Tristan steps into the bathroom and closes the door, flipping the lock. “This fucking dress.” His gaze rakes over me, and his nostrils flare. I cross my arms. “I look good.” Tristan pokes at his cheek with his tongue and shakes his head. “No, you don’t.” “Well, fuck y—” “Good doesn’t begin to describe how you look tonight. You are fucking sinful.” He takes a step forward, and I take one back, bumping into the vanity. “I couldn’t leave the table all goddamn night because of the constant hard-on.”
