Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Seraphina
The club is thriving by the time we arrive.
Heat wraps around me the second we step inside, thick and immediate, laced with perfume, expensive alcohol, and something darker, while the bass pulses through the floor beneath my heels in a steady, relentless rhythm that begins to sync with my heartbeat whether I intend it to or not.
Lights cut through the space in flashes of gold, violet, and deep crimson, catching on sequins, skin, and glass, transforming everything into something heightened, something almost unreal.
Elysium.
The name glows above the main bar in soft white neon.
Bodies move everywhere—pressed together, swaying, reaching—hands trailing over shoulders, waists, arms, laughter cutting through the music in bright bursts while glasses clink and voices rise and fall, all of it layered over that constant, driving rhythm that makes standing still feel impossible.
This night feels like a dream.
I can’t believe I said that to the other woman… But the look on Trey’s face was worth it.
Placing me here a year ago would be a nightmare, I would want to be unseen.
Yet, I’m not overwhelmed.
Not like before.
Trey’s hand rests at my waist.
A woman approaches us almost immediately, her smile polished and professional, her eyes sharp with quiet assessment.
She is stunning in that effortless, curated way Vegas seems to perfect, with deep bronze skin and sleek dark hair pulled into a high, sculpted ponytail, her cheekbones catching the light with every turn of her head.
Her dress is black and minimal, cut high at the thigh, the fabric clinging like liquid as she moves, while gold glints at her ears, wrists, and fingers in deliberate, expensive accents.
“Mr. Ryder,” she says smoothly, dipping her head slightly.
“Your table is ready.” We are led through the crowd as security parts it ahead of us with quiet authority, Niko’s men unmistakable in their sharp suits and sharper expressions, while the atmosphere subtly shifts around us, whispers following in our wake, more phones lifting, attention turning, though no one steps too close.
Respect. Or caution. Perhaps both. The booth is tucked into a raised section overlooking the dance floor, semi-private yet still close enough to feel the energy of the room.
Low lighting pools around the table in warm amber tones, where bottles already wait—top-shelf whiskey, vodka, champagne resting in chilled buckets, glasses lined neatly beside them.
We slide in together, the space filling quickly with Mac, Logan, Sam, and Chace—familiar in a way that steadies the edges of everything else.
I settle beside Trey, aware of him in that constant, quiet way I always am.
“I’m just going to have some water,” I say softly, leaning slightly toward him.
His brows lift just a fraction, not questioning, simply noticing…he doesn’t push, doesn’t ask, but turns his head toward the server instead.
“Just a water, please,” he says calmly.
Mac nudges my arm gently, already smiling as she rises.
“Come on,” she says, half-laughing. “Dance with me before they get swarmed.” A soft laugh escapes me as I let her pull me up.
Mac looks beautiful, her blonde hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, catching the light with every movement, her bright blue eyes alive with energy as they scan the room.
Her dress is silver and form-fitting, the fabric shimmering subtly as she moves, paired with heels that somehow make her look even more poised, more effortless.
We slip into the crowd together, the music taking over where thought leaves off, the bass settling into my bones as the lights blur and the press of bodies becomes something to move with rather than something to fear.
I am aware of everything. The space, the people, the hands that come too close but never quite touch—and above all, I am aware of him.
I feel Trey before I look, that constant awareness pulling at me with quiet insistence, and when I finally glance back toward the booth, I find him exactly where I knew he would be. Watching me.
He is leaned back into the seat, one arm stretched along the back of the booth, his legs slightly spread, his drink resting loosely in his hand in a posture that appears relaxed but is anything but careless.
There is something in his gaze that does not soften, does not waver, even as the world moves around him—Something focused, intent, as though everything else has faded into background noise and I am the only thing he came here for.
My stomach tightens, not with fear but with something warmer, something stronger. I turn back into the music, letting myself move, letting myself feel it fully—the way the dress clings to my body, the way my breath settles into rhythm, the way I exist in this space without shrinking.
This moment is mine. This life is mine. And I am not giving it back.
A few songs pass before the shift comes, subtle at first as the energy changes, attention redirecting. Trey is on his feet. Nothing stops him.
Not the hands that reach out as he passes, not the phones lifted in his direction with glowing screens trying to capture him, not the voices calling his name. He doesn’t acknowledge any of it, his focus unwavering, his eyes locked on me with a certainty that makes every step he takes deliberate.
My breath catches as he reaches me, his hand finding my waist without hesitation as he pulls me into him with quiet authority, and the world narrows instantly, the music fading into something distant and secondary.
His forehead presses to mine, his breath warm against my skin.
“Took you long enough,” I murmur, softer than I expect.
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Wanted to watch you first.”
Heat curls low in my chest.
I don’t look away.
Not this time.
My hands slide slowly up his chest, feeling the solid line of him beneath my palms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, until they settle at his collar, my fingers curling into the fabric as I hold him there.
This man is all mine.
His eyes darken, a flicker of surprise passing through them.
He is used to leading, to taking, to owning every moment.
Not this one, husband. This one belongs to me.
I rise slightly onto my toes, closing the space between us, brushing my lips first along his jaw before finding his mouth, intentional and undeniably public.
My fingers tighten in his shirt as I kiss him, slow and unhurried, letting the world see exactly what I am saying without a single word.
He is mine.
Not because he holds me.
Not because he protects me.
But because I choose him.
When I pull back just enough to breathe, my forehead rests against his once more, and his hand tightens at my waist in response.
“Careful, dove,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, roughened at the edges. “You keep looking at me like that…”
A soft, steady smile curves my lips. “Like what?”
His thumb brushes along my jaw in a slow, almost reverent motion, though there is nothing gentle about the way he is looking at me now.
“Like you know exactly what you’re doing.”
He makes me feel confident.
I feel alive. Time slips.
Not in minutes, not in anything measurable, but in sensation. The steady pull of the music, the heat of his body against mine, the way the world dissolves into nothing but movement and breath and the quiet, constant gravity that exists between us.
I stop noticing the crowd.
The lights.
The noise.
All of it fades into something distant and unimportant, because Trey doesn’t let me drift too far—not physically, not mentally—his hands always there, reminding me exactly where I belong.
With him.
His mouth brushes my temple, then my cheek, never quite a kiss, never quite innocent either, his breath warm against my skin as his hands shift slowly along my body, mapping me in a way that feels both familiar and newly discovered all at once.
I move with him, without thinking, without hesitation, my body responding to his like it always has.
There’s no space left between us.
Not anymore.
His grip tightens at my waist before sliding lower, his fingers tracing the curve of my hips before slipping beneath the edge of my dress, pushing the lace up just enough to let his hands settle where he wants them.
My breath catches.
“Trey…” I whisper, but there’s no warning in it, no protest—just his name, soft and breathless as my fingers tighten slightly in his shirt.
His head dips, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as his voice drops low, rough, threaded with restraint that feels like it’s hanging by a thread.
“We should leave, baby…” he murmurs, his hands tightening where they rest, drawing me closer in a way that leaves no doubt about what he wants. His mouth brushes my ear as he speaks. “I’m fucking dying to be buried deep inside you… to feel your tight pussy grip my cock. Do you want me, Dove?”
A shiver rolls through me, heat pooling low, my body reacting before my thoughts can catch up, because I feel it—the shift in him, the strain in his control, the way he’s holding himself back for me.
I gasp softly as his hand slips beneath my dress, cupping me through the thin fabric of my lace panties, before he pushes it aside.
“Fuck…” he breathes. “You’re already so wet.
” I know this is reckless. I know I shouldn’t let him unravel me like this, not here, not where anyone could see—but the thing I love most about Trey is his wildness.
The way he never does anything halfway. The way he loves like it consumes him.
He runs a finger through my folds before thrusting it inside me.
I moan in pleasure, arching my back, pushing our bodies closer.
My hands slide over his shoulders, linking behind his neck, my pulse thundering—not just from him, but from the thrill of where we are, how close, how exposed.
He thrusts a second finger inside as his touch deepens, and my breath stutters, chasing the sensation I know only he can give me.
“Trey…” I whimper, but it isn’t a warning. It never is.
“Let go, baby,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice thick with barely restrained desire. “Use me. Ride my fingers.”
The command unravels me.
My grip tightens in his hair as his rhythm takes over, steady and certain, pulling me under, his mouth claiming mine in a devouring kiss filled with bites and harsh licks. It’s so wild that it makes my knees weaken.
He’s losing control, and God help me… I love it.
When he pulls back, his eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them, filled with promise, with hunger that makes my breath catch all over again. I can feel myself tipping, slipping closer to the edge, my body no longer my own.
The hand on my nape tightens, as he watches. Every reaction, every breath, like it belongs to him.
“Cum on my fingers, Dove, I want to taste you.” He growls, low and commanding, his voice the final undoing.
I fall apart against him, barely able to stay upright as the wave crashes through me, my body trembling in his hold while he keeps me there, steady, guiding me through every aftershock until I can breathe again.
Slowly, like he’s in no rush at all, he removes his fingers.
His gaze stays locked on mine as he brings his hand up between us, sucking his fingers into his mouth, his expression shifting into something darker, more satisfied.
“Fuck…” he exhales, a slow grin pulling at his mouth, his eyes never leaving mine. “Tell me we can leave so I can dance with you naked back at the hotel.”
I tilt my head slightly, my lips brushing his jaw.
“We can leave.”
A small smile touches my lips, my fingers sliding up into his hair, holding him there as I meet his gaze fully.
“And I don’t want you to hold back when we get there. I want you. All of you. Everything you have to give.”
That’s it. That’s all it takes.
His eyes spark in a way that sends a sharp, electric pulse straight through me, his control shifting from restraint into something far more dangerous—something focused.
His hand takes my wrist as he leans in one last time, his mouth bruising mine in a kiss that is anything but soft.
“I’m your fucking genie, baby. Your wish is my command.” he says against my lips, his voice rough. He leans in close, his lips brushing my ear, voice dropping just enough to make my stomach tighten.
“And tonight…” he murmurs, “I’m taking my time with you.”