You can’t do this
You can’t do this
The music outside the hallway is still pounding, bass rattling the walls, laughter and glass clinking like the whole club is spinning in its own paradise—except here, in this narrow corridor, I’m pressed against peeling wallpaper with my thighs trembling, lungs clawing for air he refuses to give me.
His scent is still on me. His bite still burns on my shoulder. My body won’t stop shaking — not from fear, not from shame, but from the way he split me open and carved himself into places I can’t scrub clean.
And yet he’s silent now. Silent, like none of it meant a damn thing. Like I’m just another mistake he should’ve never touched.
“Is this all I am to you?” My voice cracks, a whisper swallowed by the thud of the music. “Something to take when you’re bored?”
His jaw tightens, but he won’t look at me. Won’t give me even that.
“You told me you didn’t want this,” I push, nails curling into the wall behind me just to keep standing. “You told me I meant nothing.”
Finally, his gaze slices to mine, dark and violent, and for a second I almost flinch. Almost. But I hold it, because if I don’t, I’ll drown in the silence between us.
“You think I wanted this?” His voice is raw, guttural, like it’s scraping him open just to speak. “You think I don’t fucking hate myself for touching you?”
The words should kill me. They should shatter me into dust on this sticky floor. Instead, they twist the knife deeper because the heat in his eyes tells me he’s lying—even to himself.
“You used me.” My throat burns, but I force the words out, tasting the ache on my tongue. “You keep taking pieces of me, and I don’t even know why. I’m not yours. I’ll never be yours.”
His hand slams against the wall beside my head, caging me in, close enough that his breath ghosts over my lips, close enough that my pulse trips over itself just to keep beating.
“Don’t say never.” His whisper is fire, venom, a threat I feel in my bones.
And then he steps back—just like that. Like ripping out a vein and pretending it didn’t bleed. He straightens his jacket, like nothing happened, like I’m not standing here falling apart with my dress clinging to sweat and his hands still branded on my skin.
“Go back to Kate,” he mutters, turning away. “Don’t follow me.”
But my heart’s hammering against my ribs, screaming the truth he won’t say. He’s fighting it. Fighting me. Fighting himself. And every time he pulls away, it only drags me deeper.
“Don’t follow me.”
He says it like an order, like I’m still some obedient little thing who’ll nod and disappear back into the dark.
I don’t move.
I can’t.
The music rattles through the walls, but here in the corridor it’s muffled, almost drowned out by the sound of my own heartbeat slamming against my ribs. His shadow stretches over me, long and jagged under the flicker of the overhead bulb, and something in me snaps.
“You don’t get to do that.” My voice comes sharper than I intend, trembling but furious. “You don’t get to ruin me in one breath and pretend I’m nothing in the next.”
He stops. Back rigid. His shoulders rise and fall with one, two heavy breaths before he half-turns, eyes slicing through me. Predatory. Wounded. Starving.
“Brooklyn.” My name on his tongue sounds like a threat, a confession, a prayer. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
My laugh breaks out bitter, shaking. “I didn’t ask for any of this. You did. You keep pulling me under and then shoving me away like I’m the sin you’re choking on.”
He’s in front of me before I can blink, one hand around my jaw, forcing my head back against the wall. Not gentle. Not cruel. Just claiming.
“You think I can stop?” His whisper is hot against my mouth, each word dragging across my skin like teeth. “You think I haven’t tried? You don’t fucking understand, do you?”
“Then make me understand.” My breath hitches, but I don’t back down. My pulse riots, defiant. “Stop hiding behind your guilt and—”
His mouth crashes into mine before I can finish.
It’s not a kiss—it’s a punishment. A war.
His teeth catch my lip, his tongue forcing past my protest, and I melt and fight him all at once.
I slam my fists against his chest, not to push him away but to feel the solid wall of him, to remind myself he’s real and not just another fever in my head.
When he tears his mouth from mine, we’re both panting, foreheads pressed together, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple.
“I can’t want you,” he growls, more to himself than me. “But fuck—I do.”
My throat closes, heat spilling into every nerve. My anger sparks again, burning through the confession.
“Then stop pretending you don’t.”
For a second—one impossible, dangerous second—I see it. The mask slipping. The hunger he’s fighting. The man who wants to devour me whole and the coward who’s terrified of what happens if he does.
His hand shakes against my jaw as though he’s about to let go. About to run.
And I know if he does, if he leaves me standing here again, I’ll chase him.
His hand is still at my jaw, thumb pressed beneath my chin like he’s deciding whether to shatter me or let me go. His breath is ragged, chest rising against mine, and I can feel the war in him—the predator itching to claim and the man fighting to run.
“Brooklyn…” My name scrapes out of him, low, dangerous, like saying it costs him blood.
I tilt my head against his grip, daring him. “What? You’re gonna tell me again this was all a mistake?” My laugh is jagged, bitter. “That I should forget the way you kissed me, the way you touched me? That you didn’t mean it?”
His jaw tightens, eyes burning into mine. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I spit. My heart is hammering, but I don’t look away. “Don’t remind you that you wanted me? Don’t remind you that you still do? God, Dean—” I almost choke on his name, the forbidden weight of it in my mouth. “You’re not fooling anyone. Least of all, me.”
His hand tightens, just enough to make me gasp, but it’s not pain—it’s warning. His nose grazes mine, his mouth so close I can taste the whiskey on his breath.
“You think this is a game?” His voice rips out, quiet but lethal. “You have no idea what I’d do to you if I stopped pretending.”
“Then stop pretending.”
The silence that follows is unbearable. My whole body vibrates with it. His stare devours me like he already has me pinned to his bed, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t kiss me again.
Instead, he releases my jaw like I burned him and takes a sharp step back.
The space between us is sudden, cold.
“Go back inside, Brooklyn,” he orders, voice steel. “Find Kate. Drink your cocktails. Dance. Forget about me.”
My stomach knots. Anger floods my chest, hot and reckless. “You don’t get to tell me to forget you.”
“I’m your boss,” he snaps, harsher than before. “That’s all I am. Remember that.”
I laugh, but it breaks halfway through, bitter and shaky. “Right. My boss. Who can’t stop touching me.”
His eyes flash, jaw locking, and for a split second I swear he’s about to snap—about to drag me back against the wall and ruin me right here where anyone could find us.
But he doesn’t. He just turns his head, cursing under his breath like he’s seconds from losing it.
The bass from the club rattles the walls, and I realise I’m shaking—not from fear, but from want. From rage. From him.
He looks back once, eyes dark, feral, and full of the thing he refuses to admit. Then he storms off down the hallway, leaving me against the wall with my pulse screaming and my body aching, like he just set me on fire and dared me to burn.