Chapter 24
Chapter twenty-four
Seraphina
Want to Want Me – Jason Derulo
Iwanted my husband to kiss me.
The thought echoes through my head like a confession I can’t take back.
My lips still tingle where his almost touched mine, that whisper of warmth lingering like a secret between us.
I can still feel his hands on my waist, his breath against my skin, the solid thud of his heartbeat against my chest.
So why did he pull away?
Now he’s standing by the balcony railing, his back to me, the soft evening light catching in his dark hair as the wind tousles it.
The sky behind him is a wash of violet and gold, the sun dipping lower, brushing the world in amber. The air smells faintly of jasmine and ocean salt. Trey leans on the railing, his broad shoulders tense, his head bowed slightly like he’s deep in thought. He looks impossibly beautiful—raw.
What are these feelings floating through me, tugging at my chest, that make me feel like I’m standing on my tippy toes, leaning over the edge of a chasm? He’s there—just out of reach—and my heart wants to dive anyway. It shouldn’t. I can’t. I shouldn’t ask for more…but I want to.
He showed me his church. I felt it the moment we stepped inside—every instrument, every quiet corner of reflection, every prayer lining the walls. He peeled back the layers of himself, let me see his heartbeat, and somehow mine found its rhythm in sync with his.
He wants me to make my own choices. I think I almost have…even as deviant thoughts fight for attention and I shove them aside. He is my husband, and that should mean nothing, yet it means everything.
I feel envy. I feel lust. And deeper, there’s a whisper stirring inside me—about this man. This stranger. This Samaritan. He is wild. He is free. He is funny. He is kind. Every part of me wants to follow him over the edge.
He’s mine.
At least on paper.
I want to draw him like this. Dressed in his wedding shirt, the top buttons undone, waistcoat hanging open like he couldn’t be bothered to finish the job.
His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing the curve of muscle beneath skin and ink, veins trailing down his forearms like living art.
He’s standing there, half in shadow, half bathed in the soft dusk light—messy, beautiful, and completely unaware of what he does to me.
God, thank you for bringing this angel to me.
Trey is…Perfect. Untouchable. Like he was made for light and charcoal and the trembling lines etched by my fingers.
My artists mind itches to capture him—the contrast of the black ink against his golden skin, the faint stubble shadowing his jaw, the way a strand of hair falls forward, catching the light just so.
I want to sketch the way his mouth curves, that almost smile that never quite reaches his eyes.
I want to draw the tension in his shoulders, the vulnerability he tries so hard to hide.
But more than that…I want to understand him. To trace the pieces of his story the way my fingers trace the paper when I draw.
My stomach takes flight with tiny, frantic wings the longer I stare. It’s ridiculous, really—how someone like him can make my heart behave this way. Like it’s forgotten all the rules. Like it’s his now, without him even asking.
I wrap my arms around myself, fingers brushing the lace of my dress, suddenly aware of how exposed I feel—not because of the dress, but because of him. Because he makes me feel things I shouldn’t. Things I’m terrified to put a name to.
I feel there are far more things to be afraid of than to sin. Trey turns then, eyes finding mine. For a second, I see something flicker across his face—longing, maybe. Regret. It’s gone before I can be sure. I force a small smile, trying to steady the whirlwind inside me.
I feel like this is a test from above. If I say nothing—if I turn away, get changed, remove myself from his comfort and presence—maybe this ache inside me will fade.
Maybe this hunger will quiet. My lips feel dry, my throat constricts, and every inch of me trembles with something unholy and unbearably human.
Without vows spoken beneath a church roof, our pleasantries feel hollow, clipped. I regret it—regret not pledging myself to him properly, not saying the words that might’ve made this feel sanctified instead of sinful.
Speak now, or forever hold your peace.
The thought slips free, ironic in its timing. It’s usually meant for others—for witnesses—but there are none here. Just us. This beautiful, broken being who looks at me like he’s suffering the same torment—the same burn that lives in my chest.
Speak now.
“You didn’t have to stop, you know,” I whisper, barely loud enough for the breeze to carry. His jaw tightens, and he looks away, back toward the horizon. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I did.”
Trey tilts his head slightly, eyes glinting as he studies me. “What are you thinking, Dove?”
The nickname slides through me, soft, intimate. I smile faintly, looking back at him. “That I wish I could draw you like this,” I admit quietly. “So I could keep the moment. The light. The way you look right now.” His lips twitch into that lopsided grin that does dangerous things to my pulse.
“You can work from a photo, right?”
Before I can answer, he’s fishing his phone out from his pocket and holding it out to me. “Go on,” he says, voice low, teasing. “Capture the moment.”
I lift his phone, trying to steady my hands as I frame him in the soft glow of dusk. The wind toys with his hair again, his tattoos stark against the rolled sleeves of his white shirt. My breath catches and I take the picture—freezing him in time just as he is. Wild, beautiful, untamed.
When I lower the phone, Trey’s still watching me, eyes dark with something unreadable. Then without a word he takes it from my hand, slipping an arm around my waist and spinning me under his arm.
A startled laugh burst from me, light and real, before I can stop it.
“Hold still,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth lifting as he lifts his phone.
He leans in close, his breath warm against my cheek, and takes a few photos of us—our faces close, the city lights just beginning to twinkle behind us.
I can feel my heart beating against my ribs, wild and uneven, as he lowers his phone but doesn’t move away.
The laughter fades but the warmth doesn’t.
It lingers between us, in the space where our eyes meet and hold.
I swallow hard, my smile faltering as the weight of the moment settles over me.
My hands twist together in front of me, nerves fluttering in my chest like the tiny wings I swear have taken up residence there.
Speak.
Ask.
Choose.
“Trey,” I say, barely trusting my voice.
He hums in response, head tilting slightly as his eyes search mine.
I look down for a moment, then back up, heart pounding.
“Can you—” my voice catches. “Can you help me with my dress?” His brows lift a fraction, his throat working as his gaze drifts to the row of delicate buttons running down my spine—small, fragile.
“Yeah,” he murmurs finally, his voice rougher than before. “Of course.”
I turn, the sound of the city humming faintly in the distance as I move back inside. Warm air brushes my neck, and then his fingers are there—warm, careful, tracing the button before undoing it.
I feel like I’m tiptoeing around a sleeping lion in its den. But I don’t know who is in danger of being devoured. There is no fable here, no moral lesson. Consume or be consumed.
As the pressure eases from the dress and the buttons come free, my gown slips looser with every release, each ping echoing like a heartbeat, the tension coiling tighter, rising.
By the time he reaches the last one, my skin prickles with awareness, and I don’t dare move, afraid the moment will shatter if I breathe too loud. When his hand falls away, he exhales softly, the sound almost lost to the night.
“All done,” he whispers. I nod, my throat too tight for words, and turn just enough to meet his eyes.
The look he gives me is the kind that makes it hard to remember that this isn’t real—that I’m not really his, and he’s not really mine.
But standing there, with his hands still warm from where they touched me, it feels like we both forgot that for a second.
I slide one arm out of the lace, then the other, the gown slipping from my shoulders in a whisper. The fabric pools at my waist, and I clutch the front of it to my chest, the air kissing bare skin that feels suddenly new. Trey stands a breath away, silent.
“Here,” he says quietly, stepping in, voice deep and rough from something he’s fighting to keep down. “Just step out and head into the closet. You’ll find anything you need.”
He crouches before me, holding the gown open for me to step out.
His head bows, dark hair falling forward, and for a moment he looks like a man at prayer.
I rest my hand on his shoulder for balance, and his muscles flex beneath my fingers.
Heat radiates through the fine cotton of his shirt, his body solid.
When I move, the lace slides down, pooling against his knees.
Now I’m standing there, bare before him—delicate lace and satin, the kind Mac called bridal perfection.
The bra soft and sheer, the matching panties clinging to my hips, silk garters holding pale stockings in place.
My skin prickles under his gaze, every inch aware of him kneeling there, still as stone, the dress gathered loosely in his shaking hands.
Trey doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.
His throat works once, hard, and I hear the rough drag of his breath as he looks up at me. His eyes—God, those eyes—are darker than I’ve ever seen them, stormy, burning, full of things neither of us are brave enough to say.
The room feels too small. The air too thick. My heart too loud. His chest rises, trembles. Then, quietly—so quietly I almost don’t catch it—he exhales.
“Go on, Dove.” The sound of that word on his tongue—soft, mine, turns my knees weak.
He's shaking.
I can see it in his hands, the faint tremor of restraint as he clutches the lace between his fingers, fighting every instinct to look away—or to look more.
I take a step back, my breath unsteady, and turn toward the closet, his gaze burning into me until the door closes softly between us.
Only then do I let out a breath I’ve been holding.
And behind me, through the wood, I swear I can still hear him breathe my name.