Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Stella
By Friday night, I have officially lost my mind.
That is the only explanation for why I am on my hands and knees changing sheets like the FBI is coming to inspect my bed.
Not just changing them.
Freshly washed.
White.
Crisp.
Hospital corners sharp enough to cut a man.
I stand back, hands on hips, and stare at the mattress like I’m trying to convince myself this is normal behavior for a girl with a bye week, a mountain of reading, and absolutely no business preparing for Tristan Vale the way some women prepare for weather disasters.
Then I smooth the comforter again anyway.
Because I know what’s going to happen the second he gets back.
Or at least I think I do.
Actually, no.
That’s a lie.
I don’t know anything.
I just know what my body expects.
So yes, maybe I have also shaved everything worth shaving, moisturized within an inch of my life, blow-dried my hair, and spent twenty full minutes rejecting outfit options that all somehow made me look either like I was trying too hard or not nearly hard enough.
This is humiliating.
No one should have this much power over my nervous system.
I cross to the mirror over my desk and inspect myself again.
Oversized soft gray lounge set.
Tiny gold hoops.
Gloss.
Mascara.
Skin still faintly warm from my shower.
Not desperate.
Not obvious.
Just… available.
Which is, somehow, more embarrassing.
Lila pokes her head through the open door without knocking because she has never once respected privacy in the entire time I’ve known her.
She stops short.
Looks at the room.
Looks at me.
Looks at the bed.
Then she slowly grins.
“Oh my God.”
I grab the nearest pillow and throw it at her.
She catches it one-handed.
“You changed the sheets.”
“Get out.”
“You changed the sheets,” she repeats, scandalized and delighted. “Stella Cortez. You romantic little closet freak.”
“I said get out.”
She leans against the doorframe and folds her arms.
“This is for Basketball Boy, isn’t it?”
I try for dignity.
“Do not call him Basketball Boy.”
Her brows shoot up.
“Wow. It’s serious.”
I turn away and fluff a pillow that does not need fluffing.
“It is not that serious.”
“Mm-hmm.” Lila watches me for a second. Then, to my immense irritation, her voice softens. “You okay?”
I look down at the smooth white bedspread, at my own hands stilling on the edge of it.
“No,” I admit. “Actually. Not remotely.”
That makes her laugh. “Good. That means it’s real.”
I throw the second pillow at her. This time it hits.
She leaves still laughing, and I close the door behind her before she can come back with follow-up questions I do not have the emotional stability to answer.
I sit on the edge of my ridiculous, freshly made bed and stare at my phone.
No text from Tristan yet.
Which shouldn’t matter.
Except it does.
Because the later it gets, the more vivid my imagination becomes.
I can see him too clearly.
Jet-black hoodie.
Travel-tired.
Eyes dark and wrecked from wanting.
Knocking once before I drag him inside by the front of his shirt.
I imagine the door shutting.
His bag hitting the floor.
His mouth on mine before either of us says a word.
I imagine him finally not stopping.
I imagine all that control snapping at once, his hands in my hair, on my waist, dragging me up against him like a man who spent too many days holding back and has no interest in being civilized anymore.
I imagine him kissing me across the room, onto the bed, into the sheets I am suddenly very aware I changed with exactly that fantasy in mind.
My stomach flips.
My skin goes tight.
I look at the clock.
10:16.
Too late for me to be this awake.
Too early for me to give up.
I pace.
I sit.
I stand again.
I open my laptop and close it without reading a word.
I check the mirror twice and pretend I am just walking past it coincidentally.
At 10:41, there’s a knock at my door.
One sharp rap.
Then another.
Every single nerve ending in my body lights up at once.
I am halfway there before I remember I am supposed to be cool.
So I stop, inhale, smooth my hair for no reason, then open the door like my pulse is not trying to leap clean out of my throat.
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.
“Hey, baby.”
The word lands like a hand low on my spine.
I step back to let him in, already dizzy with relief and want and the wild certainty that the whole room is about to ignite.
He comes inside.
Closes the door behind him.
Sets the duffel down.
Then he turns, cups my face in both hands, and kisses me.
Sweetly.
Sweetly.
I almost laugh from the sheer shock of it.
Because I was ready for impact.
For hunger.
For the kind of kiss that makes a girl grab for furniture.
Instead Tristan kisses me like he missed me.
Like he thought about this too many times on too many roads and wanted the first real thing between us to feel it.
Soft at first.
Then deeper.
Still not out of control.
Still somehow gentle even with all that heat banked underneath it.
My fingers curl into the front of his shirt.
He makes the smallest sound in his throat when I do, but he still doesn’t lose control.
His mouth moves over mine once, twice, the kiss lingering just long enough to remind me exactly how dangerous restraint can be.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead brushes mine.
“I missed you,” he murmurs.
My whole body tilts toward him.
“Yeah?”
A ghost of a smile touches his mouth.
“Badly.”
I can feel my heartbeat in stupid places.
My wrists.
My throat.
The backs of my knees.
He presses one more kiss to the corner of my mouth—the exact place he branded in the gym—and I think, finally.
Finally he’s here.
Finally he’s going to stop being good.
Finally all of this waiting is over.
Instead he takes one step back.
Just one.
Enough to leave cold air where his body was.
I blink at him.
He looks wrecked.
Not calm. Not unaffected. Not remotely above any of this.
If anything, stepping back seems to cost him something physical.
His hands flex once at his sides before he shoves them into his pockets.
And then he says, “I need you to trust me.”
I stare.
“That is not what I thought you were going to say.”
That pulls a real smile from him.
Low.
Crooked.
Lethal.
“I know.”
I fold my arms, mostly so I don’t launch myself back at him and make this decision for both of us.
He takes me in for another long second, and I can feel it—the heat in him, the pull, the way every part of his body is broadcasting want even while his voice stays controlled.
It is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
“I have a surprise,” he says.
I just look at him.
“Okay…”
“After your practice tomorrow morning, I want you to meet me early.”
“How early?”
“Early enough that you’ll complain.”
“That narrows it down zero.”
His mouth twitches again.
“Bring a weekend bag.”
A pause.
My pulse changes shape.
“A weekend bag?”
“Yeah.”
“And I’m not supposed to ask questions?”
“You can ask.” He shifts closer again, just enough that his presence starts messing with my breathing all over. “I’m just not telling you.”
“That’s obnoxious.”
“Probably.”
I tilt my head.
“You flew back here to be mysterious?”
“I flew back here because if I didn’t see you tonight, I wasn’t going to sleep anyway.”
That should not send heat sliding straight through me the way it does.
I wet my lips.
His gaze drops there instantly.
And stays.
For one sharp second, every atom in the room tightens.
My body leans toward him before I mean it to.
His chest rises.
One of his hands comes halfway out of his pocket, then stops.
That tiny, visible act of self-control makes me feel almost faint.
Because I know what’s sitting underneath it.
The same thing sitting underneath me.
The shared, dangerous knowledge that once we start, really start, we are not going to want to stop.
Tristan drags his eyes back up to mine like it costs him.
“Come with me tomorrow,” he says quietly. “Just trust me.”
There’s no swagger in it.
No performance.
No smug confidence that I’ll say yes because he’s him.
Just sincerity.
Heat.
And something unexpectedly vulnerable beneath both.
I search his face.
The dark want there is obvious.
Impossible to miss.
But so is the care.
That matters more than I’m ready to admit.
“Should I be scared?” I ask.
His expression shifts.
Softens at the edges without losing any of the danger in it.
“Not of me.”
That answer gets me in places I am not prepared to discuss.
I glance away before he can see too much.
My room suddenly feels very small. The white sheets very obvious.
The fact that I prepared for one version of tonight and got this one instead somehow even more intimate. When I look back, he’s watching me like he knows exactly what I thought was going to happen here.
Maybe he does.
The corner of his mouth lifts.