Page 389 of Bad Prince
Not truly kissed the way my body had been aching for.
Not claimed until I was trembling and lost.
Just one devastating press of his mouth at the corner of my lips—like a vow he was sealing with fire. Then he was gone. Hood up, shoulders tight, walking out for three long away games and leaving me against that cold gym wall with my pulse racing and every inch of my skin still alive from the ghost of his touch.
Day one without him?—
I don’t even finish my cool-down stretches before my body betrays me. Every downward dog feels like the brush of his hand beside my head. Every hamstring hold echoes with the memory of his breath hot against my ear. Every sip of water tastes like the kiss he refused to finish.
By the time I’m showered and sitting in the library for my Econ exam, I’m a live wire. Skin too sensitive. Heart pounding too hard. The worst part? He hasn’t texted yet—he’s thirty thousand feet in the air, radio silent—and still the anticipation is everywhere, thick and electric, like the air itself is humming with the promise of him.
I force my eyes to the screen.
I fail spectacularly.
Because every quiet moment tightens the ache low in my belly. We’re both out here pretending to focus—him in hotel rooms and arenas, me in lectures and film sessions—when we both know the countdown is ticking down to the second he walks through my door and finally gives us everything we’ve been starving for.
The texts begin late that night, soft and aching at first.
Tristan:
Just landed. Hotel smells like regret and bad coffee.
You still carrying my kiss on your lips, baby?
My stomach dips like I’ve missed a step.
Me:
Still burning from it.
You left me aching on purpose, didn’t you?
Tristan:
Guilty.
I needed you thinking about me every hour I’m gone.
Needed you feeling the same restless heat I am.
Then, out of nowhere, his next message hits like a spark straight to my bloodstream—hotter, bolder, catching me completely off guard.
Tristan:
Watched your film clips. That serve… God, Stells. You looked so damn sexy out there. I can’t stop imagining backing you against the door the second I walk in and finally taking what we both want. Slowly. Thoroughly. Until you’re shaking in my arms and whispering my name like you can’t remember anything else.
My breath catches hard. Heat floods my face and lower, sudden and sharp. I have to set the phone down for a second, thighs pressing together under the library desk, the ache between them blooming so fast it steals my air.
Me:
That text is dangerous Vale.But since we’re being honest… I’ve been lying in bed thinking about your hands sliding under my shirt. About your mouth on my neck, slow and hot, about how I’m not going to let you stop this time.
Tristan:
Jesus. You’re trying to kill me from three states away.
The messages keep coming, a delicious push and pull—mostly longing, wrapped in heat, but every so often one of his texts blindsides me all over again.
