The Reinvention of the Rose - Christina C. Jones Page 0,24

– and what I want is hot, meaningless sex,” I told him. “So unless you’re planning to offer that – stay out of my way.”

Tristan’s nostrils flared as he stared at me, clearly trying to gather his words.

He was taking too damn long.

I started to walk away, only to have him grab me by the arm, pulling me through the crowd to the back hallways of the coffeehouse, where I snatched away from him.

“Why are you playing with me?” he asked, before I could start cursing him out for grabbing me.

“Nobody is playing with you. This isn’t even about you,” I lied. “But I guess being the neighborhood hottie doesn’t come without a healthy dose of narcissism, huh?”

“So you’re not in here looking good as fuck in these other niggas faces, to make me jealous?”

I grinned. “… you think I look good?”

“Obviously.”

“Nope,” I shook my head. “If it was so obvious, you’d have come upstairs the other night and given me what I needed. And since you won’t – I’ll find someone who will.”

I turned to walk away, only to have him grab me again, sandwiching me between his body and the wall.

“No, you won’t,” he told me, like it was up to him.

“Fuck you.”

Tristan smirked, bringing his mouth almost to mine as he tightened his grip on my wrists. “Is that what I have to do, huh? Fuck some cooperation into you?”

“Yes. Please,” I murmured, making him chuckle as our lips pressed together. I pulled my wrists from his hold to fist handfuls of his shirt instead, pulling him into me as his tongue slipped into my mouth.

Devouring me.

He palmed my ass, easily lifting me to press into the wall behind us as my legs hiked around his waist. His dick was hard, and thick, pushing against the space between my legs – not remotely helping my soaked-panty situation.

Tristan’s mouth dropped to my neck, sucking, licking, biting, kissing, driving me crazy. He slid a hand between us, easily finding the spot, even through the thin barrier of my jeans, that had me panting as soon as he touched me there.

He didn’t just touch though.

He pressed, and rubbed, creating an inexcusably pleasurable friction that had me whimpering into his mouth as he kissed me.

“You want me to make you cum?” he asked, pulling away from my mouth to graze my earlobe with his teeth.

“Yes,” I answered, breathlessly.

“You’re gonna stop the games?”

“What games?”

His hand came away, and I quickly grabbed his wrist, bringing it back.

“Yes,” I told him. “But…”

“But what?” he murmured, doing something to my ear with his tongue that almost made me cum right then, with his fingers pressed to my clit through my jeans.

“I… need this,” I whimpered, telling the truth even though it was weak as hell to admit.

“You need… to cum?”

I nodded, offering an assenting groan into his mouth as he kissed me again, and finally started again with the friction from his fingers.

And this was blissful, really.

But no… this wasn’t what I needed.

I needed more – needed the experience, needed everything. No, I wasn’t a virgin, but now I needed my own, personal experiences to replace the mission-critical ones that had shaped me.

I needed something else in my head.

Something I’d chosen, something that was mine.

And no, of course, I didn’t want that to be with some random – especially not with these budding feelings I was having for Tristan.

But I also didn’t want to “wait”.

Couldn’t wait, now that I had it in my head.

This was a start, but I needed… more.

Wanted more.

Wanted… him.

The orgasm hit me very suddenly, the physiological response ripping me out of my thoughts and firmly into the moment.

The tensing of my whole body, the rush of sensation, the feeling of euphoria.

Tristan swallowing my exaltations of pleasure in a kiss.

My breath happened in soft pants as I came down from the orgasmic high, with Tristan keeping me steady as I found balance on the floor in my heels.

For a long moment, we couldn’t do anything but look at each other.

And then…

“Give me your number.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Your number,” he repeated. “You know, the specific-to-you series of digits that allows people to call or message the little device you carry around.”

“You’re not funny. Or cute.”

He scoffed. “I see a lie still don’t care who tells it, huh?”

He pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocking the screen before he put it in my hand, then gestured for mine.

So… I gave it to him.

And I put the correct number in his, too.

“You got a