Page 104 of Bad Prince
Tristan’s turn feels inevitable.
Different gravity.
His hand slides to the small of my back and every nerve ending wakes up. The music fades at the edges. The memory of another dance five years ago flickers like a ghost between us.
“You look…” he starts.
I shake my head.
“Don’t.”
He smiles anyway.
We move closer without deciding to. My fingers brush the fabric at his shoulder. Feel the tension underneath—not nervous, not relaxed. Focused, like a predator who's finally cornered his prey, but in the best way.
His thumb traces once along my hand, sending a shiver up my arm that pools low in my belly.
That stupid lock of hair falls forward again, and I have the irrational urge to fix it, to run my fingers through it and pull him even nearer.
He guides me toward the edge of the room where the lights soften, casting us in a golden haze that makes everything feel intimate, forbidden.
The air changes—thicker, charged with the scent of his cologne, something woodsy and masculine that wraps around me like a promise.
My pulse knows before my brain does, hammering in my throat, between my thighs.
“Still running?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me.
“I should be.”
His hand slides to the back of my head, gentle at first, fingers threading into my hair like he remembers exactly how it felt years ago—how it feels now, soft and tangled under his touch.
"Stella," he breathes against my lips, the word a caress, a claim, right before he takes them prisoner.
We move closer without deciding to. My fingers brush the fabric at his shoulder. Feel the tension underneath—not nervous, not relaxed. Focused, like a predator who's finally cornered his prey, but in the best way.
His thumb traces once along my hand, sending a shiver up my arm that pools low in my belly.
That stupid lock of hair falls forward again, and I have the irrational urge to fix it, to run my fingers through it and pull him even nearer.
His hand slides to the back of my head, gentle at first, fingers threading into my hair like he remembers exactly how it felt years ago—how it feels now, soft and tangled under his touch.
The kiss isn’t rushed. That’s what makes it dangerous. Warm. Intentional. His mouth slants over mine, soft at first, then firmer, coaxing me open. He tastes like whiskey and sin—smoky, with a hint of sweetness that makes me crave more. His tongue sweeps inside to find mine, teasing, exploring in slow, deliberate strokes that send heat spiraling through my core.
I find myself clutching his suit jacket with both fists, bunching the crisp fabric as if it’s the only thing grounding me. My hips instinctively move closer, pressing against him, feeling the hard length of his arousal nudge against my lower belly—hot, insistent, a modern reminder of just how much he wants this, wants me.
The same electricity that once terrified me now blooms slower, deeper, igniting every nerve. My body leans before my brain gives permission, melting into him.
My heels press into the floor for balance. His leg brushes mine, wedges slightly between them. Close enough to feel the strength there, the restraint he's barely holding onto, like he could lift me, pin me, right here if I let him.
Five years collapses into one breath, one shared heartbeat.
I pull back because I have to breathe, my lips tingling, swollen from his.
His forehead rests against mine for half a second—warm, damp with the faintest sheen of sweat.
And that half second ruins me, leaves me aching for the rest of him.
When I pull back from Tristan, my lips are still buzzing, swollen from the intensity of it all. My breath comes in shallow gasps, and I see it mirrored in him—his chest rising and falling a little too quickly, those dark eyes hooded with want, his hand lingering at the nape of my neck like he can't quite let go. He's breathless, undone in a way that sends a thrill through me, but also a warning. I leave him there, wanting more, my heels clicking softly as I weave back through the dim room, my skin flushed, my pulse thundering in my ears.
