“Dax…” I gasp, the word barely formed before he’s dragging me onto his lap, hauling me in with a roughness that feels like truth.
One hand grips my ass, anchoring me firmly against him, the other curling around the back of my neck like he’s holding on for dear fucking life — like he thinks I’ll disappear if he loosens his grip even slightly.
“I should stop,” he grits against my jaw, voice raw and ragged with restraint, “but I fucking won’t.”
“Then don’t,” I whisper, breath hitching, the words trembling between us like an electric wire pulled too tight.
His breath stutters — a sharp, fractured inhale — and then he’s moving.
Something shifts in him, something sharp and certain and inevitable, and the atmosphere around us seems to tilt, the room narrowing to the heat of his hands, the weight of his body, the dark, dangerous look in his eyes that says we’ve crossed a line there’s no going back from.
The air thickens.
The walls hum with the distant bass of the club.
My pulse stumbles.
His fingers dig into my hips.
And everything — absolutely everything — begins to fall.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, slamming me back against the wall with a thud that knocks the breath out of me — his mouth never once leaving mine. His thigh slides between mine, grinding up, and my body betrays me, hips chasing him, already soaked.
“Fucking hell, Cassandra,” he rasps, voice a hurricane. “You’re always this wet for assholes who call you names and start bar fights?”
“Only the ones who call me butterfly,” I pant.
His eyes snap to mine — and that’s it.
That’s fucking it.
He yanks my head back by my hair, baring my throat, and I swear he growls.
“You think this is a game?”
“I think you’re losing,” I whisper, even as I’m trembling under his touch.
His mouth crashes to my throat.
Open. Possessive. Fucking brutal.
“You think that little dress lets you walk around untouched? That I’m gonna let other men look at you, breathe near you, talk to you.”
He bites my collarbone, just enough to mark.
“I’ll kill every single one.”
My panties are ruined.
He reaches down and tears them aside like they’re in the way of something urgent—which they are. His fingers find me, hot and wet and already clenching around nothing.
“Christ, baby. This pussy’s so fucking sweet.”
My head hits the wall, breath gone.
He sinks to his knees before I can speak.
Before I can think.
