Page 245 of Reckless Obsession

“I love you,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around his broad neck, tangling my fingers in his hair. “I love you, Tristan Sinclair.”

He leans down, his mouth crashing over mine in a kiss that steals every coherent thought from my head.

It isn’t hurried or violent; it is deep, slow, and devastatingly reverent. He tastes like dark sugar and devotion, his lips parting mine with an agonizing tenderness that makes a broken, helpless sound bubble up from my throat. I arch up into him, pulling him down, letting the solid weight of his body press me deep into the mattress until there isn’t a millimeter of air left between our chests.

When he finally breaks the kiss, we are both panting, our foreheads resting together as our breaths mingle in the quiet dark.

His thumb gently wipes a stray tear from the corner of my eye.

“I love you more,” Tristan whispers, his eyes glittering with dark affection.

I give him a sleepy, smug smile.

“Nope.”

His eyebrows lift. “No?”

“I love you more.”

“Maksim.”

“I do.”

“You are trying to make love into a competition.”

“I am clearly winning.”

Tristan shakes his head, a laugh slipping quietly from him.

“Do not make it a competition, spitfire.” He warns, then kisses me again before I can argue further.

This time, I laugh against his mouth, and he smiles into the kiss.

EPILOGUE

MAKSIM

2 years later.

I finish the last cornrow at the back of Tristan’s head, carefully weaving the final section until the braid sits exactly where I want it. I’ve been doing this for the better part of an hour, and given how long I’ve wanted to put my hands in this man’s hair, I refuse to rush a single second of it.

Tristan started growing his hair out last year, and for the past eight months I’ve been having the absolute time of my life with it. I don’t think he fully understands what he unleashed when he decided to let those curls grow beyond the length at which he could simply keep them trimmed and under control. I certainly do.

I run my fingers lightly over the finished braids, checking for any loose sections before reaching for the little collection of hair products I’ve scattered across the table beside me.

I apply mousse first, working carefully over the braids to keep everything in place, then add a little styling product around the edges and a touch of oil to keep his scalp and curls moisturized. I smooth everything down with my fingertips, inspecting my work like the perfectionist I apparently become whenever Tristan’s hair is involved.

The Sardinian sun is warm against my back, and the sound of the sea below us fills the quiet spaces between my thoughts. We’re sitting on the terrace of our villa, perched high on the cliff with nothing but endless blue water stretching out in front of us. The only way down to the private stretch of beach is through the old stone staircase carved into the cliffside.

This place has been ours for almost two years now.

Tristan bought it not long after everything fell apart and somehow came back together between us. Since then, we’ve returned whenever we need to disappear for a few days. Sometimes it’s an actual vacation. Sometimes we’re escaping our schedules. Sometimes one of us simply decides we haven’t had enough of each other lately and books a flight without bothering to explain the decision.

I lean closer to inspect the back of Tristan’s head one last time, following the clean lines of the cornrows down to his nape.

Perfect.

I pick up the mirror beside me and hold it in front of him.