The sound of Nicholas’s retreating footsteps finally faded down the hallway, leaving only a heavy, charged silence in the apartment.
He couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in the living room, he could hear her moaning, and swear her heart thumped so hard hearing her moaning.
He wanted to believe he had heard wrong but he couldn’t even deny what he had heard.
Ophelia’s ragged breathing filled the space, mingling with the wet, obscene sounds of Tristan’s fingers still moving slowly inside her.
She was trembling violently against the door, her emerald silk nightwear pushed up around her waist.
Her legs barely held her up.
Tristan’s tall, powerful body kept her pinned in place, his chest pressed firmly against her back, his hot breath fanning across her neck.
His fingers curled, stroking that sensitive spot deep inside her with maddening pleasure.
Every slow thrust pulled another broken, helpless moan from her lips.
“Tristan…” she whimpered, the sound half protest, half desperate plea.
Her forehead rested against the cool wood of the door as tears of overwhelming pleasure and humiliation slipped down her flushed cheeks.
He didn’t stop.
If anything, he pressed his thumb more firmly against her swollen clit, rubbing tight, relentless circles while his fingers thrust deeper.
“Let me hear you,” he growled low in her ear, voice rough with dark satisfaction.
“He heard how wet you get for me. Now I want to feel you come all over my hand like the good little mistress you are.”
The shame of knowing Nicholas had stood just inches away on the other side of the door, listening to every moan, burned through Ophelia like fire.
Yet it only increased the pleasure.
Her inner walls clenched tightly around his thick fingers as the orgasm crashed over her without mercy.
She cried out loudly, her body shaking violently as powerful waves of release tore through her.
Tristan kept stroking her through every spasm, drawing out the pleasure until she was gasping, weak, and dripping down his hand.
Only then did he slowly withdraw his fingers.
He turned her around to face him.
His pale grey eyes were dark with raw possession.
Without a word, he brought his glistening fingers to her lips.
“Open,” he commanded softly.
Still dazed and trembling from the intense climax, Ophelia obeyed.
She tasted herself on his fingers as he slid them into her mouth.
The intimate, degrading act sent another shiver racing through her body.
Tristan watched her with burning intensity.
He pulled his fingers free and kissed her deeply, tasting her arousal on both their tongues.
This kiss was slower than the frantic one against the door, but no less hungry.
When he finally pulled back, Ophelia’s legs felt like jelly.
She nearly slid down the door, but Tristan caught her, steadying her with strong hands on her waist.
He let go of her after a moment and moved toward the couch, dropping down onto it with casual dominance as if he owned the entire apartment.
Ophelia stood there, nightwear disheveled, body still humming from the aftershocks.
A fresh wave of humiliation washed over her.
“Are you leaving now?” she asked, voice hoarse.
Tristan didn’t answer.
He simply leaned back against the cushions, watching her with that unreadable, intense gaze.
The silence stretched.
Ophelia felt used, exposed, and strangely empty.
“Why? You want me to leave so you can go running back to them?” she scoffed, storming toward him on shaky legs.
“The last time I checked, Nicholas never told you I am the kind of girl who runs around with men.”
Tristan looked up at her and let out a low, mocking scoff.
“Really? And here you are, stripping the moment I told you to the very night you broke up with him.”
“Tristan!” she snapped, anger flaring hot in her chest.
He smirked and stood up slowly, clearly enjoying how easily he could rile her up.
“What? You don’t like hearing the truth?”
“I don’t. Now get out,” she hissed.
She turned sharply and walked toward her bedroom, glancing back once to see Tristan still standing there, unmoved, watching her with dark satisfaction.
Ophelia sighed heavily as she entered her room.
Exhaustion crashed over her like a wave.
The emotional and physical toll of the night, the gala, the speech, the confrontation, and now this left her drained.
She climbed into bed without bothering to change, pulling the covers over herself.
Her body still tingled from Tristan’s touch, but her mind was a storm of frustration, shame, and confusing longing.
She had let him touch her again.
She had moaned for him while her ex stood right outside the door.
What was wrong with her?
Tears pricked at her eyes as she curled into a ball.
The weight of everything pressed down on her chest. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
Saving her father had come at such a high price.
Her career was hanging by a thread.
Her heart was shattered.
And now this dangerous, possessive man had complete control over her body and, slowly, it seemed, over her heart too.
Sleep came quickly, pulling her under into a restless, dream-filled darkness.
Tristan on the other hand remained in the living room for a long time after Ophelia disappeared into her bedroom.
He sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the closed door.
The taste of her still lingered on his tongue.
The memory of her moans vibrating against his mouth while Nicholas stood outside burned in his mind.
He had come here tonight out of pure jealousy.
Seeing her smile and laugh with that doctor at the gala had ignited something primal in him.
Ophelia was his.
The contract said so.
But more than that, seven years of silent longing had finally given him the right to claim her.
Yet as he sat in the apartment, something unfamiliar stirred in his chest.
Regret, not for claiming her, but for the way he kept pushing her.
For the coldness he used as armor.
He stood up eventually and walked to her bedroom door.
It was slightly ajar.
He pushed it open quietly and saw her curled up under the covers, already asleep.
Her face was still flushed, tear tracks visible on her cheeks.
Tristan’s jaw tightened as he stepped inside, moving silently to the edge of the bed.
For a long moment, he simply watched her sleep.
She looked so vulnerable like this.
So different from the strong, brilliant woman who had commanded the stage earlier that night.
He reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from her face.
“You will understand one day,” he whispered, so softly it barely disturbed the air.
“I have waited too long to lose you now.”
Tristan lingered a few moments longer before turning and leaving the room.