Sydney rolled her eyes. “That comment alone would’ve gotten you smacked. Your mom didn’t raise you to be like Brady.”
“True. Though, Brady has certainly changed since meeting Charlie.” He’d never seen his architect so smitten with a woman. Usually he was the one who was walking away if she didn’t follow the rules of what he believed was the perfect mate for him. “I wish Mom could’ve met Morgan, Raven, and Charlie. I think she would’ve liked them.”
“Me too.” A short silence descended. “I miss her so much. I miss sitting in her kitchen and watching her cook while she talked about you guys.”
His breath caught at the surge of warmth flowing between them. How many times had he entered his house to find Sydney in the kitchen laughing with his mom? She’d been the one to hold and comfort him when they found out about Diane’s death. She was the only one to truly understand what a hole his mother had left in all of their lives. His throat tightened with emotion. “I miss her, too,” he said softly. “You were like the daughter she never had. She used to warn me all the time about you.”
“Me? What could she have possibly warned you about?”
The words burst free, refusing to be caged. “She told me not to break your heart.”
Sydney sucked in her breath. Shock kept him still. His confession had come from deep within, but he wasn’t ready to accept or examine the memory. It was too raw, too fresh, and too terrifying.
He opened his mouth to change the subject or to make a lame joke—anything to change the emotional charge sizzling between them.
A loud creaking noise rose in the air, as if a rocking chair had begun to move or a footstep had struck a loose floorboard. An icy draft whooshed through, carrying a deep chill that prickled his skin with goose bumps.
WTF?
Sydney froze, eyes wide with fear. “Tristan?” she whispered, lips trembling. “Wh-wh-what was that?”
“Nothing. Just the attic settling. It’s an old house.”
A loud bang exploded in the room.
Suddenly Sydney screamed and hurtled through the air, right into his arms.
He staggered back a step, her legs and arms wrapped around him, clinging to him while she buried her face into the crook of his neck. He found his balance, hitched her higher, and settled his hands on her ass to keep her close.
“We’re going to die,” she moaned, her thighs clenching around his hips.
In that moment, Tristan realized he might.
Five foot five inches of pure woman surrounded him. The scent of orange blossoms filled his nostrils, and her wild curls caressed his mouth and cheeks. The imprint of her full lips burned into the skin of his neck, her breath hot and ragged. Her ripe breasts pressed against his chest, the flannel a flimsy barrier to mask the hard tips of her nipples. His hands sank into the glorious full curves of her ass, and his dick notched in the perfect opening of her thighs.
His head exploded with sensual stimuli. He battled through the muck, desperately seeking focus. “Not gonna die,” he managed to mutter. “Just the wind.”
“That’s no wind or house settling. It’s a ghost, and he’s pissed at us for encroaching on his territory.” Her arms entwined around his shoulders, ripping a tortured groan from his lips.
“Sweetheart, you’re not going to die. I got you. See, the noise stopped already.”
Slowly she lifted her head.
Their gazes crashed together.
He watched her pupils dilate as fear turned to arousal. Her lips parted, and she arched into him. Her nails dug into his shoulders, the simmering heat cranked up to a scorching fire, and in moments he was rock hard and crazed for more. The past merged with the present until nothing mattered but tasting her honeyed sweetness just once. Just once . . .
“Tristan?”
It was a question. It was a demand. It was surrender.
He ducked his head and covered her lips with his.
Home.
The word repeated in his mind like a mantra as he plunged his tongue between her lips and rediscovered her. She was hot and wet, tasting like spun sugar, and he explored her mouth, licking and sucking in a mad quest to devour her whole. This was no polite introduction or tentative curiosity. This was no-holds-barred hunger, dragging him down into a dark abyss where pleasure demanded and ruled.
She welcomed every stroke of his tongue and gave it all back, moaning wildly against him, clutching at his shoulders and squeezing her thighs tight in her own feminine demand. Man to woman, mate to mate, the primitive carnality of the kiss shook him to the core, ripping away his illusions of his previous lovers and leaving him aching for her and only her—the woman who’d broken his heart years ago. The woman who he’d never truly been able to forget.
He bit her lower lip, captured her sexy little moan, and slid his tongue back in, plundering the depths of her mouth in a possessive, explosive kiss that went on and on and—
“Sydney! Tris! You up there?”
The voices penetrated the sexual fog like the clean slice of a knife. He ripped his mouth from hers, breathing hard, and stared down at her. Shock filled her dazed emerald eyes. Her lips were swollen and moist, and her breath came in tiny pants. As if in a dream, he slowly let her slide down his length until her feet hit the ground.
Oh, fuck.
What had they done?
She backed away like he was the ghost who’d terrified her and quickly turned from him.
He cleared his throat. “Here!” he managed to call out. “We’re up here in the attic!”
The clatter of the ladder and a curse drifted upward. After a few hard bangs, the door crashed open. Footsteps clattered on the steps.
His brother’s head poked in. “What the hell happened?” Cal demanded. “Everyone’s been worried sick, trying to track you down.”
“We got stuck,” he said.
Cal glanced back and forth between them, a frown creasing his brow. “You gotta be kidding me. Where’re your cell phones?”
“We left them downstairs,” Sydney said. Her voice was back to regular pitch, solid and coolly calm. Not breathy, with that sexy little hitch she gave when he kissed her. “The door handle broke off. Thank God you figured out where we were.”
Cal shook his head. “Took us a while to realize you were both MIA. This is one for the record books. Wait till Dalton finds out.”
Tristan groaned at his brother’s poorly hidden glee. “Yeah, and you can’t wait to tell him, like a little tattletale. Now move. We want to get the hell out of here.”
Cal disappeared. Tristan looked at Sydney. Her face told him everything he needed to know.
The kiss had never happened.
Slowly he acknowledged the hit, refusing to analyze the strange curl of pain in his gut. She met his gaze with a calm detachment that pissed him off. Like she’d never jumped into his arms, kissed him back, and practically begged for more.
He followed her down the stairs and told himself it was better this way. But on the car ride home, the memories leaked through, reminding him of how things had started . . .