Chapter 14 #2
Heat crawled up my neck. “Sex with him is the last thing I want. My goal is to get through this terrible week and forget he ever existed.”
“I mean, he could help you with that orgasm thing,” she added with a smirk.
Sex with Jaxon, I thought with a huff. Not happening.
But as if the word sparked something, and visions of him towering over me, stark naked, eyes dark with desire, corrupted my mind. Him on top of me, him taking me from behind, him—
“No.” I gave her a pointed look.
“You're the one who's been faking orgasms and giving that ex of yours an ego the size of Mars.”
“Faking it was better than the alternative. I'm not the easiest person in bed, trust me. Now I prefer my battery-operated friends to the disappointing company of men.”
“Which is why Jaxon would be perfect for the job,” she said, smirking. “Fake relationship means no feelings and no strings attached, right? Good sex served on a platter.”
I scoffed. “I doubt he'd do better than me and my vibrator. He won't make me finish, then we'd have an even more awkward week. Trust me, I'd rather have the vibrator between my thighs—at least I know what I'm getting with that.”
“Is that right?”
My body froze.
His whisper caressed my neck as he leaned in, brushing his lips to the shell of my ear. Jaxon's arm slithered around my waist and dragged me into his chest—and the bulge now pressed against my lower back.
“I think I'm gonna get a drink!” Nerissa shouted over the music.
I gaped at her, not missing the wink she gave me before she weaved her way through the crowd.
That little—
“You keep living up to your nickname, trouble.”
I spun around to face him, the music throbbing between us, loud and relentless.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Uh-huh.” He smirked, his fingers rubbing my lower back. It was a simple touch that should've meant nothing, but I had to grit my teeth so I didn't arch into him. He leaned in, his face inches from mine, as he added, “But just for the record, I don't stop until my woman is fully satisfied.”
Oh, kill me now.
Warmth spread through me like wildfire and I tore my gaze away from him in utter embarrassment. His deep chuckle did nothing to stop the clenching of my thighs. I can't want him. I shouldn't.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, voice low and dangerous as he swayed us to the next song.
There was this twinkle in his eyes as he stared down at me, clearly amused at the effect he had on me. I lifted my chin, summoning every ounce of composure I owned, and put a hand to his chest.
“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” I said coolly.
His mouth tipped into a slow smile. “And yet, here we are.”
I tried to step back but his arm tightened slightly.
“Dance with me.”
I deadpanned, “I'd rather walk on hot coals.”
“Well, that's not very loving, trouble. Can't a man dance with his woman?” Those lips curled into a smirk. “We have a reputation to keep up after all.”
My glare probably suggested that he dig himself a six-foot-deep hole. That must’ve been why that ridiculous smirk widened.
A new song transitioned in, and I gritted my teeth as my arms slid up his chest and around his neck. Fine, he wanted to dance—let's dance.
I grinded my hips to the beat, a slow and sensual flex into his. His breath hitched and I felt his grip loosen, giving me more freedom to move. The music pulsed, bass-heavy and sinful, and I let it carry me—let the rhythm decide what my brain was too busy arguing against.
I rolled my hips again, sharper this time, and he matched every move.
His hips moved then, meeting mine, matching my rhythm with infuriating ease.
It wasn’t rushed or frantic—he knew exactly what he was doing and wanted me to feel every second of it.
Heat coiled low in my belly, my pulse skidding wildly as the space between us disappeared completely.
His leg parted mine and we were grinding against each other in a dangerous, delicious collision. My breasts brushed against his hard chest, and I bit my lip to contain the moan. His hand slid higher before it tightened around the curve of my ass, pulling me in with every bump.
“Savannah.”
My name was a warning and a plea coming from his lips—one that added fuel to the fire burning between us.
This was a mistake.
A beautiful, thrilling, utterly reckless mistake.
I became acutely aware of everything: his cologne, warm and clean; the steady beat of his heart beneath my hand; the way his gaze darkened when my fingers curled slightly in his shirt.
The sight sent a thrill through me—dangerous and intoxicating.
I leaned in, just enough that my lips brushed the shell of his ear. “You're the one who wanted to dance.”
He hummed and the next thing I knew, my back was to his chest. His fingers pressed into my sides like he was grounding himself, like if he loosened his hold even a little, we’d both lose control.
“You really think I couldn’t make you come?” he murmured, leaning in again, lips grazing the air beside my cheek. “I take personal offense to that, Savannah. I'd fuck you just to prove that point. Then again. And again. I wouldn't stop until you're a dripping, quivering mess.”
My breath stuttered. “You’re confident for someone who hasn’t been tested.”
“Don't worry, I ace all my tests.”
The words curled down my spine, warm and unsettling. Or maybe that was just his body heat. God, I hated that my body reacted to his every word, his every touch. I hated the way my skin felt too tight, too aware of his every breath.
“This is inappropriate,” I said weakly.
“Probably,” he agreed, spinning me around. His eyes dipped to my lips and his tongue swiped across his for good measure. Heaven help me.
“But you started it.”
“I was talking to Nerissa.”
“You started this the second you sent me that picture.”
I opened my mouth to deny it, then closed it again. His eyes never moved from my lips. Any second now, he would lean in and I would be a blubbering mess in his arms.
No, this needed to end. Now.
The song shifted, slower now, heavier, and I placed a firm hand on his chest. Blinking at him,
I exhaled hard and put some space between us.
Yes, space was good.
“We should get back to the table.”
He searched my face like he was deciding how far to push. Then he smirked, that familiar, infuriating curve of his mouth.
“Lead the way, trouble.”
As we walked back through the crowd, his hand never left my waist. And I hated—absolutely hated—how right it felt.