Chapter 32
Chapter thirty-two
Seraphina
you should see me in a crown – Billie Eilish
The bass still thrums through me, echoing in places I didn’t know sound could reach.
My pulse hasn’t slowed since Trey pulled me out onto that dance floor—if you could even call it dancing.
It felt more like surrender. His hands had a mind of their own, sliding up my legs, fingers brushing higher and higher until they disappeared beneath the hem of my dress.
Every time he found my skin, the world dissolved—just us, the beat, and the heat that built between us.
Now I’m on his lap in the booth, the music still pounding through the floor, through my bones.
His arms are a cage I don’t want to escape from.
One is draped lazily around my waist, the other, using his hand to trace slow, idle circles against my thigh.
I sip the champagne, bubbles bursting against my tongue, light and dizzying.
Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s him—but the room tilts, soft and golden, and I feel more alive than I ever have.
Across from us, Logan and Mac are tucked close together, laughing at something Sam said.
Chace, ever the showman, leans back as two women approach—tiny dresses, glossy lips.
The kind of girls I would shy away from, but with Trey’s constant affection and attention on me, I don’t mind them.
Sam gets his share too, he’s actually really sweet, which I didn’t expect from his shaved head and large muscular build.
The women flirt back, but every few seconds, their gazes flicker toward Trey.
Trey doesn’t even notice. His head is buried where my shoulder meets my neck, his breath warm against my skin.
The faint scrape of his teeth sends a shiver down my spine, and then his mouth is there—kissing, nipping, sucking just enough to leave me breathless.
I can feel his smile when I tremble. It’s a constant barrage that has me craving more.
“Trey,” I whisper, though it barely makes it past my lips.
He hums, low and rough, like he’s answering a question I haven’t asked. My hand slips into his hair, tangling in the soft strands as his tongue sweeps against my skin. The room fades. The noise, the crowd, the laughter—it all blurs into a haze of light and sound. All I can feel is him.
The champagne glass trembles slightly in my hand, bubbles catching the light. I take another sip, hoping it steadies me, but it doesn’t. If anything, it only amplifies everything—his scent, his touch, the sinful rhythm of his breath against my throat.
I shouldn’t feel this way. Not here. Not like this. But when he finally lifts his head, eyes glinting under the dim light, I know the truth.
I’ve never felt more desired.
His mouth leaves my skin with one last, slow drag of his lips, and I swear I feel the loss everywhere. The air between us shifts—charged, heavy—and before I can even take another breath, Trey’s hands slide up my hips.
“C’mere,” he murmurs against my ear, voice rough enough to scrape bone.
The world tilts again as his hands grip my waist, guiding me, lifting me like I weigh nothing.
My champagne glass trembles in my fingers before I manage to set it down on the table.
Then he moves me—turns me—until I’m facing him, straddling his lap, my knees pressing into the soft leather on either side of his thighs.
Now it’s chest to chest.
Heart to heart.
Everything in me stumbles.
His breath catches, eyes locking onto mine.
There’s no smile this time, no teasing spark.
Just heat. Deep, dark, molten heat that feels like it could consume us both.
His hands glide up my thighs, nudging my dress higher.
My breath stalls as I watch him bite his lip, his eyes darkening, hungry, like he’s one second away from tearing the fabric off me.
He leans in, nips at my mouth, and then softens the sting with a slow sweep of his tongue.
The booth, the music, the people—they all fade into the blur of lights and shadows around us.
I can feel the bass vibrating through him, through me, syncing with our heartbeats until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
“Trey…” My voice comes out softer than I intend, caught somewhere between a warning and a plea.
“Yeah, baby?” His gaze drags down to my mouth, then back up, slow and deliberate.
His pupils are blown wide, the green around them barely visible.
He’s beautiful like this—dangerous and undone, his control slipping right here in front of me.
When his hands slide higher, pressing me closer until I can feel every inch of him beneath me, I forget how to breathe.
We shouldn’t be doing this.
Not here.
Not in front of everyone.
But when his thumb brushes the inside of my thigh and his breath ghosts against my lips, the word shouldn’t doesn’t seem to matter anymore.
All that exists is him.
The look in his eyes that promises if I fall, he’s falling too.
His thumb slides higher, and I forget every reason I had to keep breathing. The air between us hums—and before I can even think to stop him, Trey tilts his head just slightly, brushing his nose against mine.
“You’re like a drug I can’t quit.”
His mouth finds mine—soft at first, searching, then deeper.
The kiss steals everything—sound, air, reason.
His hands move to my hips, guiding me with slow, deliberate pressure until my body aligns with his.
He grinds me down against his erection. His very large erection.
I I gasp into his mouth when he rocks me forward, the friction a sweet, devastating kind of ache.
His tongue slides against mine, and suddenly we’re not kissing anymore—we’re consuming.
My fingers twist into his hair, holding on like I might drift away without him.
His hands grip harder, moving me again, slower this time, dragging out the moment until I can feel every inch of him.
Every ounce of restraint I have left frays at the edges.
The bass from the club pulses through us, lights flashing across his face, painting him in beams of red and gold.
I can taste champagne on my lips, mixing with a bitter kick from his beer, and something unspoken—wild and unrestrained—building between us.
His mouth leaves mine, trailing down to my jaw, then my throat.
“You drive me insane,” he mutters against my skin, words lost to the music.
My hips move on their own now, matching his rhythm, lost to it. The world beyond our small corner doesn’t exist. Not Logan’s laughter, not the girls crowding the table, not the flashing lights or pounding beat.
Just us.
His hands.
His breath.
The feeling of being utterly, helplessly undone.
A voice slices through the haze like glass shattering.
“Well, well, well…”
The voice drips poison, cutting clean through the bass and bodies around us. I freeze—mid-breath, mid-heartbeat—because I can feel Trey go still beneath me.
“The whore of L.A. found himself a mistress, huh? Commiserations, darlin’.” My blood runs cold. The man’s tone is lazy, cruel, and when I turn, he’s standing just a few feet away—tall, inked, grin twisted sharp. He raises his bottle toward me, a mock toast.
“Hope you got him tested before you said your nuptials?” I remain silent. “Hey, red, I’m talking to you. You mute or stupid?”
Every word lands like a slap. My stomach flips, the champagne suddenly bitter on my tongue. The table goes quiet—Logan’s smirk fading, Chace and Sam both going taut as wire.
Trey doesn’t move at first. Just breathes—slow, too slow. His eyes are still on me, burning through the haze, and I can see it—the moment the fire in him turns cold.
He swallows, jaw working once before he says, voice low, dangerous, almost calm,
“Move, Dove.”
“Trey…” I start, but he’s already moving, gentle but firm, his hands guiding me off his lap, untangling us like I’m glass. His touch lingers a second too long on my thigh before he pulls back completely, placing me on the booth seat beside Mac.
The absence of his warmth is instant, unbearable. He stands—slowly, deliberately. Shoulders squaring, his expression unreadable under the strobing lights. That easy smirk he wears like armor is gone.
Logan shifts, voice tight.
“Trey—”
But Trey’s already stepping forward, the crowd seeming to peel away from him like they can feel the change in the air.
The man laughs, takes another swig from his bottle, and adds,
“What’s the matter, Baker? Don’t like being reminded who you were before the world thought you mattered?”
I see it—the faint twitch in Trey’s jaw, the storm barely contained.
He’s not going to let this go.
Mac’s hand finds mine beneath the table, her fingers tightening as the air thickens around us.
Across from us, Logan stands—eyes sharp, body coiled tight, like he’s ready to spring.
Trey doesn’t move at first. Just stares at the man still smirking by the table, his voice cutting through the thrum of music—cold, lethal.
“Apologize.”
The guy laughs, shaking his head, taking another slow sip of beer.
“Or what?”
The security team that came with us doesn’t so much as flinch. They stay posted against the wall, arms folded, like they’ve seen this movie before and know exactly how it ends.
Then—before I can even blink—the man’s face is slammed down against the table with a crack so sharp it makes me jolt.
Glasses topple, champagne spilling across the surface.
Trey has him pinned, his hand fisted in the back of his shirt, the other twisting his arm up behind him at an impossible angle.
“Get the fuck off me!” the guy snarls, struggling, but Trey doesn’t give an inch.
“Apologize,” Trey says again, voice low, measured, terrifying in its calm. “To. My. Wife.”