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 betweenus 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 wordshouldn’tdoesn’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 verylargeerection. 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’reconsuming.
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 tastechampagne 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 canfeelTrey 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.
