Page 390 of Bad Prince
Tristan:
I’m in this empty hotel room and all I can picture is you. The way your body would arch under me. The way your skin would feel under my hands as I learn every curve I’ve been dying to touch. I’m aching so badly for you right now it hurts, baby.
Another surprise punch of heat. My cheeks flame. I bite my lip so hard it stings.
Me:I’m the one aching—wet and restless—because you keep doing this to me.
Tristan:Good. Save that ache for me baby.When I get home I’m going to kiss you the way I should have in the gym—long, deep, and like I never plan to stop. Then I’m going to spend the rest of the night showing you exactly how much I’ve been dying to touch every inch of you… until you’re trembling and mine.
I stare at the screen, pulse thundering between my legs, breath shallow, the ache so deep and sweet it almost hurts. My fingers tremble as I type one last reply.
Me:Hurry back, Vale.Because I don’t think I can wait three whole days without losing my mind.
Tristan:I do love knowing you’re burning up for me. I’ve been burning for five years…
I lock my phone, lean back in the library chair, and close my eyes.
The problem with almost being kissed by Tristan Vale at five in the morning is that the body does not care about timing.
The body does not care that there are midterms, playoff brackets, film breakdowns, recovery drills, and a twelve-page paper due by midnight.
The body does not care that Stanford expects excellence and volleyball expects blood and I have exactly zero room in my life for a basketball player with a jaw like a weapon and a mouth thatstopped one inch short of ruining me. Now every nerve ending I possess has apparently decided to unionize around that fact.
By Friday night, I’m operating on caffeine, adrenaline, and the kind of tension that feels like it could either sharpen a girl into a blade or split her clean in half.
I’m hoping for blade.
Warm-ups are a blur of movement and noise. The gym is fuller than usual, louder too. Playoff crowds carry a different kind of energy—more desperate, more personal. Like every clap means more. Like every whistle has teeth.
I’m at the end line bouncing a ball in my palm when Lila jogs up beside me and gives me a long, suspicious look.
“You’re weird today.”
I keep my eyes on the court.
“That narrows it down.”
“No.” She lowers her voice. “Like… murdery.”
I glance at her.
She grins.
“Did you hook up with someone or kill someone? Because either way the vibe is intense.”
Heat flares under my skin.
I hate how obvious I feel.
“Nothing happened.”
That only makes her grin widen.
“Sure, Cortez.”
I let the ball drop and catch it again.
My fingers flex around the leather.
