Ophelia had just slipped into her silk nightwear, a soft, emerald green, and matching shorts that barely reached mid-thigh when the doorbell rang through her quiet apartment.
Her heart jumped at once as she checked the time to see it was past midnight and she wasn’t expecting anyone.
She padded barefoot to the door and peered through the peephole.
Her breath caught seeing the one at the other side of the door:
Tristan stood in the hallway, tall and imposing in his black shirt and trousers, his expression dark.
Just then a message buzzed on her phone almost instantly signifying he texted her:
“Open the door now or I will break it down.”
Frustration and fear twisted in her chest.
She hesitated only a second before unlocking the door.
The moment it cracked open, Tristan pushed inside with forceful authority, shutting the door behind him with a click that echoed like a finality.
“What are you doing here?” Ophelia demanded, stepping back.
Her voice trembled with anger.
“This is my home.”
Tristan’s pale grey eyes raked over her barely clothed body, lingering on the way the silk clung to her breasts and hips.
“You are my mistress. I can come whenever I want. Whenever I need.”
The casual claim ignited her fury.
“You can’t just…”
He grabbed her wrist and yanked her toward him, pulling her flush against his hard chest.
“Who the fuck was that guy you were laughing with at the gala? The one you gave your contact to is like a desperate little flirt.”
Ophelia’s eyes widened in confusion for a moment before realization hit.
Dr. Adrian Vale.
She stayed silent, with her lips pressed together defiantly.
“Speak,” Tristan growled, his grip tightening like he couldn’t hold it in again.
“Or you will regret it.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she lied coldly.
His jaw clenched at once.
“You are breaching the contract. You belong to me. No one else gets your smiles or even gets your number.”
Ophelia yanked her arm free, eyes blazing.
“I am an adult, Tristan! Not your property. You don’t own my every breath just because I signed that damn paper to save my father!”
She turned toward the hallway, intending to put distance between them, but Tristan moved faster.
He caught her again, spinning her around.
The scent of whiskey was strong on his breath, though his eyes were sharp.
“You are drunk,” she accused, trying to push him away.
“I drank, but I am not too drunk to remind you who you belong to… hand me your damn phone.” he let out but she smirked in return.
“Well… that will be hard because I don’t have his contact on my phone yet.” she fired back at him.
He backed her toward the couch, but before he could push her down, the doorbell rang again loud and insistent.
Ophelia froze, staring at the door in confusion.
Tristan’s expression darkened further.
He pulled her roughly toward the entrance, slamming her back against the door just as Nicholas’s voice called from the other side.
“Ophelia? Open up. I know you are in there. We need to talk.”
Ophelia was confused as to why he was here tonight, hadn’t he abandoned and embarrassed her enough?
Tristan’s hand clamped over her mouth for a split second before he replaced it with his lips, kissing her brutally.
The kiss was nothing like the one at the gala.
His tongue invaded her mouth, demanding submission as he pressed his entire body against hers, trapping her between the hardwood of the door and his even harder frame.
Ophelia whimpered against his lips, hands pushing at his chest, but he didn’t relent.
While Nicholas continued knocking and calling her name from the hallway, Tristan’s hands roamed greedily over her body.
One large palm slid under her camisole, cupping her bare breast roughly, thumb flicking over her nipple until it hardened instantly.
The other hand dipped between her thighs, pushing the thin fabric of her shorts aside.
“Tristan…” she gasped when he broke the kiss for air, but he silenced her again with another bruising kiss.
He stroked her slowly at first, teasing her entrance before plunging two thick fingers deep inside her without warning.
Ophelia moaned loudly into his mouth, the sound muffled but still audible.
The intrusion was sudden and intense, stretching her as he curled his fingers expertly, hitting that perfect spot with ruthless precision.
Nicholas’s voice grew louder outside.
“Ophelia, stop ignoring me. Open the damn door!”
Tristan fucked her with his fingers harder, faster, his palm grinding against her clit with every thrust.
Wet, obscene sounds filled the small space between them.
Ophelia’s legs trembled violently.
She tried to stay quiet, but the pleasure was overwhelming.
Another broken moan escaped her throat as he added a third finger, stretching her deliciously while his thumb circled her swollen clit.
“That’s it,” Tristan growled against her ear, biting the lobe.
“Let him hear how wet you get for me.”
Ophelia’s head fell back against the door with a soft thud.
She was dripping down his hand, hips rocking helplessly against his fingers despite her anger.
The humiliation of Nicholas standing just inches away on the other side of the door only heightened everything.
Tristan kissed her again, swallowing her cries as he drove her closer and closer to the edge with relentless strokes.
Her walls clenched around his fingers, thighs shaking.
She was so embarrassingly close when Tristan suddenly slowed, keeping her teetering on the brink without letting her fall.
“Please…” she whimpered softly, the word slipping out before she could stop it.
Tristan smirked against her neck, sucking a dark mark into her skin while his fingers continued their torturous rhythm.
Outside, Nicholas cursed and banged on the door one last time before storming away.
Only then did Tristan pull back slightly, eyes blazing with dark possession as he watched her flushed, moaning face.
His fingers never stopped moving inside her, drawing out more desperate, breathy sounds from her lips.
“You are my mistress, Ophelia,” he whispered harshly.
“Say it.”
But she only moaned louder, lost in the overwhelming sensation of his skilled fingers fucking her against the door, her nightwear pushed aside, body trembling on the edge of release.