- twenty six - dana
My lungs are burning. Not from lack of air, but from too much of him. Of Alex. Of his mouth, his hands, his teeth, his everything.
We’re a tangled mess on the velvet sofa of the random room, the music from the club outside thudding through the walls like a second heartbeat. I can still hear the bassline, but it feels distant—muted by the way he’s looking at me, touching me, kissing me like I’m oxygen.
His shirt’s half open—buttons definitely casualties of my very aggressive hands—and his jaw is smeared with the remnants of my lipstick. I don’t even feel guilty.
He looks so good like this.
His hair’s an absolute disaster. I definitely tugged on it. Multiple times. No regrets.
I haven’t even seen a mirror, but I know—I know—I’m a mess. Lips swollen, cheeks flushed, skin still buzzing from everywhere he touched. I duck my head, hoping he doesn’t notice how hot my cheeks are—but knowing full well he does.
I probably look drunk.
And still—I've never felt more me.
More seen.
More alive.
That look in his eyes, that kiss, the way he gripped my waist like I might slip away. He wants me. Alex Lancaster likes me back.
His fingers trace the skin of my thigh now, almost lazily, like he just needs to be touching me somehow. His gaze? Soft. Intense.
A little too much.
Like I’m something rare and dangerous. Like I hung the moon and forgot to tell him.
Then—then he kisses my forehead. Casually.
And I straight up die.
I glance around, breath still shallow, and only now realize where we are. A VIP room. Glossy black walls, a champagne bucket on the low table, dim lighting. Privacy we didn’t even ask for, but somehow found anyway.
"Why’d you freak out earlier?" I ask, voice quieter than I mean it to be. Still breathless. Still vulnerable.
He pauses. Jaw tightening just enough for me to catch it.
"I was afraid I’d ruin you," he says, voice low and rough.
I blink, tilting my head slightly. Running my finger along his jaw. “And you’re not anymore?”
His mouth tilts—just barely. That devilish, dangerous smirk. "Oh, I still am." His fingers brush higher on my thigh, and I swear my pulse stumbles. “But turns out I'm more selfish than scared."
I giggle—shaky and ridiculous and completely intoxicated. “Well, I don’t mind selfish—if it means we get to make out again.”
His smirk deepens. Darker now. Like he knows he’s got me.
“Say less.”
And then his lips crash into mine again, the world blurs, and my heart absolutely screams.
. . .
We stumble out of the VIP room like criminals, we never booked it.
Thank God, I know the owner.
The hallway’s dim, pulsing with neon, and I’m still dizzy. From him. From kissing him. From the fact that I had Alex freaking Lancaster’s hands on my thighs and lips on my neck not five minutes ago.
He laces his fingers with mine like it’s casual.
Like he didn’t just kiss me like a man starved.
“I cannot believe we made out in a VIP room,” I whisper, still pink in the face, still clutching his hand like I’m hiding behind it.
“Correction,” he says, shooting me a smug side glance. “You jumped me in a VIP room.”
I gasp. Liar. “I did not jump you.”
“You literally climbed into my lap, Archer.”
“You pulled me into your lap!”
He shrugs, unapologetic. “Semantics.”
I glare at him, cheeks on fire. “You’re insufferable.”
He grins, all teeth and menace. “And yet, here you are. Holding my hand like we’re married.”
I let go of his hand immediately. “We are not married.”
He just hums, smug as ever. “Not yet.”
I trip on absolutely nothing.
. . .
I step out of the bathroom, towel-dried and dressed in my oversized T-shirt and sleeping shorts, expecting Alex to be already asleep.
Instead, I find him—shirtless and lounging in his bed, hands behind his head, like he owns the whole damn room.
He watches me, that signature smirk stretching across his face. “Took you long enough. What were you doing in there? Trynna look pretty for me?”
I roll my eyes, trying not to notice how good he looks, how perfect his abs look under the dim light. Can I lick them now? “You know, some of us actually take time to shower.”
His eyes flicker down to my shirt, a devilish glint in his gaze. “Yeah, I can tell. You look cute and all, but I’m betting you'd look better out of it.”
I can’t help the blush that floods my cheeks, but I keep my composure. “So that’s what you’ve been waiting for? Another round of whatever we did earlier?”
He stretches, the motion almost lazy, but the intensity in his eyes never fades. “Duh. I’m not done with you yet.”
I arch an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest. “You’re really not giving up, huh?”
“Why would I?” He smirks, leaning back on the bed and looking at me like he’s already decided how this night will end. “I got you right where I want you.”
“Yeah, right.” I scoff. “You’re just a big bad guy when it’s convenient for you.”
His eyes darken, that cocky confidence filling the space between us. “I’m always the bad guy, Archer. You should know that by now.” He pats the space next to him on the bed with one finger, his voice low and taunting.
“Now, get your ass over here. I’m tired of waiting.”
I stand in the doorway, arms still crossed, half-expecting him to back down. But no. He doesn’t. He just stares me down, like he's daring me to say no.
“You really think I’m just gonna let you drag me into bed. I'm not that desperate.”
He chuckles darkly, almost amused. “You sure sound like you are.” He leans back even further, stretching those muscles like it’s nothing. “I’m not in the mood to play games tonight, Archer. Get in bed, or I will come over there and make you.”
I bite my lip, trying not to laugh, but also trying to keep some distance. “Oh, so now you’re gonna force me, huh?”
His grin widens, teeth showing. “Oh, I’ll make you alright. I’m just not gonna be gentle about it.”
I can’t hold back the smile, but I can’t resist either. With a huff, I make my way to the bed, and as I do, he leans forward just enough to keep me on my toes.
I stare at him. “Wait a second.”
He raises a brow. “What now.”
“You don’t wanna make out, do you?" I say slowly, squinting at him like I’m solving a mystery. “You wanna actually cuddle.”
His face twists, his ears redden at the tips. “What? No.”
Caught.
“Oh my God, you do.” I gasp, clutching my chest. “Alexander Lancaster wants to cuddle, again. Like a boyfriend. Like a lover. Like a walking Pinterest board. You've been caught twice now! Admit it.”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face, muttering to himself. “What did I fucking get myself into?" He then glares at me. "Don’t make it weird.”
I grin. “It’s already weird. You invited me to cuddle. Without any ulterior motives. What happened to emotionally repressed tattoo boy?”
He gives me a flat look. “Don’t flatter yourself, Archer. I’m only doing it because—” He thinks of a reason, and I almost choke. “Figured if I don’t pretend to be a little romantic, you’ll run off.”
My smile falters for a half second. Then I smirk. “So this is performative romance?”
He looks convinced with his excuse. “Exactly.”
“And if I rolled over right now and said, ‘no cuddles for you,’ you’d be totally fine?”
“Ecstatic.”
I flop onto his bed dramatically. “Wow. So brave. Sacrificing your emotional integrity like this.”
He slides closer, tossing the blanket over us with an exasperated grunt. “Go to sleep before I change my mind and push you off the bed.”
“Okay, okay,” I whisper, snuggling into his chest, “but just so we’re clear—this is totally because you like me.”
He presses his lips to my temple. Way too soft for his own good.
“Shut up, Archer.”
I grin into his chest, smug as hell. Then—just to ruin the moment—I let out the loudest, most exaggerated snore known to mankind.
“Seriously?” he deadpans, lifting his head to look at me.
I keep going. Snnoooorrrkkk. Right into his pec.
“Dana.”
Snort-snore-honk.
“DANA.”
I crack one eye open. “What? I’m asleep.”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face like he regrets every life choice that led him here. “I hate you.”
I just snuggle closer, stealing more of the blanket. “Love you too, my lil snuggle bug.”
He groans louder, but his arm tightens around me anyway.
Victory.
Just as I’m about to close my eyes, basking in the warmth of Alex’s arm around me and my undeniable triumph, there’s a tiny, disgruntled mrrrp from the foot of the bed.
Alex lifts his head, squinting. "What now?" He grumbles.
I peek over the blanket.
Lord Muffin is perched at the corner, her orange fur puffed and judging, tail flicking.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “She saw everything.”
Lord Muffin lets out a long, unimpressed meow like she agrees. Then curls into a dramatic loaf with her back to us.
I sigh, cuddling deeper into Alex’s chest. I think I should lick his chest once he's asleep.
“She’s disappointed in us," I whisper.
“She’s a cat.”
“She’s our cat.”
He doesn’t respond. Just mutters something about regretting everything and tightens his arm around me again before telling me to shut the fuck up or he'll throw me out of the goddamn window.
And I swear—before I drift off—I hear Lord Muffin purring.
Our baby approves.
Finally.
. . .