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I couldn’t share with him that I’d forgotten what it was even like to have a sex marathon.  I’d only been with Andrew in the years between, but I doubted many men could put in so many rounds, like Tristan.  The man was superhuman.  I’d always known it, but having this, and losing it, made it even sweeter the second time around.
He kept my hair gripped tight as he played against my entrance with his tip.
“Sweetheart, here’s how it’s going to go.  You aren’t going to come until I tell you to.  No matter how unbearable, you will hold back until I give the word.  Also, don’t move your hands until I say to.”
I bit my lip, shutting my eyes tight as he sank in deep.  He started moving right away, but so slowly, so leisurely that it was torturous right off the bat.
I was already primed.  What I needed was another hard f**k.  I told him so.
He chuckled, kissing my back, his lips playing over my tattoo.  “Let’s be clear; you are far from in charge here.”
As though to illustrate his point, he gave me a few rough, jarring rams before he went right back to that infuriating pace.
He palmed my left breast and kissed my back as he maintained that smooth as hell and torturously unhurried rhythm.
This went on for so long that I was mewling, then cursing him loud and vehemently.
His reaction to that was to laugh against my back.  “I already got you off twice.  I must be spoiling you, if you’re this greedy for a third round.”
“I know you’re good for more than three, you sadistic bastard,” I told him.
I got a few rough jolts for that one, and as soon as I realized that taunting him would get me what I wanted, I began to insult him in earnest.
It backfired.  Badly.  He pulled out of me completely, letting go of my hair.  I tried to take back every insult, but it was too late.
“Relax your hands,” he told me, and when I did, he lined them up straight at my sides, twisting my arms just enough to face my palms up, then pulling my arms high and far enough behind my back to hold them taut.
I felt him kneel behind me, still holding my hands captive, and start to eat me out from behind with the most teasing little strokes of his tongue.
My feet arched up, and I hooked them until they were crossed behind his head, resting on his nape.  He began to plunge his tongue deep, using my captive hands to move my pu**y on and off his busy tongue.
I was close, and I told him so.  He pulled back, and I felt him stand.  He tugged at my arms, pulling me back onto his cock, and started up the slow pace from before.
I bounced my h*ps and started to beg.
He took pity on me, working into the pace I wanted, needed.  “All right, sweetheart, you can let go.”
I came hard, convulsing, shaking, clenching on his c**k as I felt him grinding hard as he followed me.
I was so limp after that round that he had to carry me to bed.
I passed out, sated and content in a way that had been lost to me for as long as Tristan had.  Even with the touches of drama, it was the best day I’d had in as long as I could remember.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I met him offsite, at a restaurant near Tropicana and Pecos, right next to a huge gun store with the biggest shooting range in town.
It was a great little Italian joint that I’d have bet money was run by the mob.  The place was open twenty-four seven, and it was always completely dead except for a few overweight Italian guys that chatted quietly in the corner.  One of them, the owner, would almost always stop by our table to make sure that we’d enjoyed our meal, giving a long speech about taking care of his customers.
Super mob vibe.  And come on, this was Vegas.
The food was so good that I kept coming back, regardless.  Bev and I had a bi-weekly lunch date there, rain or shine.
Usually, Andrew and I met up at one of the restaurants inside the casino, but I didn’t think that was a good idea at the moment, for obvious reasons.
Not because I was hiding it, but more because I didn’t want to deal with any potential drama because of it.
Okay, maybe I was hiding it a little.  Though I wasn’t doing anything wrong.
I told myself that firmly and repeatedly.  Somehow, it didn’t help.
We met for lunch a few times a month, even post breakup.  That’s just how we were.  I thought we’d always be good friends.  Andrew was just that type of guy.  Even if he’d rather not have been broken up, he respected my decision.
He never resorted to dirty tricks or Troublesome smiles to get what he wanted from me.
Of course, he didn’t have those in his arsenal.
In fact, Andrew didn’t have an arsenal.
That had always been my favorite thing about him.  Too bad it hadn’t been enough.
It was hard to sit across a small table from him and not make comparisons to a certain tattooed bad boy.  Impossible, actually.
And it was hard not to feel guilty at just how unflattering those comparisons were for poor Andrew.
I ordered a salad, Andrew ordered lasagna, and we picked at our food while we waded through some stilted conversation.  It wasn’t usually like this.
I felt like shit for even being there.  I should have canceled, but I’d been too stubborn to admit to myself that my life couldn’t just keep going on as usual.
“So are you seeing anyone special?” I asked, feeling way too hopeful about it.  The day he moved on would be a big weight off my conscience.  I knew I’d broken his heart, and though it’d been several months since all of that had gone down, I still felt bad about it.