Page 429 of Bad Prince
My entire body goes molten.
He opens the door before I can recover enough to answer.
“Sleep, baby,” he says softly.
Then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut.
And I just stand there in the middle of my room, staring at it.
At the empty space where he was.
At the bed I was certain would be wrecked by now.
At the fresh white sheets that somehow feel more incriminating untouched than they ever would have ruined.
He waited.
That’s the thing I can’t get over.
Not the kiss.
Not the promise.
Not even the way every line in his body had told me exactly how badly he wanted me.
He waited.
And for reasons that make my pulse feel drunk, that leaves me even more breathless than if he’d taken me to bed.
Because now I know, when Tristan finally touches me the way we both want—it won’t be because he lost control.
It’ll be because he chose me all the way through it.
I look at the clock.
Then at my overnight bag in the closet.
Then back at the door.
And somewhere between want and wonder, I’m already counting the hours until morning.
Sneaking out of the athletic complex with an overnight bag should not feel this much like committing a felony.
And yet, I come out the back service door in leggings, a cropped Stanford hoodie, and sunglasses I absolutely do notneed this early, clutching my duffel like the world’s most suspicious college athlete.
The alley behind the building is narrow and half-shadowed, lined with dumpsters, maintenance carts, and the stale smell of concrete warming under the morning sun. Somewhere around the front entrance, girls from the team are probably still filtering toward brunch and ice baths and whatever other responsible things normal playoff athletes do on a Saturday.
I am not being responsible.
My pulse is all over the place.
Because Tristan texted me ten minutes before practice ended:
Back alley. Don’t get caught.
Which is rude.
