Chapter 19
Savannah
The engine roared beneath me—a low, hungry sound that matched the storm in my chest.
Every inch of my body felt wired—too aware, too sensitive, too close to unraveling. Sitting behind Jaxon on his bike meant being pressed against him, thighs bracketing his hips, arms looped around his middle like I needed him to keep me anchored.
It was dangerous how good it felt.
We'd just left the brunch restaurant, and my mind was too worked up to even spare a glance at Lori as I walked out the washroom. Jaxon had offered me a ride home—then it was a choice between leaving on the back of his ridiculous bike and sitting through another hour with those hateful women.
Needless to say, I didn't need much convincing.
The city blurred past in hues of golden yellow and shining glass buildings, but I barely registered it. All I could feel was the heat of him through layers of denim and leather. The flex of his back beneath my palms. The scent of his cologne curling around me like a trap.
At almost every stoplight, his hand would casually drift back and rest on my thigh, sliding just a little higher than necessary. And every time he did, my pulse would jump and butterflies would swarm in my stomach.
He was playing a dangerous game.
Then again, maybe now I was playing games, too.
The low rumble in his chest when my fingers accidentally skimmed under his shirt confirmed I was living up to my nickname: trouble.
The vibration of the bike hummed through me, settling low in my stomach, stirring thoughts I did not want to examine too closely. My pulse refused to calm. My mind refused to behave.
I hated that.
I hated that one reckless decision in a bathroom had turned into this—this pull, this hunger, this constant awareness of him. We had rules. A contract. Boundaries designed to keep this neat, controlled, strategic.
Instead, it was becoming messy.
And I hated how much a part of me didn’t want to stop it.
I thought of his mouth at my ear. His breath on my skin. The way he looked at me like I was something he wanted to take his time with—and ruin at the same time.
I thought of how easily feelings could bleed into places they didn’t belong.
And then I thought of how empty logic felt compared to the warmth of his touch.
Twenty minutes pressed against him like that did not help. By the time we got to my townhouse, my nerves were stretched thin and my skin was on fire. Wanting Jaxon Cage was a thought I never wanted to cross my mind, but God did I want him.
He slowed to a stop, boots steadying the bike, and my shaky hands released his waist. I swung off the bike and tugged the helmet free, handing it to him.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said after clearing my throat.
“Anytime, trouble.” He set my helmet on the handle before removing his to look at me. “Anything to get away from Lori and the vultures, right?”
I chuckled awkwardly. “Right.”
We stayed there, facing each other, the space between us crackling like a live wire.
His eyes skimmed my face, slowly taking me in, like he was reading me in a language only he understood.
And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't doing the same.
Were his eyes always this brown or was it the sunlight?
And those lips—it was ridiculous to think that those lips were on the most sensitive parts of me just twenty minutes ago.
“Trouble.”
My gaze locked onto his at the sound of his warning yet pleading call. The heat in his eyes could've scorched me to ashes if I wasn't burning, too. My stomach was in knots just staring at this man—this beautifully dangerous man.
There were so many reasons why this would be a bad idea, but the question passed through my lips before I could stop it.
“Do you… want to come inside?”
There.
It was out there.
The first mistake of the day.
His pause only made that painfully obvious. But his gaze dropped to my lips then lifted again, pools of warm whiskey staring back at me.
“Do you want me to come inside?”
The question landed heavier than it should have.
I hesitated, trying desperately to find the version of myself that made rational decisions. The one who valued control. Distance. Safety.
Instead, I found the woman whose eyes kept drifting to his mouth.
I licked my lips without thinking.
His gaze darkened instantly.
Every argument I’d prepared—about consequences, complications, optics—fell apart under the weight of how much I wanted him close again. How good it felt to let him touch me. How intoxicating it was to feel wanted like that.
Nerissa’s teasing words echoed in my head.
“I mean, he could help you out with that orgasm thing.”
“Fake relationship means no feelings and no strings attached, right? Good sex served on a platter.”
Good sex sounded like heaven right now.
Every bone in my body was calling out to him, and the reassurance of no strings attached was just icing on the cake. I didn't have to worry about anything else beyond that week.
It was just sex. I could do just sex.
So instead of stepping back and going inside alone, I let the craving win.
“Yes,” I said quietly.
And the look that crossed his face told me I’d just crossed a line I wasn’t sure I could uncross.
Making space for him to swing off the bike, I watched him grab his bag from the back. Biting my lip, I turned sharply and walked to the front door. My fingers fumbled slightly with the door, acutely aware of how close he was—his chest at my back, his heat everywhere.
I focused on the lock instead of the possibility of my heart exploding out of my chest, or on the click of metal when the door unlocked—on anything except the way my body leaned back into him without permission.
The door opened and we walked through it, then I turned to lock it.
I barely had time to breathe.
He moved first.
One second, I was spinning back to face him; the next, his hands framed my face and his mouth crashed into mine—no hesitation, no softness, just heat and intent. The kiss stole the air from my lungs, all teeth and lips and pent-up tension finally snapping.
I gasped into him, and he took it as an open invitation.
He pressed me against the door, and I groaned at the feel of him.
His hands slid into my hair, tugging just enough to tilt my head back as he deepened the kiss, slow and devastating, like he had all the time in the world to ruin me.
I melted—traitorously, willingly—fingers clutching at his jacket, his shirt, needing to feel skin.
It was passionate, borderline desperation, and I couldn't get enough of it.
All I wanted was him right now. Nothing else mattered but this touch, this feeling, this carnal desire.
The throbbing between my thighs was back to stay, a rush of pleasure sinking into my bones.
And with his hardness pressed against my stomach, I knew exactly how much he wanted me.
His jacket was gone, mine halfway shrugged off my shoulders before I even registered it. His mouth left mine only to trail along my jaw, down my neck, setting fire everywhere he touched. His hands tugged my sweater and bra down just enough to bare skin to his lips.
“Jaxon,” I breathed.
He answered by lifting me.
My legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, a startled laugh escaping me before it turned into a soft sound I didn’t recognize as my own. This new position had him rubbing against me with every step he took, but I tensed when he got to the stairs.
“Relax, I've got you,” he murmured against my lips, tightening his grip on me as emphasis.
Every step upstairs made my head spin.
Or maybe it was his continued kisses down my neck.
When we reached my room, he didn’t slow.
Clothes became obstacles that neither one of us had the patience for anymore.
I ripped off his shirt in seconds after he tore off my sweater.
He tossed me on the bed with controlled force, the mattress dipping beneath me as he followed immediately, caging me in with his body.
The kiss came back harder, deeper, stealing whatever resolve I had left.
Heat pressed everywhere—his weight, his mouth, the way his hands roamed like he was mapping me for memory. I pulled back just enough to breathe, my fingers already fumbling with his belt, desperate.
Too desperate.
He caught my wrist gently but firmly, pinning it to the bed as his mouth curved into a dark, knowing smile.
“Greedy, aren’t we?” he murmured.
Before I could retort, his mouth was on mine again, kissing me senseless.
Tongues waged war, and my legs locked around his waist. One of his arms snaked around my waist and lifted me slightly while the other worked to unlock my bra.
If I wasn't in a lust-induced coma, I would've questioned him about the record-breaking time he had my bra off with one hand.
Question for later, I suppose.
His lips broke from mine, teasing down my throat, my collarbone. The sensation was overwhelming, his kisses slow and deliberate, like he was savoring every reaction I failed to hide.
My back arched when he swirled his tongue across my nipple.
Despite logic.
Despite rules.
Despite the contract screaming somewhere in the back of my mind.
All I could think about was how inevitable this felt.
And how badly I wanted to let it happen.
He eased up, standing on his feet and looking down at me with pure fire in his eyes.
Rapidly blinking, I tried to steady my heartbeat but failed.
Who would have a steady heartbeat under that intense stare?
He pulled on my ankles and tugged me to the edge of the bed, dragging the jeans off my body and spreading my legs.
There was nothing more vulnerable than laying underneath a man's gaze in nothing but a pair of red lace panties.