23. Maybe you lived here in your past life.
Daxton's hand brushed my face gently, eyes observing me carefully. He seemed to be searching for words.
"I'm genuinely paranoid..." I admitted in a whisper. "How did I know that?"
His thumb caressed my cheek affectionately. "Probably a wildly accurate guess."
I held his gaze firmly, searching his eyes. "That was oddly detailed to be just a guess."
"It's alright," he brushed it off, clearing his throat.
"Let's not dwell on it too much. I make insanely precise predictions too.
You might get to hear some rumours about me that affiliate me with black magic, just because of that.
" His tone was light and teasing now, as if he wanted to ease all of my worries.
I uttered a small, shaky laugh.
He put his arm around my shoulders. "Let me walk you upstairs."
I nodded, grateful.
"And since you know the place so well, you lead the way." He said, flashing me a grin.
My lips curved upwards. "Can you not? I've freaked myself out, and you're acting like it was something funny."
"Come on, it's totally fine." He waved it off once again.
"Is it?"
"Maybe you lived here in your past life." He joked.
"Stop messing with me." I shook my head, smiling despite myself.
He laughed, pressing his lips to my temple as we made it to the end of the stairs.
That kiss alone instantly quieted the turmoil within me, turning my worries and fear to dust.
He led me down the hall, his hand resting firmly on the small of my back, a constant, grounding heat. He opened the third door on the right, and I stepped into a room that felt like a hug. It was massive, and decorated in soft creams and deep blues.
"I'll be right back." He said, leaving the room.
I looked around at the fascinating, modern interior, feeling that pull of familiarity again.
A couple of minutes later, Daxton returned with a black t-shirt in his hands. "Since you don't have your things, you can wear this to sleep."
He handed it to me, the fabric smelling exactly like him.
"Thank you." I whispered, clutching the shirt to my chest.
"Are you hungry?" He asked, his gaze dropping to my lips for a fleeting second before he regained his composure. "I can have the chef whip up anything. Or I can make you a grilled cheese sandwich myself. I'm told I'm surprisingly proficient for a CEO."
I let out a small laugh. "As tempting as a Daxton Anderson original grilled cheese sandwich sounds, I think my stomach is still tied in knots. I don't think I can eat."
He nodded, stepping closer until the tips of our shoes touched. "Rest, then. It has been a long night."
He reached out, his hand cupping my jaw, his thumb dragging across my lower lip in a way that made my breath hitch. The air in the room grew heavy again, charged with the same electricity that had set us ablaze on that balcony.
"Good night, Ayra." He whispered, eyes holding desire and longing. As if he didn't want to leave. "The lights are voice-activated. There's a phone by the bed if you need anything. Anything at all."
"Thank you. I'll be fine." I promised, giving him a small, reassuring smile.
"I'll be right down the hall," he murmured, stepping back, lingering in the doorway as if leaving me was the hardest thing he'd done all year. "Sleep well."
I grabbed his wrist just as he turned to leave. He looked back, slightly surprised.
My fingers caught the lapel of his tuxedo jacket, bunching the expensive fabric in my fist as I yanked him toward me.
He let out a low, startled sound that was swallowed instantly as I stood on my tiptoes and crashed my lips against his.
I groaned into his mouth, my hands sliding up from his chest to tangle deep in the hair at the nape of his neck. I pulled him closer, needing to feel the hard, unyielding muscles of his body against mine.
Daxton responded with a raw hunger, his tongue sweeping against mine, tasting of mint and the pure, unadulterated pining he'd been hiding deep within himself.
His hands flew to my waist, his fingers digging into my hips with a sudden, desperate possessiveness that made my head spin.
He backed me against the closed door, his body a wall of solid muscle pinning me there.
The kiss deepened, turning feral and frantic, a desperate language spoken between two people who were terrified of the silence waiting for them once they let go.
I could feel his heartbeat thudding violently against my own, a frantic rhythm that matched the chaos in my chest. For a moment, the world was nothing but the scent of sandalwood and the overwhelming, electric friction of his skin against mine.
He pulled back just an inch, his lips swollen and his eyes dark, blown out with a need that looked almost like pain. His breathing was ragged, his forehead resting against mine as he tried to catch his breath.
"Ayra," he rasped, his voice a low, warning vibration. "If you keep doing that... I'm not going to be able to walk out that door."
Then don't. I wanted to say. I wanted to tell him to spend the night with me. To sleep in the same bed as me. To tell him that we didn't really have to take things slow if we truly liked and desired each other so much.
I looked up at him, my own breath coming in shallow hitches, my heart hammering. The air between us was thick enough to choke on, charged with a tension that was almost unbearable.
He took a shaky breath, forcing himself to put an inch of space between us. He reached up, his thumb grazing my lower lip one last time, his gaze lingering on my mouth with a look of pure, unadulterated longing.
"Sleep," he whispered, the word sounding like a struggle. "You need to rest. And I need... I need to go before I lose my mind and control completely."
He gave me one last, lingering kiss on the forehead—a touch so tender it made my eyes sting—before he finally turned the handle.
"I'm right down the hall," he reminded me, his voice still thick with emotion. "I'll see you in the morning."
Then he stepped out and closed the door softly behind him. I stood there for a long moment, my back against the wood, listening to the fading sound of his footsteps.
Then I went to the bathroom to freshen up, with weak knees, shaky breath and a dangerously erratic heartbeat.
I changed into his shirt, the hem falling to mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging just above my elbows. It felt like a suit of armor made of cotton.
I climbed into the massive bed, the firelight dancing on the walls. But as I closed my eyes and began to succumb to slumber, a distant memory played before my eyes like a dream. Blurry. Vague. But it filled me with a sense of warmth and familiarity.
Paint brushes. Colours. A boy's voice, laughing as we hid under a table in a room that smelled exactly like the one I was sleeping in.