Page 443 of Bad Prince
His fingers skim the side of my neck.
“Right here.”
The plane lands not long after that—smooth, soft, the wheels kissing down with a pressure I feel through the floor and the seat and the hand Tristan places over mine as the engines slow.
I can’t see anything.
Which means every other sense gets louder.
The click of belts.
The rustle of leather.
The quiet murmur of the flight attendant up front.
Tristan’s thumb brushing once across the back of my hand like he already knows I’m getting impatient.
“I hate this,” I inform him.
“No, you don’t.”
“I hate not knowing.”
“That,” he says, unbuckling us both, “I believe.”
He stands first.
Then his hands settle at my waist.
Warm.
Steady.
Not rushing me.
The jet door opens somewhere ahead and a rush of different air spills in—cooler than California, salted faintly by the sea, touched with something crisp—autumn leaves blowing in the wind. East Coast familiar enough to make the back of my neck prickle.
My stomach flips.
“Tristan.”
“I’ve got you, baby.”
That should not calm me as much as it does.
He guides me carefully down the steps, one hand at my waist, the other holding mine. The ground changes under my shoes. Tarmac, pavement.
A car door opens.
He ducks my head with one hand and helps me into the backseat.
I hear another door close on the other side and then feel him slide in beside me. The car starts moving almost immediately.
I turn my face toward him under the blindfold.
“Tell me something.”
“No.”
