Chapter 31 #2
I stand, brushing a strand of hair from her face, fingers lingering just a second too long. “Now,” I murmur, bending close enough that my lips brush the shell of her ear, “you ready to break some hearts tonight, Mrs. Baker?”
I pull a black shirt from the hanger, shaking it out before sliding my arms into the sleeves. The soft cotton clings across my chest as I start doing up the buttons, but before I get past the second one, she’s suddenly there.
“Let me,” she says quietly, her fingers brushing mine as she moves closer.
Her touch burns, light and deliberate, as she nudges my hands aside. I let them fall to my sides, watching as she concentrates—eyes down, lower lip caught between her teeth while she fastens each button with careful precision.
Her fingers tremble just enough to drive me crazy.
I lean in, my breath stirring her hair.
“You know, Dove…” I pause, letting my voice drop to a low rumble. “I’d really rather you take my clothes off than put them on.”
Her head snaps up, eyes wide, cheeks blooming with color.
I grin, loving the way she tries not to smile. “I mean, I appreciate the help, but you’re setting a dangerous precedent here.”
She presses the next button through the fabric, deliberately slow.
“Maybe I’m just making sure you look good for me.”
“Sweetheart,” I murmur, tilting her chin up with a knuckle, “I’d look good wearing nothing but your lipstick.”
Her breath catches—half shock, half laughter.
“You’re impossible.”
“Mm,” I hum, brushing a kiss to the corner of her mouth, “you say that now, but wait until you’re begging me to be worse.”
“Trey…” she warns, but her voice has lost all its weight.
I just chuckle, smoothing my hands down her hips and taking a step back to admire her.
“You keep touching me like that, Sera, we’re never making it to the damn club.”
She laughs then, shaking her head, a warmth in her eyes that wasn’t there a few days ago.
Music’s already thumping through the house by the time we hit the kitchen.
The smell of takeout hits first—soy, spice, garlic and grease. Heaven. The island’s a wreck. Cartons everywhere, chopsticks sticking out like weapons, sauce packets ripped open and leaking little trails across the marble.
Mac is now perched on the counter, grinning, while Sam and Chace are in the middle of some chili-oil showdown. Logan’s leaning back on his stool, watching the chaos with that lazy smirk of his, beer in hand.
I keep a hand on Sera’s back as we walk in, right where her dress dips into the curve of her spine. She stiffens for half a second—still not used to all this noise, all these eyes—but I trace slow circles with my thumb until I feel her relax.
That tiny reaction floors me every damn time.
“Sit, Dove,” I tell her, pulling out a stool and sliding it under her. “You’re about to experience the holy grail of hangover food.”
She sits, cheeks pink from the warmth in the room—or maybe from me still standing too close. I grab a plate, loading it up with everything in reach. Little of this, little of that. My go-to method.
When I pass her the plate, I wink. “Little bit of everything. Didn’t want you missing out on the experience.”
She tilts her head, eyes soft but teasing.
“Experience?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, leaning closer until my lips almost brush her ear. “First time’s supposed to be memorable.”
She laughs, quiet and shaky, and it’s like a damn symphony in my veins.
Across the island, Chace groans.
“Jesus, they’re disgustingly cute.”
I flick a fortune cookie at him. “Keep running your mouth, I’ll use these chopsticks to feed you wasabi straight.”
“Wrong takeout, Trey.”
Everyone laughs. It’s easy. Familiar. The kind of noise that fills every corner of the room with life.
I grab a stool beside Sera, sitting close enough that I can feel her warmth seeping through my skin.
She’s quiet, watching the chaos, that little half-smile on her lips that says she’s trying to take it all in—the banter, the food, the music.
This world’s new to her, all of it. But she’s here, beside me, free, and that’s what matters.
She takes a bite—small, delicate—then makes this sound that shoots straight through me. A soft, breathy moan that doesn’t belong anywhere near a dinner table.
Her eyes go wide.
“This is…wow. What is this? It’s delicious.”
I grin, shoveling noodles onto my plate.
“Garlic king prawns.”
The color drains from her face. Fork clatters against porcelain.
“I’m not—I…” She swallows hard. “My father said one should never eat prawns.”
Your daddy can suck my dick…
The table goes quiet for a beat. Even Sam looks up mid-bite, brows lifted. I lean my elbow on the counter, watching her.
“Religious thing?”
She nods, eyes darting down like she’s ashamed to even admit it.
Then, with a tiny breath that sounds like rebellion itself, she picks the fork back up.
Takes one cautious bite. Then another—bigger this time.
“F-fuck him,” she stutters, barely above a whisper.
The mouth on her…
I really must be rubbing off on her. I feel like a proud parent. I’m already her daddy…
The whole table loses it—Chace snorting into his beer, Sam choking on rice, Mac clapping like she’s just witnessed a miracle.
But me? I can’t stop smiling.
“Baby,” I murmur, leaning close enough that my breath brushes her ear, “you talk dirty to me like that again and I’ll make you my prawn-star.”
She gasps, swatting my chest, cheeks flaming, while the others howl with laughter.
For the first time since we’ve been married, she’s not the preacher’s daughter trying to be good. She’s just Sera….and damn if that doesn’t taste better than anything on this table.
The SUV glides to a stop at the curb, bass already pulsing through the pavement like a living heartbeat. Neon light spills across the sidewalk—electric pinks and blues flickering over the crowd snaking around the block. Cameras flash, a few phones lift, voices rise above the music.
“Holy shit, it’s Burnt Ashes!” someone shouts from the queue.
Another voice—female, breathless.
“Trey Baker, I love you!”
I grin, throwing a wink in their direction as our security team fans out, guiding us forward.
The crowd parts like the Red Sea—drunken, glitter-drenched, loud.
Seraphina walks beside me, hand tucked in mine, her gaze sweeping everything—the line of people, the shimmer of dresses, the way the doorman waves us past the velvet rope like royalty.
We skip the line. Always do. But this time it feels different. Because she’s seeing it.
The thud of bass grows louder as the doors open, hot air spilling out thick with perfume, sweat, and smoke.
Lights spin overhead—purple strobes, silver beams slicing through the darkness.
Sera’s eyes go wide, pupils blown wide from the sensory overload.
She looks like she’s watching magic happen.
Her lips part slightly as she takes it all in—the music vibrating up through the floor, the rhythm moving through her like she’s feeling the world for the first time.
“You okay?” I lean close to her ear.
She nods, voice lost to the sound. Her eyes are bright, cheeks flushed from the heat and the thrill of it. Men notice her instantly. Glances follow her as we cut through the crowd, and every muscle in my body goes tight.
I slide a hand to her lower back, steering her gently but firmly through the chaos.
Logan, Chace, and Sam trail behind us, already laughing, already recognized.
People slap their backs, shout song lyrics, hold out napkins for signatures.
The security guys close in, clearing a path as the host leads us toward the VIP booth—black leather tucked into the far corner, champagne already chilling on ice.
I guide Sera into the booth first, my hand lingering on her waist. Her head tilts up toward the dance floor, lights flashing over her face like a kaleidoscope.
Fuck me, she’s beautiful.
I can’t tell if I want to show her the world or keep it from touching her.
The booth wraps around us in a crescent of black leather, half-hidden from the chaos below. The ice bucket glitters under the neon, champagne sweating down the side like liquid gold.
Chace pops the cork with a loud crack, foam spilling over his fingers. He grins like a man who’s been waiting all night for the excuse.
“To the newlyweds,” he says, lifting the first glass and filling it to the rim before sliding it across to Sera.
She hesitates for half a second, fingers brushing the stem delicately before bringing it to her lips.
Her eyes flutter shut as the bubbles touch her tongue, and when she opens them again—those bright, innocent eyes meet mine. My chest squeezes
“To new beginnings,” I add, clinking my glass against hers.
“To Seraphina,” Logan smirks, always the romantic menace.
Chace and Sam echo him, loud enough to make her blush.
She laughs softly, setting her glass down, a hint of warmth coloring her cheeks.
“You’re all ridiculous.”
“Yeah, but we’re all your ridiculous now,”
I think that makes sense, right? Shit. Too many beers.
Before I let my over analysis ruin my buzz, I double down, pull a little face, and leave it as what it was meant, a light tease, letting my hand slide along the back of the booth until my fingers find hers. I tug gently, leaning close so my lips are near her ear. “Dance with me.”
Her head snaps up, startled.
“Now?
“No time like the present, baby.”
I stand, holding out a hand. She looks from it to the dance floor, where bodies twist under the strobes, a living, breathing sea of rhythm. Then, slowly, she slips her hand into mine.
The music swells as I lead her down the steps, lights flashing in rapid bursts—violet, white, red. Her pulse races beneath my fingers. I can feel it. The beat in her wrist syncing with the bass rolling through the floor. Out on the floor, the sound swallows us whole.
Her body fits against mine like she was made for this—made for me. I press a hand to the small of her back, pulling her in closer, guiding her hips to move with mine.
“Just feel it,” I murmur against her ear. “Don’t think. Let go.”
She exhales, eyes fluttering shut, and for a moment, I swear the whole world slows down.
Her hair brushes my jaw, the scent of her skin cutting through the haze of smoke and perfume.
Every time she moves, the lights catch her like a dream.
She’s fire wrapped in silk. She’s innocence, and intimacy.
As the song builds, she opens her eyes, smiling up at me—unafraid, alive, completely free.
God help me, I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
We move together through the music, bodies pressed close as the bass vibrates through my chest. Song one hits, slow and sultry, and I guide her with a gentle pressure at her back, letting her follow the rhythm.
Her hands graze my shoulders, lingering, teasing, and I feel it—every nerve ending alive, screaming.
Song two picks up faster, a pulse that mirrors the racing in her eyes.
She laughs into my ear, breath warm, and I press a kiss to her temple.
“You feel that?” I murmur. “That’s us.” Song three, and her hips match mine with precision, subtle yet deliberate.
I am very aware of my pierced cock right now. Down boy.
I run a hand down her side, fingers brushing over the curve of her waist. The world narrows until it’s just her and me—the swirl of lights, the thrum of the bass, the chaotic pulse of the club fading into the background.
Song four, the final track in our little set, and I pull her closer, cheek to cheek, whispering,
“Baby, you keep surprising me. My cock’s fucking aching to be inside you right now.
” She shivers, fingers curling into my hair.
Finally, I tilt her chin toward mine, pressing a hard, heated kiss to her lips.
“Let’s get you back to our booth,” I groan, trailing a hand along her jaw, down her back, and over the curve of her ass.
“I need to see you, not just feel you in the crowd.”
We walk back through the dance floor, her hand slipping into mine, fingers entwining.
Back at the booth, I pull her onto my lap, letting her settle against me, her back to my chest, as the world falls into place again.