Chapter 25
Chapter twenty-five
Trey
Pretty Please – Dutch Melrose, Benny Blane
The second the door clicks shut, I drop my head back and drag in a breath that scorches my lungs.
What the fucking shit was that?
Devil woman.
She’s the devil.
Asking me to undress her?
What am I supposed to do—tell her to handle it herself?
Not fucking likely.
Fuck.
My hands are shaking, the weight of her dress clutched between them like it might burn through my palms if I hold it any longer. It’s warm—and for a second, I just stare at the lace and silk bunched in my grip.
Why do I want to inhale it like a rip from a bong.
The same lace that moments ago was wrapped around her body like it was made for her skin.
My wife.
The words hit harder than I expect. Echoing through my head, tightening something deep inside my chest. I set the gown carefully across the bed, palms pressed flat to the fabric as if smoothing it out could calm the riot inside me.
It doesn’t. My pulse is still hammering, jaw clenched so tightly it aches.
All I can see is her.
Standing there in that delicate white lace, the garters hugging her thighs, stockings tracing soft lines over her skin. Her breath catching when she realized I was still watching. The way her lips parted, trembling slightly. Innocent. Unsure. But not afraid.
God, not afraid.
She should be.
I’d fucking devour her.
Some guys are all about breasts, some about that ass…others, feet or thighs. I get it. Me? I’m a yes man. Every inch, every curve, every sound.
The way she screams in ecstasy.
That’s what undoes me. For once, she didn’t flinch when I looked at her. She stood there, trusting me, letting me see her.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor, trying to slow the chaos roaring through me.
It’s supposed to be just paperwork. Protection.
A name on a certificate to keep her safe.
But the second she looked at me tonight—the way she said my name like it meant something—none of that felt true anymore.
A door opens softly behind me. I turn my head. Seraphina steps out in one of my shirts—white, crisp, the sleeves swallowing her hands, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs. Bare legs. Bare feet. Hair loose, now a mass of wild red curls around her shoulders and halfway down her back.
I swear I stop breathing all over again.
She smiles shyly. “I hope you don’t mind. I couldn’t find the pajamas.”
My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.
This woman…
Bro. I don’t think she’s innocent, she’s after that cock.
Happy to take one for the team, sir.
“You look better in that anyway.” I smile.
Her cheeks flush, and she crosses the room, moving like she’s scared to break the silence between us. I can’t stop watching her. Every step. Every breath. Her fingers twist in the hem of my shirt, the cotton brushing against her bare thighs as I try—and fail—to keep my focus anywhere but there.
I clear my throat, desperate to sound casual.
“You hungry, Dove?”
Because I want to wear you like a fucking scarf. Spread those thighs and feast on your pussy.
She tilts her head, a soft hum leaving her lips.
“A little. I don’t even know what time it is anymore.”
“Late,” I say, dragging a hand though my hair, needing something to do.
“But we didn’t eat on the flight. Come on—lets go see what’s in the kitchen.
I force a grin and gesture to the hall. She follows me, bare feet on marble, the hem of my shirt swaying with each step in a way that’s going to kill me if I don’t stop watching.
I focus on the floor, on the sound of her quiet footsteps behind me, the low hum of the house at night—the distant sound of the city down below, muted by glass and walls.
The kitchen glows softly when we step inside. Cool white counters, dark stone tops, steel appliances gleaming beneath the soft lights. She drifts toward the island, fingertips gliding over the smooth surface like she’s afraid to disturb it. I open a few cupboards, searching aimlessly.
“No idea what’s in, Steak—my, I guess our chef—should have some portioned meals,” I mutter, swinging open the fridge. “Probably something I can’t fuck up too badly.”
When I glance back, she’s perched on one of the bar stools, knees drawn slightly together, the shirt riding high up her thighs as she watches me with a sleepy kind of amusement. The sight hits me low, sharp. I grip the fridge door a little too tightly.
Fuck, I wanna worship at her alter on my fucking knees.
Maybe we could start a new religion?
Her hair falls around her face, a halo of red against the white of my shirt. She looks nothing like the girl who hid in the shadows. She looks curious. Intrigued.
“You don’t really cook much, do you?” she asks, lips curving into a small smile.
“Not unless you count reheating these bad boys.”
“I’m not really in the mood for a whole dinner.”
“I got you.”
I want a meal. A banquet. I want to be mother fucking Bruce Bogtrotter, and you can be my chocolate cake.
Get your head out the gutter before you shut your cock in the door.
I find a few things—fruit, yogurt, cheese, a loaf of bread, some condiments—and set them on the counter, grateful for the distraction. “You sure you are okay with just this?”
She nods her head. “Yes. This is fine.”
When she reaches forward to take an apple, my shirt shifts again, sliding just enough that I catch a glimpse of bare skin, soft and pale under the kitchen light.
For a second, everything in me stills. The hum of the fridge. The distant city outside. My next breath.
We eat perched side by side at the counter, the city lights flickering through the glass behind her. She nibbles at the apple, bare legs swinging beneath the stool, looking impossibly soft under the glow of the pendant lights.
I tear a piece of sourdough bread just to keep my hands busy, not trusting them anywhere near her right now.
It’s too domestic. Too fucking real.
“Thank you, Trey.” She says finally, voice low. “For…all of this. I still can’t believe it’s real.”
My throat tightens.
Yup, me fucking either.
I look at her—really look. At the red hair tumbling over my shirt, the way her lashes lower as she picks at the crust of her sandwich, completely unaware she’s undoing me inch by inch.
Maybe…Maybe she isn’t trying to invite. To entice. You’re reading into things.
“Seraphina,” I start, but my voice catches halfway through her name. I clear my throat, try again. “We should probably…talk. Set some boundaries.”
Her head lifts, eyes wide and searching.
“Boundaries?”
Yeah things that might stop you from killing me or sending the wrong message.
“Yeah.” I drag my hand through my hair, stare down at the countertop because looking at her while saying this might kill me. “I don’t know how to—”
The words trip and fall, useless. I exhale, shaking my head, laugh once, dry and nervous. “I don’t know how to do this right. You’re sitting in my kitchen wearing my damn shirt, looking like that, and I’m supposed to remember that this isn’t…”
She tilts her head, her voice soft but sure.
“Real?”
I meet her eyes.
“It feels too fucking real.” I admit. The confession slips out before I can stop it, heavy and low. “I don’t want to hurt you by crossing a line I shouldn’t.”
Her expression shifts—something tender flickering there, something that reaches right inside my chest and squeezes.
She nods slowly, her voice trembling. “Then maybe we just…figure it out as we go.” Her knee brushes mine beneath the counter, every thought of boundaries disappears into the static. “I was just thinking…” Her voice falters, hesitant. “In my religion, a…a consummation of the marriage takes place.”
I freeze mid sip. The word hits me like a punch to the chest—and then I choke. Water sprays from my mouth in a pathetic arc across the counter, catching the edge of her plate. I cough, hard, gripping the table, eyes watering.
“Jesus—fuck—”
“Oh my God, Trey!” She jumps off the stool, rushing to my side. “Are you okay?” Her small hand pats between my shoulder blades, her voice full of genuine concern. “Breathe, please—”
I wave her off, still wheezing, trying to get air into my lungs.
“Sera—fuck—” I croak, finally managing a breath. “I’m fine. Just—what the hell did you just say?”
Her brow furrows, completely innocent.
“If we don’t…consummate the marriage, it won’t be valid. Not in God’s eyes.”
Sounds like a transaction.
Her words hang in the air, pure and devastating.
She looks up at me, lashes trembling, but determined.
“It’s just that…that’s how I was raised. And I don’t know if it matters to you, but it matters to me. I don’t—” She swallows hard. “Do you want to?”
Every muscle in my body tightens. My glass clatters against my plate as I set it down. Her question isn’t seductive—it’s painfully sincere.
The room feels hotter, heavier. Her bare legs shift beneath my shirt, the hem rising high on her thighs, and I swear my sanity slips an inch.
“Seraphina…” I whisper her name. She looks up at me through her lashes, waiting.
God fucking help me.
She has no idea what’s she’s asking. I rise slowly, every step toward her deliberate, the air between us electric. Her breath hitches as I stop in front of her, so close the heat between us hums.
“Dove, it doesn’t sit well with me that you are wanting to do this out of obligation. Or Necessary-ness, if that’s a word. If I touch you, it won’t be because of some rule in a book.”
Her lip’s part, “T-that’s just it, Trey, you have told me to choose... T-this is it. I choose you.”