“Stop making me worry so much.”
Lila nodded, willing to say anything as long as he didn’t stop. Tristan shifted on her belly again, and she sucked in a breath, biting her tongue against a grunt of pain.
She didn’t want to call out.
She didn’t want to tell him to stop.
She barely remembered why her belly hurt at all. Her only thought was of Tristan’s body against hers, his cock between her legs, his clever lips and clever fingers and soft skin enveloping her, sweating against her.
Perhaps for the last time.
Lila pulled at his waistband, and he was all too happy to oblige.
She tugged off his clothes while he did the same with her, both chuckling when their limbs got tangled. Within seconds they were naked, hands groping and sliding upon warm skin.
“I missed you,” Tristan said as he sucked at her lips, his thumb brushing against her cheek. “I’ve grown used to having you here with me all day.”
A straining cock pushed at her. Before she could say a word, he pumped inside her, too eager to wait for their usual foreplay.
Lila’s mouth opened, and she arched her back.
A burst of pain hit her all at once. A river of fire and tightness started between her legs and rushed up her spine to her shoulders.
Tristan pulled out at the third thrust and knelt beside her, his face a mass of confusion. “Lila, what’s wrong?” His hands went to her face, gripping both sides.
“Lila, you’re scaring me. Talk to me.”
“I’m okay,” she said with some effort.
But she wasn’t okay. The pain remained, though it had dulled. She twisted away from him and curled on her side, panting from the fire that had wrenched at her.
“Damn it, I’m taking you to the—”
“No, I’m okay.”
Lila squeezed her eyes shut. Gods, she was an idiot. Helen had told her not to have sex so soon after surgery, and she’d gotten caught up in the moment.
They both had.
And they’d never have a last time.
The bed wobbled as Tristan lay behind her, snaking his arm around her chest. He kissed her bare shoulder, a small breath across her skin. “Are you really okay?”
Lila nodded, then regretted it instantly. Even that small movement triggered a wave of nausea.
“You don’t look okay. I—”
“Just lie quiet,” she said, burying her head in the pillow. “Please.”
Tristan closed his mouth and stilled.
The silence stretched on, awkward and strange. Tristan’s bedroom had rarely been quiet. It was usually filled with moans or whispers or the sounds of deep breathing as they fell asleep.
Or the popping of a headboard.
It wasn’t used to quiet.