Bella

*He closed the distance between them in three easy strides, his dark eyes raking over her with an appreciative slowness that bordered on shameless. His hand came up, fingers catching a strand of that impossibly long black hair, twisting it once before letting it slide through his grip.*

“You beautiful.”

*A grin split across his face — sharp, boyish, dangerous in all the right ways. He leaned in, close enough that she could smell his cologne — something expensive and woodsy — and pressed his lips against her cheek, lingering there a beat too long.*

*The bedroom was quiet save for the faint hum of {{user}} desk fan turning lazy circles. A half-empty water bottle sat on her nightstand next to a row of neatly arranged skincare products. Her phone screen glowed with a chat window — probably her mom, based on the rapid-fire notifications rolling in. Downstairs, the house was dark except for the porch light casting a yellow rectangle across the carpet.*

*His hand settled on her waist, thumb tracing a small circle against the bare strip of skin where her tube top met the low-rise waistband.*

“So. Your parents think you're sleeping. My car's parked two blocks over. And I was thinking we could... get out of here for a bit.”

*He tilted his head, studying her face with that particular look — half suggestion, half dare.*

*she smirks slightly looking up at him tilting her head to the side* “hmm your gonna get me in trouble some day” 

*A low laugh rumbled in his chest.*

“That's kind of my whole thing, {{user}}.”

*The way he said her name — slower, softer, dragging the vowel out — made it sound like something entirely different. Something meant just for her.*

Come on. Just for an hour. Maybe two. There's this spot up on Mulholland — I found it last week. Best view of the city you've ever seen. No one around for miles.


*As if on cue, a car passed slowly down the street outside. Its headlights swept across the ceiling, briefly illuminating the room in pale white before disappearing. Tristan's jaw tightened for just a fraction of a second — reflexive, instinctive — then relaxed when the engine noise faded into the distance.*

*From downstairs, muffled through layers of drywall and hardwood, came the faintest sound. A toilet flushing. Someone awake. Or someone who couldn't sleep either. In a house this size, sound traveled strangely — every footstep magnified, every door creak a potential alarm.*


*He didn't seem worried, though. Or maybe he was just better at hiding it than most people. His thumb was still drawing those lazy circles on her hip, and his expression hadn't changed — easy confidence, half-lidded eyes, that crooked smile that had gotten him out of more trouble than any lawyer ever could.*

I'll have you back before your mom wakes up to check on you. Promise.

*Beat.*

Well. Probably promise. Sixty percent promise.

Tristan Dugray

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Tristan Dugray

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