still. He caressed her thigh slowly, a gentle contact to anchor them both into reality. And he marvelled that she kept him close still, the safe heaven still open, still welcoming. Her warm contact felt so intimately carved into his skin that he couldn't consider to let go; it would be like tearing his own limb. Here, sprawled above her, his manhood still buried, he felt safe. Accepted, worshipped… loved. Eventually, the strain on his forearms became too much and Tristan worked his courage to extract himself from his own little bubble of paradise.

He released a shuddering breath, then found the courage to lift his head. He froze; tear tracks marred Frances cheeks.

— "Are you all right?", he asked, more than a little worried.

The young woman sniffled, then blinked the tears away with a wavering smile. He panicked.

— "Did I hurt you ?"

She shook her head and Tristan sighed in relied. Then he pulled back, dragging himself on all fours to keep his face close to hers. And despite the big, big hole that started forming in his stomach, he attempted a little joke.

— "I've never been so bad to make a woman cry"

Frances started to laugh, helplessly sprawled on the bed, sniffling in between snorts. She was a furious hot mess, her skin red in too many places from the chaffing of his five o'clock shadow. A passionate lover. He definitely had had his way with her, and he wanted to start all over again. But not if it made her cry.

— "Please talk to me", he pleaded, getting a little desperate.

Tears still leaked from her eyes and she sprang upright, nearly head butting him in the process, to snake her arms around his chest.

— "I'm sorry, sorry. Don't worry. I just…"

The former teacher hugged her tight, relishing in the warm body that had settled upon his heart. She was trembling now.

— "I'm extremely worried", he told her.

That seemed to shake her for she lifted her head to his, and gave him a clear, earnest look.

— "You made me insanely happy. And I never had an orgasm so strong, and with what you said it all mixed up in my head. It just… emotional overload, I'm sorry. I love you so much my heart could burst"

Tristan gave her a very serious look, wondering if what she described had not been a little shared. Could he possibly admit that he, too, had cried over the realisation that he loved her ? Nah. No need to worry her, right ?

— "Does this happen often ?"

— "It never did. Tristan. It was amazing"

His lips lifted from the compliment as relief washed over him. At least, he had not been a complete dork, and the lady seemed rather content. So Tristan manoeuvred them below the covers, carefully tucking the sheets around Frances' shoulders while she cuddled against him. Damn, he was hungry, and thirsty, but he just couldn't find the courage to move away. Already, her eyelids were falling and his own body shutting down. With the little weight resting over his chest, he felt complete. So Tristan surrendered and fell into slumber a few minutes before the clock hit 1:00 am.