Page 57 of Beautiful Forever
“I hope you like it.” She sounds nervous.
Syn could have given me a dried-up turd in a box, and I still would’ve thought it was priceless treasure because it came from her.
I lift the lid. Inside is a men’s wide brown leather bracelet. Taking it out, I study the large silver compass that adorns it.
“It’s beautiful. You made this?”
“Raquelle got me into jewelry making.” Syn takes the bracelet from me and secures it around my wrist. The silver compass glints a kaleidoscope of colors under the red, white, and greenstring lights decorating the porch. “Whenever you feel lost, this will help you find your way home.”
You are my home, I want to tell her, in awe of this gift and the woman who gave it to me.
“Thank you.” Those two words don’t do my feelings justice, but I’ve never been good with words anyway.
She dips her chin, a blush coloring her cheeks. “You’re welcome.”
A small noise draws our attention. Tristan quietly watches us from the doorway, his gaze both curious and enigmatic.
“The blankets and pillows are out.”
Syn insisted we do a campout in the living room and a Christmas movie.
She skips over to him and jumps into his arms. “The movie better beDie Hard.”
He tucks his hands under her ass and hops her up, pecking a kiss to the button of her nose. “One and two. You coming?” he asks me, carrying her inside with me right behind them.
Twenty-Seven
A soft gaspwakes me up from a shallow sleep. I learned at a very early age to always be hypervigilant, even in slumber. The metaphorical “sleep with one eye open.” Nikolai would surprise Aleksei and me in the middle of the night. Sneak into our room and attack us while we were asleep in bed. Just another one of his lessons to never let your guard down. It wasn’t until after he was dead that I stopped sleeping with a knife tucked under my pillow.
I listen for the phantom sound that woke me up but only hear Hendrix’s light snoring from the other side of the living room and the fading crackles of the dying embers in the fireplace next to me.
The sound comes again, only softer this time. Turning my head, I freeze when I’m met with Tristan’s whiskey-brown stare through the darkness, his eyes locking with mine as he kisses Syn, her head bent back and resting on his shoulder, her eyes closed, and their mouths fused in passion. He’s behind her on her pallet, his arm draped over her hip. A quiet moan slips from her into him as his hand moves underneath the waistband of her fleece pajama bottoms. Our gazes remained tethered as hefinger-fucks her, and I can’t look away, the sight of Syn—the way she arches into him, seeking more of the pleasure he’s giving, the way her body responds to his touch, and the little gasps she emits—is too enticing. Too hypnotizing to look away, even though I know I should.
As if taunting me, challenging me to stop him, the movement of his hand becomes more pronounced, taking her to the knife’s edge of pleasure. My panted breaths are shallow as I silently watch. Each erotic second is both mesmerizing and torturous as I try to look away but can’t find the strength to do so.
His tongue thrusts in her mouth, kissing her in the same frantic rhythm his fingers are fucking her. Syn’s chest hitches. Her back bows in a severe arc, her fingernails scoring into his forearm, as her entire body shudders with orgasmic release when she comes.Fuck, she’s beautiful.
Tristan drinks in her moan, deepening the kiss as she climaxes, his eyes still on me as she quivers from the aftershocks of rapture.
The tension leaves Syn’s body like turbulent waters calming into a gentle swell, and a smile graces her lips. With a sated hum, she kisses his neck, turns on her side, and goes ramrod rigid when our eyes meet.
Tense seconds pass. An owl hoots in the far-off distance.
I slide my hand, palm up, across the blanket toward her. Without a sound, she slips her hand in mine, our fingers curling around each other’s, her wedding bands warm against my skin. I close my eyes, sleep following soon after.
Twenty-Eight
March
The monthof March definitely roared in like a lion, as the saying goes, but by the second week, the weather turned mild, the sun has been shining, and the temperatures have been sitting in the very comfortable mid-sixties.
Sweat beads on my skin, the noon sun baking our bare chests and necks as Tristan and I circle each other in the backyard while Cocky B and his hens watch from their coop.
I see Tristan’s intention, the way he drops his right shoulder and pivots his foot, and I easily feint to the right before delivering a forward jab that snaps his head back. I made sure to pull my punch so I wouldn’t hurt him. Too much.
His irritation shows when he swipes at the blood that trickles from his lip. “How the fuck do you keep doing that?”
“You telegraph your move like a neon sign.”
