Serena.
His mouth is hot against mine, demanding and unapologetic. There’s no hesitation in Tristan, no gentle testing like Thorne. This is wild, possessive hunger.
My back hits the mattress and he’s there, his weight, his heat, the unmistakable presence of the mate bond flaring so bright I feel scorched.
His hands slide under my shirt, callused fingertips ghosting over my skin. I arch into the touch, my breath seizing, my thoughts scattering.
With Thorne, it was soft and sweet and patient. This is something else entirely.
My shirt is gone before I realize it, his mouth trailing heat down my collarbone, nipping, tasting, branding. I gasp his name.
“Say it again,” he growls, voice rough against my skin.
“Tristan…”
He shudders. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
And I want to say I think I do, but his hands are everywhere and my body is moving before my mind can keep up. His kisses leave trails of fire, and when our hips meet, clothes forgotten somewhere on the floor, I swear I see
