On Common Ground by Bryony Rosehurst

Author:Bryony Rosehurst [Bryony Rosehurst]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Independent
Published: 2023-12-12T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

The storm hadn’t let up an inch when Tristan awoke. Even before he opened his eyes, he knew. The pub creaked and groaned against the loud winds, the rain still drumming a steady beat on the windows like a visitor trying to get in.

He batted his heavy eyes open slowly and saw it was still dark. The weight pressed against him told him Francesca hadn’t moved yet — but he had. His knee nestled between her soft, warm thighs, as though in his sleep he’d slotted himself into any piece of her he could find. Her hair tickled his nose, his lips, smelling like perfume and rain and the mustiness of the pub. And his arms….

He’d pulled her as close as he could inside the sleeping bag, and now they were wrapped around her. Her hands rested on top of his around her belly, which rose and fell with her breaths. A stark reminder of how much he’d loved to pillow himself on that particular cushion, usually sweaty and breathless and satiated after sex. Every part of her had felt made for him, and he’d adored it. Adored how much there was of her to kiss, love.

Fuck. Arousal stirred through him, causing his borrowed cotton pyjama bottoms to stretch tightly across his hard crotch. Again.

He clenched his jaw, feeling like a horny teenager. Slowly, so as not to wake her, he unlaced their arms and shook off the pins and needles in a desperate attempt to get his blood flowing — to parts further north than it currently was. A long sigh fell from her, as though even in sleep she felt his absence.

But that was ridiculous, wasn’t it? She hadn’t cared about his absence when she’d broken his heart.

It occurred to him that this might be as close as they ever got again. The last piece of her he’d ever have, but so much more than he’d expected. It made him reluctant to let go; made his stomach ache and his hands fidget with the need to touch her again while she was quiet, unguarded, his.

No. He stiffened against his own thoughts, his own mistakes. Not yours, Tristan. She was never yours.

He’d known that even before she’d left him. She could never belong to anyone. She was too much like wildfire, unapologetic and fierce and unpredictable, not something anybody could ever tame or tamp out. But he’d let her burn him all the same.

And now here he was. Still smothered. Nothing more than ash slipping through her fingers.

He pulled his leg away as something heavy as lead made a home in his gut. He was losing his head being this close to her and it wouldn’t end well. Slowly, he shimmied out of the sleeping bag, glad to find Heath still snoring soundly beside them. Francesca shifted and he winced, waiting for her to wake. But she only twisted onto her front, her red-gold hair dripping across the pillow like light and her lashes resting on pale, freckled cheeks.

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