Chapter 19

19

NINA

He’s sleeping on me. His head resting on my chest, one arm possessively wrapped around my waist, our legs intertwined under the sheets.

The soft rhythm of Tristan’s breathing is a soothing backdrop to the chaos of last night’s memories. I had sex with Tristan Montgomery and I’m not even sure I can call it just sex. It felt more like a colliding of galaxies, or maybe just the perfect storm of pent-up tension and raw attraction. But definitely not an itch that goes away once you scratch it because now I’m itching all over.

And the way he looked at me last night, the things he said. And the ones he didn’t say. There was a moment when I could swear I saw pure, unadulterated terror in his eyes. Is he afraid of me? Of us?

Are we even an us? No idea. I just know that today everything has changed. That my brilliant solution to fuck him out of my system might’ve backfired spectacularly.

I haven’t even moved an inch because I don’t want to wake him. Not yet. Not until I’ve let my eyes feast on him a little longer.

The room is filled with morning light that shimmers on his dark hair and makes the stubble on his strong jaw almost sparkle silver. The early sunrays dust his angular features with a pearly hue. His lashes, long and enviably dark against his pale skin, flutter in the quiet slumber of dreams.

I lie still underneath him, watching the rise and fall of his chest, tracing his strong back with my gaze, itching for my hands to follow. I sink one hand into the soft hair at the back of his head because I can, because I don’t know when I’ll have the freedom to do it again.

I close my eyes, relaxing into his embrace, relishing his weight on top of me. I’m about to drift off to sleep again when the quiet is shattered as the door handle jiggles violently, followed by a muffled voice—Dylan’s voice—calling out for Tristan.

In a single heartbeat, Tristan’s eyes flicker open, his body coiled like a spring. We exchange a look that’s electric, alive with the silent communication of two people caught in an act they hadn’t planned. That they don’t know what it means.

“Wait a sec!” Tristan calls, his voice steady despite the adrenaline that must be racing through him. With a swift motion, he rolls out of bed—the sheets tumbling after him in a knot.

I can’t help but let my gaze linger on him for a precious second, taking in the sculpted lines of his back, the athletic grace of his movements. But there’s no time to savor the view. He yanks on his discarded gray sweatpants from last night, depriving me of the view of the perfect curve of his ass.

He turns to me, eyes roaming hungrily over my exposed body. Then, with a grin and a tenderness I still can’t believe he’s capable of, he presses a finger to his lips and pulls the sheets over me, covering me from head to toe.

The world becomes a cocoon of fabric, dim and muffled. He rearranges the sheets around me with meticulous care, ensuring no errant strand of my blonde hair peeks out, no hint of my presence to be revealed to the casual observer.

Under this makeshift veil, I’m acutely aware of him leaning down, his warmth seeping even between this barrier. “Be a good girl and keep quiet,” he whispers, a teasing lilt to his voice that sends a contradictory shiver of delight and anxiety through me.

The mattress lifts, and he’s gone to let Dylan in, leaving me buried beneath the covers, ears straining to follow his movements across the room.

The hum of the lock disengaging sends a bolt of apprehension through me. I’m a still life under these blankets, barely daring to breathe as Tristan opens the door.

“Hey, man.” Dylan’s voice carries into the room, casual with an undertone of doubt. “Why did you lock your door? Afraid my sister would try to off you in the middle of the night?”

Tristan’s chuckle is nervous, but it passes for genuine. “Yeah, that woman is going to be the death of me.” A good death , I smirk to myself. A much better one than I would’ve given him only yesterday. “But no, the door doesn’t latch properly; the only way to keep it closed is to lock it.”

He’s smooth. I’ll give him that.

From beneath the safety of my fabric fortress, I listen, picturing Tristan’s cool blue gaze meeting Dylan’s questioning one without a flicker of hesitation. He’s good at this—too good. When Dylan caught us in my room, I couldn’t string two coherent sentences together, let alone speak in a normal tone of voice.

Smooth, beautiful liar , I think, an unvoiced snort vibrating against my chest, muffled by the sheets.

“Anyway,” Dylan’s voice snaps me back to the present, “you down for a run before breakfast? For once, the sun is shining and they’ve finally plowed the roads.”

“Sure,” Tristan replies, and I can almost hear the easy shrug in his words. “Just give me a minute to change.”

The click of the lock as it slides back in place is swift, my only warning before the sudden dip of the mattress as Tristan’s weight shifts toward me. He lifts the covers and dives underneath with me. His hands are on me before I can even gasp—the quilt billowing above our heads—then his lips find mine, warm and pressing, silencing my surprise. The world narrows to the cocoon he’s created around us, his breath tickling my ear as he whispers sweet nothings that have the hair on my arms standing up.

“I wish we could just stay like this all day,” he murmurs, his voice a low hum vibrating against my skin. “But I have to go freeze my ass off on a morning run.”

“Told you my brother was an idiot.”

“It doesn’t matter, Princess, we’ll find another time.”

I nod, not trusting my voice, caught in the web of his proximity and the thrill of our secret.

He pulls back, and the bed springs betray his departure. I peek out of the blankets just long enough to watch him strip away the sweatpants to pull on clean underwear from his suitcase. Now I almost cringe remembering it’s the same trolley I buried in the snow when he arrived. How many things have changed in just forty-eight hours.

Tristan pulls on socks and running pants next. I watch the muscles of his back ripple as he bends to grab a T-shirt.

Then he stands and peeks at me from over his shoulder, grinning. “Enjoying the show, Thompson?”

“Not one bit, Montgomery. You got it all wrong.”

“Oh?”

“You should undress for me, not the other way around.”

He’s all efficiency as he pulls the T-shirt on, but there’s a gleam in his eyes that tells a different story. “But undressing for me is your specialty, I wouldn’t want to steal your thunder.” Tristan’s voice is teasing, but I can detect the hint of desire threading through his words.

He comes over and plants a swift kiss on my forehead, his scent exhilarating even before a shower and after a night spent sweating.

“Wait for ten minutes after we’re out the door,” he instructs, zipping up his jacket. “Then you’re clear to make your great escape.”

He flicks my nose.

I swat his hand away, feigning annoyance. In response, Tristan grabs my wrists and pins them over my head.

He grins at my gasp, then bends down, his blue eyes locking onto mine. Anticipation coils tight in my belly. And then he kisses me, slow and deliberate, a promise of more kisses to come sealed in the press of his lips. When he finally pulls back, I’m breathing hard, and I’m pretty sure my hair’s a wild mess. As he releases my wrists and pulls away, his grin is smug, utterly pleased with himself. I sit up, cheeks burning.

“See you at breakfast,” he says with a wink, leaving behind only his scent as he slips out the door.

I bury my face in his pillow and inhale deeply. If this is what selling your soul to the devil feels like, then please sign me up for an eternal sentence in hell.