Page 428 of Bad Prince
“Yeah.” I swallow. “I’ll come.”
Something hot flashes there again.
Triumph, maybe.
Relief.
Something darker too.
“Good.”
I almost ask where we’re going.
Almost ask what this surprise is.
Almost ask if I should pack heels or sneakers or whether a weekend bag means one night or two and whether he has any idea what he’s doing to me right now.
Instead I just stand there, dumbstruck, while he leans in and kisses me one more time.
Slow.
No hurry.
No grabbing.
The kind of kiss that sayswait for me.
When he pulls away, my legs feel suspiciously decorative.
“After practice,” he says.
I nod again.
He brushes his knuckles down my cheek once.
Then—because apparently he enjoys making me insane—he turns, picks up his duffel, and heads for the door.
“Tristan.”
He looks back.
The question comes out before I can stop it.
“What if I say no tomorrow?”
That earns me a long look.
Not offended.
Not smug.
Just very, very sure.
“You won’t.”
Then, because he is not nearly done destroying me, his gaze drops slowly from my mouth to the soft gray fabric skimming my thighs and then back up again.
“And if I stay in this room another minute,” he says, voice roughening just enough to let me hear the truth underneath all that control, “your fresh sheets are not surviving the night.”
