chapter seven
Sydney? I need you down here now to talk about this deal. I won’t be available tomorrow or Monday, so if we’re going to discuss, we need to do it now.”
She looked down at her out-of-date Valentine’s Day LuLaRoe leggings, faded oversize T-shirt, and furry boots. She’d squeezed in the oil change this morning, bought the tights, and picked up some groceries, and she didn’t have much time left before Becca needed to get ready for the recital. Especially since scoring a front seat meant getting there an hour early.
Swallowing past the panic, she kept her voice calm. Anthony Moretti was known for his quality tile, workmanship, and theatrics. She’d been able to reach out to him briefly about the deal, but he liked face-to-face encounters. Her plan to approach him on Monday obviously wasn’t going to work, since he refused to wait. “No problem. Can you give me half an hour?”
“See you then.”
She clicked off her cell phone and dragged in a breath. Okay, she could do this. Her brain madly rushed through the options as she crammed her hair into a halfhearted bun and hunted for her files. “Becca!” she yelled. “Honey, I need you down here now!”
“What?”
“I have to drop you off at My Place for a little bit while I run out.” She frantically pushed away catalogs, school bulletins, and Becca’s artwork and found her work folder. Thank God. “We have to go now!”
Her daughter came down with her Nintendo DS and a big frown. “But we have to get ready for my recital!”
“We’ll have time. I promise it’ll be fine. I’ll swing by and pick you up in an hour.”
Becca gave a grumble but began tugging on her pink boots. “Okay. Can I get sweet potato fries? And play darts?”
“Yes, anything you want.” She grabbed Becca’s jacket and her own, then hurried into the car. She dialed Raven’s number on her Bluetooth, praying it wouldn’t be a problem. Raven adored Becca, as did the restaurant staff, and was always happy to babysit when Sydney was in trouble. Raven’s voice came over the line. “Raven? It’s Sydney. Can I drop Becca off for a little while? A work thing came up.”
“Sure, I’ll get a platter of the fries she loves ready. Can’t wait.”
“Thank you. See you in five.”
She hurried to My Place, dropped her daughter off, and drove like a bat out of hell to the granite place. Slipping into work mode, she allowed herself a few seconds of quiet meditation, then walked inside.
In her hot-pink heart leggings.
Anthony greeted her with warmth, shooting her a puzzled look at her wardrobe, but at least he kept quiet. The older man had a clean-shaven head, ruddy cheeks, and a nice belly that screamed of his love for pasta and beer. His networking ability was legendary in Harrington. Thank goodness he displayed pure loyalty to Pierce Brothers.
His only problem was working with “city slickers” who were going to beat him, rob him, and leave him in the gutter to die.
“I can’t go another five percent, Syd,” he said with a worried expression. “It’s not worth it.”
She’d prepped for this battle and was ready. “Anthony, I fought him on this, but it’s the only way to compete with the warehouse. You have to look at the bigger picture for Harrington. For the first time, we’ll be showcasing local suppliers for the bigger jobs. We nail this, and you can pick and choose from projects you’ve never been able to bid on before.”
She knew Anthony was a bit of an egotist when it came to his work. Another reason he loved Pierce—they weren’t the type of builders who threw up cheap houses for cost. “I don’t know.”
“Then let me convince you.”
She spent the next half hour going over design plans, costs, and benefits. Slowly he began nodding his head, beginning to grasp the bigger vision she’d been desperate to communicate.
Then she went for her close.
“Let me be honest. Adam is going to begin building in Harrington whether we want him to or not. He’d rather bring in crappy chain distributors and put up cookie-cutter houses that will eventually insult both of our businesses. This is a way to stop him without a feud. On our terms. You have the ability to make something spectacular happen. But I’m afraid if you don’t bend on this final condition, we’ll not only be cut out but cut up.”
Anthony tapped his finger against the papers, then slurped his coffee. “Bastards,” he grumbled.
“I know. So let’s do this our way.”
A reluctant smile curved his lips. “Ah, hell, why not?”
“Do you think you can get Brenda and Sam on board?” The other two granite, textile, and wood suppliers usually followed Anthony’s lead on projects.
“Yeah, I’ll call them today. But you’ll have to pay them a visit.”
“I will. Monday. I promise.”
“Good.”
She managed to peek at her watch. She was running a bit late, but nothing some deft driving and organization couldn’t handle. Saying her good-byes to Anthony, she headed to her car. She wished My Place weren’t on the edge of Harrington. Easing on the accelerator, she whizzed out of town, until a loud pop exploded in the air.
“What the hell?” Her car pulled to the left, and she angled into the spin. Thank God the road was basically clear, since she spun once, then landed on the side of the road. With shaking hands, she climbed out of the car and walked to the back.
Flat tire.
Completely. There was no saving this one. She must’ve run over something, maybe a busted glass bottle. Good thing she knew how to change a tire, thanks to Christian, who had always wanted her prepared to be safe on the road.
She opened the trunk, pulled off the cover, and stared into the empty space.
No spare.
Holy shit.
With horror, she remembered she’d taken the spare in to get it patched, but she’d never picked it up and put it back in the car. Which meant she was officially stranded on the side of the road with no spare and her daughter’s recital in an hour.
Okay, don’t freak. She had Triple A. She’d call them, and they’d give her a tow, or fix it, and get her home. Not in time for the recital, but maybe Brady or Charlie could take Becca and she’d meet them there. Morgan and Cal were gone for the weekend, so they couldn’t help. Raven always had a fully packed restaurant on a Saturday night, and Dalton wasn’t available. She began dialing numbers and kept getting voice mail.
When she finally reached Brady and Charlie, she discovered they were at a family dinner and over an hour away. Her regular sitter was off for the night. There was no one left to call.
Groaning, she frantically searched for anyone else in her contacts list who’d be able to get Becca to that recital. She’d been practicing so hard, and it would devastate her to miss it. She didn’t have Becca’s friends in her cell phone, or she’d be able to hunt down another mom who’d sympathize with her predicament. Maybe—
Tristan.
She squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t. It was a terrible idea. It could lead to disaster.
God, she’d hated the distant way he’d treated Becca last night. His bumbling excuse of being busy during her recital was a total lie—his left brow always quirked upward—and Becca had sensed his untruth. Not that Sydney wanted them to be buddies, but hurting her daughter’s feelings stirred up her protective instincts. His asking Dalton to drive them home was a secondary punch. It was obvious he wanted nothing more to do with either of them last night, and the rejection stung.
More than she anticipated.
Fine with her. She should feel relief she’d shut down his advances in the park. Sticking them together could be a monumental mistake.
But her daughter’s face haunted her.
She had to ask. She had to try. Then at least she could tell Becca she’d exhausted all possibilities.
With shaking fingers and a pounding heart, she made the call.
A fucking ballet recital.
Tristan didn’t experience fear very often, but right now, his heart was slamming against his chest. He was going to be trapped with Becca, and he had no idea how to behave. When Sydney called him, he’d been ready to say no immediately but then stopped at the hint of desperation in her voice. His entire family was busy. It seemed this recital was a big thing to her daughter, and there was no way she’d be able to get home in time. If he drove across town to get her, then went back to pick up Becca, she’d end up missing the recital. He’d already been close to My Place and had no big plans tonight he’d have to break. His lie from last night mocked him. But how could he say no?
His fingers gripped the steering wheel. Thank goodness Raven always kept an extra booster seat at the restaurant. Becca sat in the booster seat in the back, obviously upset her mother was going to be late. He cleared his throat. What could he say?
“Umm, don’t worry. Your mom will get there in time.”
“Do you know what to do?”
No. “Yes, no problem. I’ve handled recitals before.” He waited for the lie to strike him dead, but nothing happened. “Piece of cake.”
“You have kids?” she asked in amazement.
He coughed. “No. I mean, I’ve gone to recitals when I used to live in New York.” He decided not to tell her those were at Lincoln Center with professional ballerinas in The Nutcracker.
“Oh. But you said you were too busy to come.”
He’d go to confession later. Right now, he needed to save face. “My appointment got canceled.”
“My hair has to be in a tight bun. My teacher said it’s important to look the part because then you feel the character and can tap into your ability to dance the character.”
Huh. She was smart. Big words. Still, his palms sweated at the idea of doing her hair. He’d never get through this. “I’m good at hair. No problem.”
“Did you ever take ballet when you were little?” she asked. “Mama said boys and girls can do anything. Boys dance ballet, and girls build houses.”
“Yep, they do, but I was never a good dancer. I was better at basketball.”
He pulled up to Sydney’s house. He’d gotten the code to the alarm, so he quickly escorted Becca in, punched in the correct numbers, and shut the door behind him. Okay, he’d just need to focus. He was sure she already knew what to do.
He turned around, and she stood in front of him, staring.
He stared back. “Umm, so I guess you should get dressed.”
She nodded like she understood. “I have my leotard and my tights upstairs.”
He almost sank to his knees in gratitude. This whole thing would be easy. He knew mothers complained all the time about taking care of kids, but honestly? They only needed structure and discipline. Raising kids wasn’t brain surgery. Tristan began to relax. “Great. You get dressed, I’ll do your hair, and then we’ll drive to the recital. Sound good?”
“Yes!” She bounded upstairs, and he let out a breath. Flexed his fingers. He grabbed his cell and quickly texted Sydney that everything was okay, adding a smiley face. No need for her to worry. He had it under control.
“Tristan!”
He jumped. “Yeah?”
Her voice seemed tearful. “I got a run in my tights! I need help!”
“Oh, okay. Coming,” he called out. He eyed the staircase with pure trepidation but decided he had no choice. When he hit the top of the stairs, she showed him a small hole in her upper thigh. He frowned. “Won’t the lacy thing cover it?”
She shook her head. “No, the hole will end up running, and I’ll be onstage and look awful.”
“Do you have an extra pair?”
“Mama bought pink, but it’s way too much pink, and I just can’t wear it. I’ll look ridiculous!”
“Uh, okay. Maybe we can Krazy Glue it?”
“Mama said nail polish does it. She keeps her polish in the bathroom, under the sink in a big brown basket.”
“Got it.” He headed toward the bathroom and stopped short. Whoa. It was damn scary in there. Endless jars in various shapes cluttered the long counter, and the claw-footed tub held an array of body lotions and bath soaps, emitting a fragrance that was too familiar. Orange blossoms. He’d always wondered how she managed to cloak herself in the fragrance. Loose clothing was hung over the shower rod, and he immediately spotted a black lace thong that froze his brain for several precious seconds. Focus, he reminded himself. Nail polish.
He rummaged under the sink and yanked out a big basket, and a ton of other stuff tumbled out with it. Smothering a groan, he began stuffing junk back in, until his hand closed around a large object that had a familiar shape, encased in a plastic bag. He stared at it for a few moments before his brain slammed into high gear.
A vibrator.
His mouth hung open. The contraption featured several interesting buttons and was an impressive size. He had a searing image of Sydney soaking in the tub, thighs spread, head thrown back, vibrator humming as she stroked herself to climax. Heat exploded through him, and he clenched his fingers around the object. So, she kept it in the bathroom instead of the bedroom drawer. Interesting choice. He thought of all the fun ways they could engage in all sorts of fun play together and put this piece to good use.
“Tristan! Did you find it?”
He shoved the bag to the back of the cabinet and grabbed a bottle of red polish. “Got it.” He walked out and began twisting open the bottle.
“No!” He stopped, staring at her in confusion, and she began giggling. “You can’t use red nail polish. It needs to be clear, or I’ll have a red spot on my tights.”
“Right. Sorry.” He went back in, found the bottle of clear, and painted around the hole. One crisis down. “Surgery complete. Do you have your shoes?”
“Downstairs. Can you do my hair now? And spray it with the pink glitter? Mama said I could for the recital.”
“Yep. Can’t dance onstage without glitter.” She followed him into the bathroom, and he gazed at the riotous curls framing her face. Hmm. “Umm, does Mom use a special hair tie or something?”
“You can use these.” She gave him a bunch of silky pink ribbons and a contraption outfitted with fake diamonds and a bunch of claw teeth that snapped open. He wished he’d paid more attention to how a woman fixed her hair. He was only familiar with bobby pins and scrunchies.
But he’d handle it. It was just hair. He gathered all the loose strands into a fist, and twisted the bundle twice to keep it together. Then, using his other hand, he opened the claw thing and slid it on in the center of her head. He wrapped the pink ribbon twice around the bump and tied it with a bow. A grin split his lips. “Done. Want me to spray you now?”
Her green eyes—which looked much more like gold, and a lot like his—widened in horror. “It’s crooked. And there’s a big bump. It needs to be smooth. And if I do my pirouette, it won’t hold.” She demonstrated, bouncing once in the air, and he watched an array of curls merrily escape the knot and spring back around her face.
“I’ll try again. Don’t worry, we’ll get it.”
He tried again. And again. On the fifth attempt, they were both hopped up on nerves and beginning to panic. “Use the curling iron!” she suggested. “Mama says sometimes the strands need to be straightened to get it in a tight bun.”
His throat dried up, but he nodded. “Sure. Curling iron. Where is it?”
Becca pulled the weapon out of the closet. “Here, I’m not allowed to plug stuff in.”
He set it up, refusing to be intimidated by a tool that was hot pink. He was a builder, for God’s sake. He used power tools on a regular basis. He could handle a curling iron.
But hair was very different than houses. The silky, springy curls bounced away when he tried to grasp them between the two segments, and they slid off on a merry chase. He burned his finger twice, and his stomach was in knots about possibly burning Becca. Precious minutes ticked by.
“The pink ribbons don’t work. Does your mom have rubber bands anywhere?”
“All the hair stuff is here.” She pulled open the top middle drawer, and numerous items sprung forth. Hair bands, headbands, clips, barrettes, ribbons, and even a damn scrunchie. He grabbed a simple rubber band in pink and prayed hard he could do this. Finally he managed to get the strands in a tighter type of bun with the band, then he added the clip thing. The pink ribbons were casualties.
Becca announced it was acceptable.
His shoulders sagged in relief.
“Now the sparkle,” she instructed.
He grabbed the can, shook it madly, and began spraying. A cloud of sparkles burst from the hose and exploded around them, drenching them in shimmery pink crystals. Becca’s mouth fell open. “You weren’t supposed to shake it,” she whispered.
Tristan looked in the mirror. It was as if he’d been dipped in a vault of sparkles. They shone from his hair, reflected off his suit, and clung to his face. He looked like a deranged princess.
Their gazes met in the mirror with horror.
Then they both laughed.
Tristan had never laughed so hard in his life. The ridiculousness of the entire situation struck him full force, and Becca clung to him, bent over, as tears rolled down her face. A sense of pure joy filled him at her reaction and the open way she was able to view the situation.
Just like Sydney.
When they calmed down, he hurried her into the car, and he followed his GPS to the dance hall. Already the parking lot was a madhouse, with little girls in tutus gripping their mothers’ hands, carrying bags and large bouquets of flowers.
“Were we supposed to bring anything?” he asked. “Flowers or something?”
“No. Daddies bring flowers for their girls sometimes after they dance,” she said matter-of-factly. “Sometimes Mama picks me up sunflowers. I like them. They’re happy.”
A pang hit deep. “I like sunflowers, too. Okay, let’s do this.”
They walked into the hall, where chaos reigned, girls chattered madly, and moms filled the empty spaces in tight clusters. “Do you know where to go?” he asked. “Do you need me to check in with your teacher?”
Becca raised her hand and waved to a little girl across the room. “No, I’m okay. My friend Lyndsey is over there—her mom will help me. You need to get a seat—Mama says it gets crazy in there, and she likes to be in the front row.”
“Got it. Okay, break a leg.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“Never mind. Good luck. You’ll be great, and your mom will be here soon.”
“Thanks, Tristan!”
She skipped over to her friend. Ignoring the pointed looks he got owing to his sparkle incident, he headed down the aisle and grabbed the last two seats on the end. Lowering himself into one of them, he shrugged off his jacket and laid it on the other. Relief coursed through him. He’d done it. They’d had some hiccups, but Becca was dressed and here on time, and he had seats in the front row.
“Excuse me? You can’t save that seat.”
He looked up. A woman with dark blond hair, heavily lined eyes, and bright red lipstick stood over him. She was dressed in an expensive cream sweater set, with oatmeal pants, and had a ton of sparkly gold jewelry dripping from every bare inch of skin. Her perfume was expensive and too obvious.
He was used to dealing with all types of personalities in his business, so he shot her a charming smile. “Oh, I’m saving it for one of the girls’ mothers. She had a flat tire, so she wasn’t able to get here in time.”
She gave him a tight smile. “It’s still against the rules. No saving seats for anyone in the family. It’s not fair. I’ll need to sit there.”
He made sure he kept the smile on his face. “I understand the rules, but this is a unique circumstance. I’m sure the teacher will agree this time it would be okay to hold one seat.”
“Not in the front row,” she retorted. “You can save her a seat in the back. You only get the front if you’re here in person.”
His gaze narrowed. So did hers.
“Sydney Greene-Seymour had an emergency. Do you know her? And her daughter, Becca? I’m sure Sydney will be appreciative of your flexibility—it really is an emergency.”
Uh-oh. He’d figured name-dropping would help, but her face got all scrunched up, and a venomous glee glinted from her eyes. “I see. Are you a friend of Sydney’s?” she practically sneered.
“Yes.”
“Well, friends can’t save seats, either. My daughter Lucy is the lead, and I plan to sit in this seat.” With a sharklike smile, she reached out to move his jacket.
His hand shot out to keep it there. “Sorry. This seat is saved.”
She gasped. “I tried being polite. Now I’m getting Ms. Benneton. Stay here.” She jabbed a sharp bloodred fingernail in his direction and stalked away.
Was he in trouble? His stress level shot up. This was supposed to be a supportive, creative community, yet he felt like he’d gotten dropped into the Hunger Games arena. Then again, he’d seen clips of the movie Bad Moms. He figured it was fiction, but maybe it was reality? PTA moms going psycho and blackmailing others not in the clique? He fought a shudder. Still, no one was getting Sydney’s seat without a fight. He’d managed to battle Realtors, developers, and clients that would scare Satan himself. No local ballet mother was getting the best of him.
A few minutes later, a tall woman with dark hair twisted into a bun and kind features appeared before him. She looked a bit stressed, so he pegged her as the head teacher. “Here! See, he’s saving a seat for Sydney, and he’s just the boyfriend.”
“Friend,” he corrected patiently. He gave Ms. Benneton his best smile and oozed extra charm into his voice. “Forgive me for causing any trouble. Sydney had a flat tire, and she’ll be here soon. She asked if I could take Becca to her recital and save a seat. I’m sure you understand.”
“There are no exceptions to the rule,” Bad Moms Lady snapped out. “One exception leads to another, and then it is unfair to us all. I insist you give up this seat so I can watch my daughter dance the lead.”
Ms. Benneton looked like she’d rather get a root canal than be next to Bad Mom, but she managed to pat her arm and keep her patient expression. “We do have that rule for a good reason, but this is a special circumstance that has never occurred before. Cynthia, how about we set up one extra folding chair in the front row, and allow—”
“Tristan,” he cut in smoothly.
“Tristan to save Sydney a seat. Will that satisfy everyone?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
They glared at each other. Ms. Benneton glanced back and he saw a crowd was gathering over the debacle. Shit. He didn’t want the bad moms to target Sydney, but he wasn’t giving up this damn chair.
“I demand you move,” Bad Mom aka Cynthia hissed.
“I’m sure the other chair will be perfectly fine, and you’ll be able to see your daughter,” he said reasonably.
She leaned in. Ruthlessness gleamed from her eyes. “Then you take the other chair. I’m taking this one.”
She grabbed his jacket and tossed it to the side. Then started to sit.
He immediately threw his leg up and over to take up the empty seat.
She yelped in outrage.
“I don’t have time for this right now,” Ms. Benneton practically wailed. “Cynthia, I need you to be reasonable. Help me. I have girls who need help with their costumes, and hair ties have broken, and I am begging you to be the voice of reason and the leader you always are. Please.”
Wow. She was good.
Tristan caught the look the teacher tossed him, and he realized the reverse psychology was actually working. Bad Mom Cynthia seemed to calm, composing her features in a mask of reason and hiding the crazy. Giving him one last murderous glance, she nodded and straightened her sweater set. “You’re right. This isn’t worth it when there’s so much to be done. If you keep that extra seat open for me on the aisle, I’ll help you and then sneak back quietly to my special seat.”
His lips twitched. Ah, now it was a special seat, huh? Ms. Benneton nodded and escorted her away, leaving Tristan alone with his leg hiked up on the metal folding chair and a throbbing headache.
Son of a bitch. This was more stressful than real estate.
When the lights went out, he realized he should be videotaping the show, so he took out his iPhone and began recording. About ten minutes into the performance, Becca still hadn’t danced, and he was falling asleep. All the little girls looked similar, and it was no Swan Lake. At times, it was almost painful.
A warm body slid beside him. Her breath whispered in his ear. “Thank you so much for helping me out. Any problems?”
He studied her in the flickering shadows. The fall of her fiery hair, the soft dew of her white skin, the smattering of freckles bridging her nose. She was wearing an interesting outfit of tight, bright leggings, furry boots, and an oversize shirt. She was sexy and adorable, and in that moment, he had so much respect for her for raising a daughter on her own and doing a slam-dunk job of it.
’Cause after only a few hours, he was ready to raise the white flag.
Slowly he smiled and reached out to squeeze her hand.
“Everything was perfect.”
She relaxed and let him hold her hand for a little while longer.
And he remembered.
“My mother is dead.”
He uttered the words with a numbness that caused a flash of guilt. He should be more upset. It had been two weeks of nonstop chaos, grief, and anger, and then nothing. He hadn’t cried at his own mother’s funeral. Cal had. So had Dalton. Not him. He’d just stood there on the muddy ground, staring at the casket while the priest muttered words that meant nothing. Her death should have brought him closer to his brothers and healed the growing rift between them.
Instead, the rift had only widened, until they could barely stand being in the same room with one another. They fought and blamed, and their father was in the background, muttering about their beloved mother’s betrayal.
She’d left them all. Left her family. Left him.
For some strange man he didn’t even know. She was going to run away with him with two tickets to Paris found in the wreckage.
One-way. She wasn’t planning on coming back.
His entire life swiveled on its axis and shattered into fragments. He didn’t know what was real any longer or what to believe in. He had no one to talk to. He had nowhere to go with this burning emptiness that slowly ate at his gut and devoured his soul.
He’d come to Sydney because she was the only one who’d loved his mother with a depth that shadowed his own. His secret affair with Syd had started off as a sexy, intense interlude that lasted through the summer months, but when fall returned and it still raged on, his brothers had discovered the secret. After an explosive fight during which he’d punched Dalton in the nose and Cal had given him a black eye, they’d reached an understanding. They stayed out of his business and backed him up by not telling his father. He’d convinced them he and Syd were friends, respected and cared about each other, but it wouldn’t be a long-lasting relationship. Sydney had confirmed it. With a blush on her cheeks, she told his brothers to mind their own damn business.
Eventually they stopped giving him a hard time. The months drifted into almost a year, and he and Syd were still going strong. Tristan didn’t like to think about it or classify what they had. Yes, she was young. Yes, sometimes they fell into ridiculous arguments because she was jealous of every other woman he talked to. Yes, she was insecure, and sometimes clung a bit too hard despite her guise of not caring.
But then his mom had died, and everything had changed. He was floating out there in space with no anchor to Earth, and for the first time, he was scared of who he was becoming.
There’d always been a coldness deep within him, an ability to shut himself off from the world to avoid messy emotions. But lately he’d been living in that place. His mother had always been able to pull him out.
So had Sydney.
As he stared down into her face, she did the only thing he needed in that moment.
She said no words of inane comfort. She reached up, gathered him in her arms, and held him. He leaned his cheek against the top of her head, breathing in the scent of orange blossoms while he soaked up the warmth of her body heat. Her fingers stroked the nape of his neck, and she whispered low murmurings of nonsense into his ear.
The block of ice trembled, and chips began to fall away.
“Why? Why did she betray us all, Syd?”
“I don’t know. All I know is she’s been unhappy with your dad for a long time. But I swear to you on everything I know and believe, Tristan, she was coming back to you.”
“She never said anything to you? Not a word about this guy she was seeing on the side?”
“No, nothing. I knew she was going to an art class she loved, but that’s all. I didn’t know about the teacher.”
“She said nothing to us about this man. She had no return ticket. She was going to lose herself in Paris and forget her sons.”
She yanked her head back from his chest, stood on tiptoe, and met his gaze with a fierceness that took his breath away. “She was coming back,” Sydney repeated. “I know Diane, and you were everything to her. If you believe only one thing, you must believe me.”
He stared at her for a long time and found only a knowledge and resolve that eased some of the tightness in his gut. The words spilled from him in all their raw, awful, naked truth. “I’m so lost, Syd. I don’t what to do anymore.”
Her eyes shone with tears. “You’re going to believe what I tell you, Tristan. She was coming back.”
Every time she repeated the phrase, he seemed to believe it more. His head spun, and his heart ached, and with a low groan, he dipped his head, desperate to feel alive again.
She welcomed his tongue, clung to his shoulders, and kissed him back full force. Slowly the kiss grew to something bigger, until they were ripping away clothes, falling on each other with a vicious hunger they needed to sate. Her hands burned on his skin as she fisted his throbbing length, lowered her head, and took him deep in her mouth. He threw his head back in surrender, loving the scrape of her teeth, the wet cave of her mouth sucking him tight, the slow lick of her tongue.
He reached down in a frenzy, picking her up and laying her out on the bed. Parting her thighs, he donned a condom and slid deep within her hot, swollen folds, burying himself balls-deep, taking her completely.
She cried out. Biting down on her lip, she seemed to try to fight him off, but he plundered her lips, sinking his tongue as deep as his cock, chaining her to the bed, chaining her to him.
“No, tonight I need all of you, baby. Give me all of you,” he grated against her mouth.
His words caused her to tremble wildly, but then her muscles relaxed, and her hips arched for more. With a low growl of satisfaction, he pulled out in one slow slide, then pounded back into her with a ruthless desperation he couldn’t control.
She matched him thrust for thrust, not only giving him everything she had but demanding everything from him. He fucked her and made love to her in a way he never had before, opening himself up to every delicious sensation wrecking his body and mind, until she screamed her release, shuddering underneath him, and he allowed himself to let go.
His orgasm burst through him. Her name ripped from his lips in a curse and a prayer. His body shook helplessly in the grip of the most intense pleasure of his life, going on and on, until he was emptied completely.
He didn’t remember how long it took him to pull out and roll to the side. A strange ache filled him up, traveling through his body like wildfire, and he gripped her arms, gazing into her beautiful face, which was filled with so much love he was instantly humbled.
“I love you, Tristan Pierce,” she whispered, stroking his cheek. “And I will always be here for you when you need me.” There was nothing in her voice but calm certainty and the need to give him everything he needed, with no thought as to what he was able to give back.
The block trembled and broke apart inside his chest.
He lowered his forehead to hers, and tears began slipping from his eyes as he finally cried for the first time since he’d heard the first love of his life had left him forever.
She stroked his hair and kissed his cheeks and held him through his tears. And he knew then that Sydney was part of his soul and had changed him forever.