Nicole Harper
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Tristan’s kiss was soft at first, almost careful, like he was afraid I might cry again.
I hated it.
I didn’t want careful. I didn’t want gentle. I didn’t want him looking at me like I was fragile or broken. I had already cried in front of him like some pathetic little girl, and the embarrassment burned hotter than the sting still lingering on my ass from his belt.
I didn’t want to think about my father or my mother. I didn’t want to think about anything.
So I kissed him back harder.
My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him down as I arched up, demanding more. Tristan made a low sound in his throat and the gentleness vanished. The kiss turned hungry, messy, our teeth clashing as his tongue slid against mine.
“Tristan,” I breathed against his mouth, tugging at hi
