Page 422 of Bad Prince
And there he is.
Tristan.
God.
Travel-worn and devastating.
Dark jeans.
Black Henley.
Leather jacket pushed open.
A duffel slung over one shoulder.
His hair slightly messy like he’s run his hand through it too many times.
The faint shadow of exhaustion under his eyes making him somehow look even more dangerous.
He smells like clean soap, night air, and whatever expensive thing clings to him naturally even after buses and locker rooms and travel.
But it’s his face that undoes me.
Because every line of his body is tight with restraint.
Shoulders braced.
Jaw flexing once.
One hand tightening on the strap of the duffel like it’s the only reason he isn’t reaching for me already.
And his eyes—go over me once, slow enough to make my knees soften.
I know exactly what he sees.
The gloss.
The soft clothes.
The bare legs.
The fact that I am very obviously not asleep and not remotely dressed for a casual hallway chat.
Heat flickers low and hard in his expression.
There. Gone. Controlled.
That somehow makes it worse.
“Hey,” I say, and my voice comes out a little breathless.
His mouth curves.
Not a grin.
Something smaller.
Rougher.
