Nina’s eyes dance with marvel. Then her gaze shifts to heated lust. She grabs the hair at my nape, tilting my head slightly backward. “So, tell me, Montgomery, exactly how many nights did you spend lying awake in bed thinking about me?”

  She’s getting cocky, so I flip us over, pinning her beneath me on the mattress. She lets out a surprised little yelp but is quick in recovering. She flashes me that devilish smirk again and, fisting my T-shirt, she pulls me down to her. I go willingly to my damnation, kissing every inch of her skin I can reach. Her eyes close as I take my time exploring her curves with my mouth, mapping out the contours of her body. I want to memorize every reaction, every sound she makes, every hitch in her breath.

  “Tristan.”

  My name whispered from her lips sends me into a tailspin. I pull back to just look at her. Take in her flushed cheeks, the way her chest rises and falls with quickened breaths, the tendrils of hair that have fallen over her face. The sight is enough to make me feel like I’m the one who’s conquered, not the other way around.

  Her lashes flutter open as she gazes up at me, her stare slightly glazed over. She’s never looked more beautiful—eyes lustful, lips swollen from our kisses, golden hair fanned out across the pillow. I’m completely entranced.

  Unable to hold back any longer, I cup her face and claim her mouth again. This time there’s no hesitation, no teasing—just pure, electrifying need. I pour everything I feel for her into the kiss, caressing her soft lips, tasting her sweetness. A low moan escapes her throat and I swallow the sound greedily.

  My hands skim down her sides, fingertips trailing over her silky skin as I map every dip and curve of her body. She arches into my touch, skin burning everywhere we connect. I want to unravel her slowly, learn each secret place that makes her gasp and sigh. But I’m too far gone, too consumed by the feel of her semi-naked and wanting beneath me.

  The kiss grows hotter and headier with each ragged breath. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, urging me closer. Then they drop lower, relieving me of my pants. We remove the rest of our clothes, never breaking the kiss until I settle once again between her parted thighs.

  I stop now, looking at her, asking her permission to unravel us both. She only gives me a small nod before pulling me to her again as if she could no longer breathe without my lips pressed to hers.

  We move together, finding a rhythm as natural as our heartbeats, stoking the flames higher.

  And then it hits me—this overwhelming flood of emotion I’ve been trying so hard to deny. It’s more than just lust and attraction. More than our maddening chemistry.

  Those feelings I’ve been running from, they’re all tangled up in this moment, in her.

  She comes undone and I follow her to my downfall in a blast so intense I didn’t even know it was physically possible.

  Terrified of what this perfect connection means, I break the kiss, burying my face in the crook of her neck as I try to still the turmoil within me, to quell the storm of my emotions. I’m in deep, drowning in her. And for once in my meticulously controlled life, I’m not sure what comes next.

  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.

  20

  TRISTAN

  On the way back from the run, I burst into the kitchen, losing the race to Dylan for who gets back to the house first. Sweat is dripping down my face, and even if I lost, there she is—my prize, Nina. She’s sitting at the breakfast table with the rest of the Thompsons. Already breathless from the last sprint, my oxygen intake further deteriorates as our gazes meet across the room. I get lost in those emerald gems that burned with passion last night as I explored every inch of her soft skin. Just hours ago, she was mine, all mine.

  Stealing a cookie off her plate, I flash her a teasing grin. Nina narrows her eyes, but her glares have softened. No resentment burns in them now. Only a very different kind of heat and a tender warmth shine through, making my throat tighten.

  “Ew, Tristan, you reek!” Nina scrunches up her nose adorably. “Maybe shower first, then cookies?”

  “What’s wrong, Thompson? Can’t handle a little man-musk?” I wink at her before popping the cookie into my mouth.

  Nina sniffs again, and I theatrically lift an arm, smelling an armpit. Yeah, I need to shower.

  Across the kitchen, I catch Dylan’s eye. A silent challenge passes between us. Game on, bro. We both dash for the stairs, jostling each other as we race to the bathroom. I edge him out at the last second, slamming the door in his face with a triumphant whoop.

  “Losers wash last!” I call out, already stripping off my sweaty T-shirt.

  I step into the shower, and as the warm water cascades over me, I can’t stop grinning like an idiot. Nina Thompson, the girl I’ve loved to torment for years, had her wicked way with me last night and from the looks she was throwing me in the kitchen, she isn’t nearly done. And damn, if that doesn’t make me feel like the luckiest bastard alive.

  As I rinse the last of the shampoo from my hair, I hear the front door open and a high-pitched, excited voice fill the house. I quickly towel off and throw on some clean clothes to go check what the commotion is about. Finally smelling respectable, I re-enter the kitchen, eager to be near Nina again. The delicious aroma of bacon and pancakes wafts in the air, making my stomach rumble. More Thompsons have joined in. Milo, Agatha, Eric, and their two kids.

  “Well, don’t you clean up nice,” Nina teases in a low tone as I slide into the chair beside her. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and for the first time, she doesn’t rush to pull it down or hide her ears from me. Looks like at least I kissed some sense into her last night.

  “Usually, it’s you who steals the show after a shower,” I murmur back, low enough for only her to hear. A pretty blush stains her cheeks, and she busies herself with spreading jam on her toast.

  “Mornin’, family!” Uncle Milo booms, his jolly face split in a wide grin. “Sleep well?”

  Nina chokes on her orange juice, and I pat her back gently, trying not to laugh. If only they knew…

  “Slept like a rock, Milo,” I reply smoothly. When she finally let me, I add in my head. “Must be the fresh country air.”

  Lisa sets a heaping plate of pancakes in front of me, her kind eyes twinkling. “Glad to see you two made peace,” she coos, giving Nina a knowing look. “Greg.” She turns to her husband. “I think we might have a raccoon in the attic again. I heard a weird thumping all of last night.”

  My turn to nearly choke on a sip of coffee. Nina’s face is beet red now, and she’s studiously avoiding my gaze. Did we make too much noise last night? Does her mom suspect something?

  Maybe we’re being too casual. We went from trying to rip each other’s throats off to stolen glances and covert smiles in twenty-four hours. Her family might get suspicious.

  I need to dial down the charm—or at least, the visibility of it.

  Mr. Thompson, bless him, saves us from further embarrassment by asking, “What’s on the agenda for today, gang?” He spears a sausage with his fork.

  As the conversation turns to our plans for the day—we’re building a giant gingerbread house, it seems—I push my knee against Nina’s under the table. She startles slightly but doesn’t pull away. Instead, she hooks her ankle around mine, sending a thrill up my spine.

  As soon as breakfast is cleared, Agatha’s daughter, Zoe, starts bouncing on her toes, her curls flying as she chatters away to Nina about her decorating plans and how to make the gingerbread house more appealing for the competition that will take place after the recital at her school tonight. Agatha brings in the supplies covering the table with house parts, colorful icing tubes, and bowls of candy decorations.

  “Tristan! You will help too,” Zoe declares, waving me over. “No one can skip.”

  I grin and press my thigh more firmly into Nina’s. She peeks at me from under her lashes, just before she retaliates under the pretense of getting up and doing the dishes. Her chest oh-so-casually brushes against my bicep as she collects the last remaining coffee mugs.

  I have to say, I much prefer this foreplay version of our covert war.

  All morning, as we work on assembling and decorating the gingerbread walls, the stolen touches continue. Our hands brush against each other more than once, sparks igniting with each touch.

  “Hey, Nina,” I say casually, picking up a piping bag filled with green icing. “Bet I can design a better side of the house than you.”

  Her eyes flash with competitive fire. “Oh, you’re on, Montgomery,” she retorts, snatching up a bag of red icing. “Prepare to be dazzled by my artistic genius.”

  As we toil on our respective sides, I can’t resist teasing her. “Is that supposed to be a wreath?” I ask, pointing to a lopsided green circle. “Looks more like a mutant turtle.”

  Nina gasps in mock outrage. “Excuse me, Mr. Gingerbread Picasso, but at least my side doesn’t resemble a kindergartener’s finger painting.”

  A playful gleam lights up her eyes, and I wait for everyone to be distracted to lean in close, my lips brushing against her ear. “You’re good at pretending you still hate me, Thompson,” I murmur, my voice low and intimate.

  She shivers, closing her eyes briefly. But when she turns to me with a huff, her glare is real. “You’re being too obvious,” she hisses back, pushing me away.

  I straighten up, putting on my best innocent face as I hold my hands up in surrender. “Obviously, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say smoothly. Dylan glances our way, one eyebrow raised, but I flash him a goofy smile that says, “Not to worry,” and he quickly turns his attention back to the roof that he is patiently helping Zoe sprinkle with shredded coconut to mimic snow.

  Feeling bold, I discreetly pipe Nina’s initials into the frosting on my side of the gingerbread house, hiding them among the intricate swirls and patterns. I glance over at her, wondering if she’s noticed, but she seems focused on her own work, tongue poking out in concentration. She’d have me fooled if her eyes didn’t flick to the exact spot where her initials are, a knowing glint brightening her gaze.

  We continue working, exchanging playful jabs and sly glances. At one point, I casually drop my hand under the table and drag a knuckle over her thigh. I let my fingers linger on her, savoring the way she turns rigid in her chair.