Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
DAX
Fuck, she’s trouble dressed as sin, and I have never wanted anything more than I want her right now, but I can’t have her. I can’t fucking have her.
I tell myself these pretty little lies, and I almost convince myself I believe them until I look into her wide, innocent ocean-blue eyes and I fucking melt. Me. Melting over a fucking girl I just met.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Her blindfold is gone, tossed somewhere on the chaise like it wasn’t the only thing she let me strip away. She’s still sitting there, back straight, fingers curled into her lap like she doesn’t trust her own body anymore.
She shouldn’t.
Not with the way I’m looking at her.
Not with the way I’m thinking about all the ways I could ruin her.
“You always look at women like that?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper, small enough to tremble in the air between us, like even the question is nervous to exist.
I cock my head, slow, controlled. “Only the ones who ask to be destroyed.”
Her throat bobs, and I catch it—just the smallest flinch of something behind her eyes. Not fear. Not quite.
Recognition.
She’s been close to that edge before.
I can see it, the same way I can smell adrenaline or hear the break in a man’s resolve. She looks away first. I let her. Because if I don’t, I’ll fucking touch her.
And I don’t touch what I can’t keep.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, still not meeting my gaze. “Why’d you really bring me in here?”
I arch a brow. “You asked me to.”
“Yeah… but I think you were already going to.”
She’s sharper than I gave her credit for.
Fuck.
I take a slow breath; my hands curl into fists at my sides. I want to grip her thighs and spread her open just to see if she makes that same face when she comes that she makes when she lies.
Instead, I step closer—close enough to smell her again.
Not perfume. Her.
Sweet. Curious.
Like something that wandered into a trap and forgot to be scared.
“You want the truth, butterfly?” I murmur, the low, rumbling kind of murmur that belongs in the dark. She nods, eyes still locked on mine, like she’s not sure whether to run or lean in.
I tilt my head. “You walked in here with that lip between your teeth and that look in your eyes like you didn’t know what you were doing. But you did.”
Her breath hitches.
“You wanted to be seen.” I pause. Let it land. “You wanted to be wanted.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it.
I fucking knew it.
“You thought I’d treat you like glass,” I say, stepping in close—too close, but not touching. “You thought I’d flirt. Flatter. Whisper sweet things and let you walk away feeling like a pretty girl.”
I shake my head, slow. Final.
“That’s not what this room is for.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak.
Smart girl.
I could give her the kind of night she’d never forget. I could give her bruises shaped like memory and make her beg for more.
But not tonight.
Not now.
Not while I’m still fighting myself.
I lean down—one breath away from her mouth—and I fucking ache.
“You’re not ready for me, Cassandra,” I whisper, my voice gravel and sin and everything I’m not letting myself do. “And I’m not the kind of man who waits.”
Her eyes widen. She trembles.
But she doesn’t pull away.
That makes it worse.
That makes it so much worse.
She’s not afraid of me.
She should be.
I back off like it costs me something—because it fucking does.
Then I rake a hand through my hair, turn my back on her, and stare into the mirror, jaw clenched so tight I’m surprised my teeth don’t crack.
She’s still in the reflection.
Still watching me.
Still burning herself into places I didn’t know were hollow.
And fuck, I can’t do this.
Not when she’s her.
Not when she’s the first thing in years that makes me want to lose control.
I force the tension out of my neck.
Drop the act.
Speak with my back to her. “You’ve got five minutes to look around, butterfly. After that, I’m walking you out of this room.”
A beat.
Then her voice—quiet, confused, already addicted.
“And if I don’t want to leave?”
I stare at myself in the glass.
At the man I’ve tried to bury.
I almost turn around.
Almost.
Instead, I whisper the cruelest truth I’ve got.
“Then run.”
I don’t hear footsteps.
I don’t hear anything.
Just her breath—soft, shaky—and then the creak of the floorboard as she moves.
Towards me.
Fuck.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a second and inhale through my nose like it’ll do anything to stop the war going off inside me.
And then—she’s behind me.
Too close.
Close enough that her heat slides against my back like a second skin, and all the rules I tried to keep between us crumble like ash under the weight of her being near me.
I feel her hand before I see it—soft fingers brushing against my lower back, light enough to make my skin tense, my muscles coil, my control fracture.
“You didn’t tell me to,” she whispers.
I glance at her reflection.
Her eyes aren’t wide anymore.
They’re dark. Heavy. Starved.
“You didn’t tell me to run.”
Her fingers trail higher.
Up my spine.
Slow. Barely there.
And then she’s right up against me, her chest against my back, her breath near my neck, and I swear to God I could come from that alone.
“I should have,” I mutter, low.
“Why didn’t you?”
I turn.
Slow. Controlled.
Only I’m not in control anymore.
She looks up at me like she knows.
Like she feels what I’m holding back.
And then she touches me again—this time, her palm flat on my chest, right over my heart.
Like she wants to feel it break.
I catch her wrist before she moves higher.
Hold it there.
Pinned between us.
“You don’t get it,” I rasp, and my voice is all gravel now, all fucked-up restraint. “You think this is some twisted fairytale, butterfly? You think I’m the wolf who turns soft if you pet him long enough?”
Her eyes flash. “No. I think you’re the one who wants to bite.”
Fuck.
I’m going to hell.
I drag her against me and crush my mouth to hers like I’ve got minutes to live and she’s the only sin worth dying for.
Her lips are soft—too soft—but the way she gasps into it, the way she melts against my body like she was built to come undone for me, that’s what ruins me.
I back her into the mirror, hands fisting in her hair, her waist, I don’t even know what the fuck I’m grabbing anymore—I just need to feel her.
The glass behind her fogs with our heat, with the way she arches into me like she wants me to lose it.
She moans.
Jesus fuck.
Her tongue brushes mine and I lose whatever thread of self-control I had left. I grip her thigh and hike it over my hip, pressing her body flush to mine, letting her feel exactly what she’s doing to me.
My mouth is at her neck now, dragging over that spot behind her ear that makes her whimper, makes her hips buck against mine.
My hands are under her dress. Her skin is fire. My lips are moving. I don’t even know what the fuck I’m saying.
“Fucking perfect…”
“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me…”
“God, you taste like sin…”
I grind into her once—just once—and she gasps so pretty it nearly undoes me.
But then—fuck.
I stop.
Right there.
Because if I don’t, I’m going to break every promise I’ve ever made to myself.
I press my forehead to hers, both of us panting, her lips red, her eyes glazed, her breath coming fast against my skin like she wants me to ruin her.
I close my eyes.
Pull back.
Step away like it kills me—because it fucking does.
“You don’t know what door you’re opening, Cassandra.”
She just stares at me.
Ruined. Flushed. Breathless.
And still—wanting.
“You kissed me back,” she whispers.
I drag a hand through my hair, pacing once like I can burn the need out of my system.
“I know.”
“And you stopped.”
“I had to.”
“Why?”
I don’t answer.
Not because I don’t have one.
Because I have too many.
She steps toward me, slow, like I’m some wounded thing. “Did I do something wrong?”
I snap my gaze to hers.
Wrong?
I cross the space in two strides and cage her against the mirror again—no kiss this time. Just heat. Just truth.
“You’re the first thing that’s felt right in a long fucking time, butterfly. But I’ll only ever feel wrong for you.”
And then—I step back.
Because if I stay any longer, I’m going to fucking ruin her.
And I want her too much to do that.
Not yet.
Not now.
I don’t move.
Not right away.
I stand there, fists clenched, jaw locked so tight it aches, watching her watch me like she knows I’m lying.
Like she can see every fucking thing I didn’t say written across my face.
Her chest still heaves.
Her lips still part.
Her skin flushed in a way that tells me she’d have let me take it further.
She’d have let me.
And fuck—I wanted to.
I still want to.
But this isn’t just about want.
This is about ruin.
I drag a hand across my mouth, trying to erase the feel of her lips, the sound she made when I pressed her against the mirror like she was mine already.
She wasn’t ready.
I’m not ready.
“You should go,” I mutter, but the words feel like sandpaper in my throat.
She doesn’t move.
I look up—just once.
And that’s a mistake.
Because her eyes—those big, fucking honest eyes—are staring right into me. Not afraid. Not even confused. Just… seeing me.
And that’s worse than any of it.
She doesn’t speak.
She just walks past me, slow, steady steps across the velvet carpet until she’s by the door. Her hand on the handle. Her back still to me.
And just when I think maybe I’ve dodged the fucking bullet—
“I wasn’t pretending,” she says, voice soft but sharp enough to gut me. “And you weren’t playing.”
Then she opens the door.
And leaves.
Gone.
Just like that.
And I stand there—alone, hard, shaking—and every piece of me screams to go after her.
But I don’t.
Because if I do…
I won’t stop next time.