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Chapter twenty-six

Trayton

S taring at Daxton’s face, marred with those cuts and bruises that still linger, sends a surge of fury through my veins once again. The moment I arrived, the first words out of my mouth were, “Who did this to you?” But he just exhaled deeply, his eyes avoiding mine, and gestured for me to take a seat. I know it wasn’t Grady—he wouldn’t dare lay a finger on Daxton—and I can’t bring myself to believe that Daxton had the audacity to go back to him that night. What the hell happened in those twelve hours between him walking out of my place and then stumbling into that locker room looking like this?

The tattoo gun buzzes incessantly as Daxton focuses intensely on inking the intricate design on my arm. His brow furrows in concentration. Meanwhile, all I can do is focus on him, my mind a whirlwind of emotions.

Anger. The kind that clenches your fists and sets your jaw tight.

Rage. A firestorm that threatens to consume everything in its path.

Sadness. A heavy weight that settles in the pit of my stomach.

Want. A strange pull that draws me toward him.

Need. A raw, aching desire that I can’t seem to shake.

These are the emotions this guy stirs within me, and it infuriates me beyond measure. My conversation with Brayden last night dredged everything up to the surface again—all the reasons I despise Daxton.

I hate him—or at least, I think I do.

Why is it so easy to say I hate him when I’m not with him, yet when I’m with him, the words taste like a bitter lie on my tongue?

But why, then, do I find myself wanting him so desperately? Why does it fill me with anger to see him hurt when, once upon a time, that was all I ever wanted?

When did my hatred for him morph into this undeniable want and need?

When did the lines between hate and want blur so completely?

Was it when he wrapped his lips around me, igniting a fire I can’t seem to extinguish?

When he first snapped back at me and called me a sewer? I don’t even fucking know the moment it happened. All I know is that the hate still simmers beneath the surface, but it doesn’t reach a full boil anymore. What churns within me is the need to see his eyes light up, the want to witness his smile spread across his face. The craving to hear him moan my name as I bury myself deep inside him.

“Stop clenching.” Daxton sighs for the third time today. I can see he’s mildly frustrated as he works the tattoo gun over my skin.

“Stop being you,” I snap back without a second thought, my words sharp. It’s typical for me—talk first, think later. Nailed it to a fucking T .

The buzzing of the tattoo gun halts as Daxton turns his head slightly to check if anyone else is in the room, but it’s just the two of us. The bright glow of the overhead lights casts shadows across the walls.

“You can’t punch me while I’m tattooing you, Tray,” he says, a hint of amusement creeping into his statement.

“Who said I want to punch you?” I lean forward, a playful smirk spreading across my lips as I inch closer to him. “Who says I’m not holding myself back from jumping off this chair and pushing you to your knees so you can remind me how well you swallow me down?” Daxton’s eyes flare with intensity, and the heat between us is palpable.

“Don’t,” he warns, his voice weak and raspy, betraying his resolve.

“How’s your throat?” I ask, my smirk growing wider.

He doesn’t respond with words, just a huff of air as he turns the tattoo gun back on. The buzzing noise fills the room once more as if it can dampen the undeniable spark that crackles between us. That heat that feels like it could burn through lead.

He reaches a sensitive spot on my arm, and a sharp hiss escapes my lips. I notice a small smirk playing on his lips before he continues his work with the tattoo needle. The buzzing fills the room again.

“You enjoy seeing me in pain, Quiet Boy?” I ask, meeting his eyes. His jaw clenches tightly. I watch as the dark depths of midnight return to his eyes, swallowing the green that was there moments ago. It’s clear—he likes it. “What do you want to do to me right now, Daxton?” I whisper. He pauses, setting the tattoo gun on the table with a deliberate thud before standing up.

“Strangle you, honestly. Now let me finish this,” he replies, turning his back on me as though that will hide the way he tucks himself up. But I know better. I’ve had to hide my own reactions countless times.

“Does it turn you on, seeing me in pain?” I ask, pushing further.

“You manage that just by being you,” he murmurs, running his fingers through his hair with a heavy sigh. He doesn’t turn back immediately, and I can’t quite say where this surge of boldness comes from. Max, or anyone, could walk through the door any second, but the want is too overwhelming. I’m hard as a rock, my need undeniable.

With a quick motion, I undo my jeans, freeing my aching erection from my boxer shorts. My right arm remains resting on the table where Daxton was working. I begin to stroke myself, the sensation electric.

“Daxton,” I groan, the name escaping my lips like a plea.

He spins around abruptly, his eyes widening with shock as they dart to the door.

“What the hell are you doing?” he hisses, unable to tear his gaze away from the rhythmic motion of my hand.

“Taking care of this.” I moan, my hand moving rapidly, the friction driving me nearly over the edge.

“Trayton, stop.” Daxton’s feeble plea makes me chuckle under my breath.

“Finish the tattoo, Dax,” I insist, slowing the pace of my hand, desire pooling in my gut. A need to release tightens every muscle. When did being near him start affecting me like this?

“Trayton,” Daxton growls, his eyes glued to my hard dick pumping in my hand, an involuntary lick of his lips betraying his interest.

“Daxton,” I growl back, the tension thick between us. “Finish the tattoo,” I demand, squeezing the head of my cock as pre-cum beads onto my fingertips.

“Max could walk in at any minute,” he warns, yet his gaze remains fixed on me, a mix of fear and heat in his eyes. I can see he’s thinking about the other night, just as I can’t shake the memory of how he felt around me.

“Daxton,” I snap, and he finally sits, ripping off his gloves and putting on a fresh pair before picking up the tattoo gun with a deep, grounding breath.

“You’re making it hard to concentrate, Trayton,” he complains, eyes tracing the outline inked into my arm.

“Well, you infuriate me,” I counter, frustration edging every word. “This is what you do to me, Daxton. Now finish the damn tattoo so I can get out of here.”

The instant the needle pricks my skin, I groan, and a moan escapes Daxton’s lips. He pauses again, drawn to my hand.

“Trayton,” Daxton whispers, and it’s my undoing. Spasms rack my body as I fall over the edge, the release surging through me. I stifle a groan, letting it rumble deep in my throat as I press my head back into the seat and close my eyes. When I open them, Daxton is transfixed by the aftermath; his eyes burn into me with an intensity that leaves me breathless.

I growl “Finish” through clenched teeth. His hands tremble slightly as he swiftly complies, the tattoo gun buzzing. I shove my dick back into my pants, leaving the fly gaping. My fingers rake through the warm, sticky mess spreading across my shirt. I hold them up, two glistening digits, and shove them under Daxton’s nose. His eyes flicker, but he doesn’t pause his work. The needle keeps drilling into my arm. I trace his lips, slick and salty.

“Taste me.” The words escape my lips as a low hiss. Daxton parts his, just enough for me to push my fingers inside. His tongue twists, hot and wet, lapping up every drop. The tattoo gun eases as his eyes flutter closed, a low moan vibrating around my fingers. He sucks, licks, slurps, his breath hitching.

It’s fucked. It’s fucking hot. I’m drowning in it.

I must be insane to jerk myself off while the tattoo needle’s biting into me. But this is Daxton’s doing. I couldn’t wait, not with his wild eyes burning into me. I needed a release right then, right there.

“You like that, baby?” I rasp. Daxton’s eyes roll back, lids shuttering as he nods, still sucking on my fingers like a starving man.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I carefully pull my fingers free from Daxton’s mouth, and he exhales deeply, his head drooping as if in defeat. After a moment, he seems to pull himself together. He places a few paper towels on my chest to clean me up. His eyes slowly lift but never quite meet mine, like he’s determined to pretend that nothing just happened. With a focused calm, he resumes working on the tattoo, the buzzing needle filling the silence between us.

As he works, my mind crackles with tension, unable to look away from him. I memorize every contour of his face, the way his brow furrows in concentration, the curve of his lips that I can’t shake from my thoughts. The memory of how those lips felt against me, the way they wrapped around the head of my cock, sends a fresh wave of desire coursing through me.

I can’t help but wonder what those lips would taste like, what flavor lies beneath his skin. A frustrated urge bubbles up inside me. “Are you done?” My voice is sharp. I need to leave before I do something reckless, like claim those lips as mine, capture every moan that might escape them, or tear away his tight jeans and take him right here on the spot.

“Let me wrap it,” he says, weary from the day, as if the weight of this tension is wearing on him too.

I sit restlessly, my leg bouncing with nervous energy as he carefully wraps the fresh tattoo. His fingers brush against my arm, and a shiver of goose bumps races across my skin, electrifying my senses.

My heart is in a relentless sprint, a wild drumbeat echoing in my chest. Being near him has me unraveling, my body and mind in chaos over this intense craving I’ve never felt for anyone before. I fear I might burst if I don’t have him in every way I imagine.

I need to escape his presence. “Finished?”

“Yep,” he replies, his irritation evident. “You’re so fucking hot and cold, Trayton. Be one way or the other; I can’t deal with you being like this,” he snaps, frustration cracking through his calm facade.

I spring up from the seat, grabbing him by the neck with a firm grip, my teeth clenched.

His cologne wafts through the air, a mix of cedar and citrus but also spice that makes my heart race. I shouldn’t have let myself get this close, but here I am, drawn in by an invisible force.

“I can’t fucking stand you,” I spit, jaw clenched. “Every time you walk into a room, my blood boils. Every time you’re near me, I want to scream. But damn it, I can’t stop thinking about you.” The words tumble out, raw and unbidden, as I silently curse myself for revealing the truth.

He meets my gaze, his eyes dark with an intensity that matches my own. “You think you’re the only one? You drive me fucking insane. I hate how much I want you.”

I release my grip on his neck, my eyes tracing the contours of his face, every line and shadow that makes him infuriatingly irresistible. “You can’t want me,” I whisper, the words barely escaping my lips. I turn on my heel, leaving the shop and allowing the door to swing shut behind me.

No one can want me. No one can fall for me because I’ll never return it.

Everyone always leaves.