Page 10

10

JAXON

M y pulse slams against my ribs as her body presses into mine, the teasing curve of her ass aligning perfectly against my hips.

Fuck. Every nerve ending ignites, a wildfire spreading through my veins.

My cock hardens almost instantly.

It's a test—a challenge wrapped in soft skin and a scent that makes my head swim. She tilts her chin, eyes flicking back to mine, full of something reckless, something dangerous—something that awakens memories I've spent three years trying to bury.

I should pull away. I should create space before I do something fucking stupid, before I shatter the fragile threads of whatever this is between us.

But her fingers slide over mine, pressing them tighter against her hips, and suddenly, restraint feels like a foreign concept—a language I've forgotten how to speak.

The bass vibrates through the floor, through me, through her, a slow, hypnotic rhythm that demands we move together. Like we used to. Like we were always meant to.

Madison sways, guiding my hands over the dip of her waist, the curve of her hips, like she knows exactly what she's doing to me, like she can read every thought racing through my mind.

A low hum catches in her throat, almost lost beneath the music, but I hear it.

I feel it. The sound reverberates through me, stirring something primal, something I've kept locked away since the day she walked out of my life.

My fingers flex against her, desperate and greedy, betraying the war raging inside me. One part of me screams to step back, to protect what's left of my heart.

The other part—the part winning right now—wants to pull her closer, to claim what I’ve always desired.

But how the hell am I supposed to be careful when she's pressing back against me like this? When every roll of her body sends a fresh wave of heat clawing up my spine? When her very existence threatens to tear down the walls I've built to survive without her?

She tilts her head, her breath warm against my jaw.

"You're holding back," she murmurs, her voice a mix of amusement and something darker, something that makes my grip tighten involuntarily. It’s like my body remembers her even when my mind tries to forget. "I thought you were supposed to be good at this, Jaxon."

Fuck. Me.

My name in her mouth, spoken like that—soft and taunting and achingly familiar—shatters whatever fragile restraint I have left. Three years of anger, of hurt, of wanting rush through me like a dam breaking. My gentleman's card is officially about to go out the window.

I shift closer, eliminating the last inch of space between us. My body molds to hers, my breath uneven as I match her movements, letting the music dictate the slow, torturous rhythm. The thin fabric of her shirt does nothing to dull the heat radiating from her skin, to mask the perfect curves I once knew by heart.

Every drag of her against me makes my pulse hammer harder, my blood thick with the kind of need I have no business feeling—not for her. Not like this. Not until I know why she left. Not until I understand how she could throw away fifteen years like they meant nothing. Not until she's ready to admit she broke more than just our plans when she walked away .

She exhales sharply, her hands sliding over my knuckles, then up my arms, her nails scraping lightly over my skin. Every nerve in my body snaps to attention, memories surging unbidden—her hands in my hair, her lips grazing against my throat. She's playing with fire, and she knows it, always has.

I'm nothing but a moth to the flame, knowing I'll be the one burned.

"Still holding back?" she taunts, her voice barely a whisper. The challenge in her tone sparks something dark inside me—a desire to show her exactly what she walked away from, to remind her body what her mind chose to forget.

I drop my head closer to hers, my lips brushing against the shell of her ear. "You sure you don’t want me to stop?" The question comes out rougher than intended, raw with everything I've kept bottled up since finally seeing her again.

She stiffens, just for a second. A hitch in her breath. A falter in her confidence. I feel a twisted sense of satisfaction at cracking her composure, at knowing I still affect her in this way, even if she tries to hide it.

But then, she laughs—light, teasing, fucking lethal—and turns her head, her mouth dangerously close to mine. We’re so close, I can feel her breath mingling with mine, can almost taste the sweetness I know lies just beyond those lips. "I never said stop."

God help me—I don't know if I could even if I wanted to. I couldn’t stop even knowing this path leads straight back to the wreckage she left me in three years ago, but worse.

Her words crack through me like a live wire, sparking something deep, something primal. The rational part of my brain shuts down completely, overwhelmed by the flood of sensation, of need, of her .

I don't think—I can't. My hands grip her hips harder, fingers digging into soft, warm skin through the thin fabric of her shirt as I pull her flush against me. There’s no space left for doubt, for hesitation, for past hurts. A sharp inhale escapes her lips, but she doesn't stop me. She doesn't pull away, doesn't save us both from crossing a line we can't uncross.

If anything, she presses in closer, like she's daring me to lose control. Like she wants to see me break for her.

I would, too. I’d give her anything. I’d be anything. If she asked me to let her go, I would—I'd walk away, tear myself apart piece by piece, if that’s what she needed.

But if she keeps looking at me like this, pressing closer, like she wants to see how far she can push before I break—she’s going to find out I was never whole to begin with. Not without her.

The music throbs around us, drowning out the rest of the party—the laughter, the clinking bottles, the shouts from the beer pong table. It all fades into nothing, into white noise compared to the thundering of my heart, the shallow rhythm of her breathing.

There's only her.

Only the ghost of what we were, what we could have been if she’d given us the chance. Only the way her body moves against mine, slow and devastating, every shift of her hips stoking the fire burning low in my stomach. Every touch is a memory resurrected—late nights on my parent’s roof, whispered secrets, dreams shared and promises made. Dreams that died the day she decided I wasn't worth staying for.

I feel her heartbeat where our bodies connect, feel the way it stutters when my fingers trace higher, skimming the edge of her ribcage. She exhales sharply, her back arching, pressing her shoulder against my chest.

My lips are so close to her neck, I can feel the heat of her skin, can practically taste the temptation in the air between us. The maddening scent of her perfume—different from what she used to wear, but somehow still unmistakably Madison—fills my lungs with every breath, making my head spin.

I should stop. I should walk away before history repeats itself, before I give her the chance to destroy me all over again. But she tilts her head, just enough to expose more of her throat, just enough to ruin me, to make me forget all the nights I lie awake wondering where I went wrong, if it was all in my head. Wondering if she ever really cared at all.

Her breath is unsteady when she whispers, "Didn't think you had it in you, Montgomery." The challenge in her voice makes my blood sing with adrenaline, with a desperate need to prove her wrong, to prove I'm not the same boy she left behind.

A humorless chuckle leaves me, low and rough against her ear. "You really don't get it, do you?" How much she still affects me. How much I still want her, even knowing she might shatter me again. How dangerous this game of hers is.

She turns slightly, her lips inches from mine, her eyes dark and knowing—too knowing. Like she can see straight through me to all the broken pieces she left behind. "Then make me understand."

It's the final push, the last thread of control snapping like a frayed wire. Three years of denied anger, of confusion, of wanting something I couldn't have—all of it surges to the surface, a tidal wave I'm powerless to stop.

My grip tightens, pulling her impossibly closer, until there's not even a sliver of space between us. My breath is hot against her cheek, hers shaky against my lips, my dick straining against my jeans. Every inch of my body is tense, strung tight with a hunger I have no right feeling for the girl who walked away from me without a backwards glance. But I can't stop. Can't think. Can't remember all the reasons why this is a terrible idea.

I don't know who moves first.

Maybe it's her. Maybe it's me. But suddenly, my nose brushes hers, and for a split second, we're hovering on the edge of something irreversible. The world narrows down to this moment, this breath, this unbearable tension stretched between us like a storm held back by a single thread. Everything—the party, the music, the past three years—all of it fades away until it's just us. Just Madison and Jaxon, like it used to be.

Like maybe it was always meant to be.

"Yo, Jax! "

The sound rips through the haze, a sharp, unwelcome intrusion from the real world.

Madison stiffens against me, and the moment shatters.

I blink, my hands still gripping her hips, my breath still uneven. I don't want to turn around. I don't want to let go. I don't want this moment to end, because I know once it does, the walls will go back up. The distance will return. I'll be left with nothing but the memory of her body against mine.

But she beats me to it.

She pulls away, smooth and effortless, like she hasn't just wrecked me from the inside out. Like her lips weren't seconds from mine. Like she hasn't just resurrected every feeling I've spent the last few years trying to bury.

Her eyes meet mine one last time—glinting, unreadable—before she smirks and steps back. There's something in that look, something that makes my chest tighten with a mixture of hope and dread. Something that tells me this isn't over.

"Thanks for the dance," she murmurs, and then, she's gone, slipping into the crowd like nothing even happened. Like she didn't just bring my carefully constructed world crashing down around me.

I stand there, fists clenched, chest heaving, every muscle in my body still burning from her touch. From the ghost of what almost was. My mind races with questions I can't answer, with desires I can't—shouldn't—fulfill.

I'm so fucking screwed.