Page 33

Chapter thirty-two

Daxton

D amn. My head is pounding. I groan and bury my face into the soft pillow that feels way too luxurious to be mine. It’s like lying on a cloud or something. I crack my eyes open, but the sunlight feels like it’s scorching straight out of hell, so I quickly turn away, shielding myself from the glare. That’s when I see Trayton lying next to me, staring at the ceiling, and memories flood back. I wish I could just forget everything. It’s not fair that I remember it all. Trayton seems lost in thought, his thumbs tapping each of his fingers. At first, I assume it’s a coping mechanism for anxiety, but then I notice his lips moving. He’s counting or mumbling something too quiet for me to hear. Is he making a list? But of what? I take a moment to look at his face, noticing the cut on his lip—a result of me punching him last night. I don’t feel too bad about that; he’s hit me plenty of times. It’s what I said to him at the club that makes my stomach churn. The words about his mom. I’m really angry at him for what happened with Ashton. Even now, just looking at him stirs up my anger. But he didn’t deserve what I said. His response was warranted: You think you have the power to upset me? You think you matter enough to hurt me? Those words stung. Of course, I don’t have the power, and of course, I don’t matter. He’s shown me that repeatedly, so why do I let him hurt me? Why do I give him that power?

I know the reason. That feeling has always been there—an undercurrent of resentment for him, for his actions, for simply being who he is. I despise him for walking into my life all those years ago, despise him for ever showing me kindness. I buried that feeling, believing it was just a passing phase, something that would eventually disappear. I locked it away so deep that I convinced myself I felt nothing for Trayton King. It turns out that it was tucked inside a box so hidden that even I struggled to reach it. But he didn’t have to fight at all. One kiss from him was enough to tear that box apart, leaving everything exposed—and I fucking hate him for it.

It’s almost as if he were under a spell. Trayton blinks rapidly, turns his head sideways, and his eyes meet mine. Why does my heart ache the very moment I look at him? I should be angry, but it’s pure pain that overwhelms me. We lie there, locked in a long, silent stare; my gaze fixes on the cut on his lip, and though the word “Sorry” fights to escape my throat, I refuse to speak it.

“Hi,” he says so quietly that if I hadn’t seen his lips move, I might have missed it. I don’t answer. It feels as if opening my mouth would force me to confess how sorry I am for hurting him—for hitting him, for all those dreadful things I said. But has he ever apologized for hurting me? Never. His eyes wander with something that isn’t anger—more like guilt, as though he feels remorse. So why doesn’t he just say sorry? Why the fuck can’t he apologize for hurting me? You hurt me the most, Trayton . I told him exactly how much pain he caused, yet he remains silent. I let out a bitter laugh and shake my head. His brows knit together as I turn around and sit up on the bed, searching for my clothes. “Dax,” he calls, pain evident in his voice.

I whip my head around, eyes narrowing as his widen, and hiss, “Don’t. Don’t fucking ‘Dax’ me with that tone, Trayton. I’m not the one who should be feeling guilty right now. Why do I have to feel guilty when I’ve done nothing wrong? It should be you groveling, begging to say sorry. Why do I have to apologize when I never fucking do anything wrong?” My breaths come out sharply as I stand abruptly, grabbing my neatly folded jeans from the seat. Suddenly, I hear shuffling behind me—he’s here, gripping my arm firmly. I try to wrench it free with a desperate yank, but his hold won’t let go.

“Dax, please.” His eyes are heavy, and his brows drawn in pain. He clearly looks like he’s suffering, and I hate how my heart aches to mend him, to bring a smile back to his face. His eyes slide to my lips, and I freeze, knowing that if he kisses me, I won’t have the strength to push him away.

“Please, don’t, Tray.” Even with the brokenness in his gaze, he steps forward. I shake my head, my brows furrowing. “Please,” I beg again. But what am I even begging for—his kiss or his restraint? I honestly don’t know anymore.He doesn’t move in immediately; the moment stretches out in slow motion, as though he’s waiting for me to push him away. But I no longer have that power over him. His lips ghost over mine, so soft and tender that I melt into a puddle beneath him. I tilt my head as his lips fall on me again. It’s the only movement I can muster, and he doesn’t retreat. He plants gentle kisses down my cheek and then along my neck, leaving me to sag in relief—as if this is exactly what I’ve been longing for, what my body has been calling out for.

“Please stop hurting me, Trayton,” I whisper, rolling my head forward as his lips meet mine. He places a gentle kiss there before pulling back. His sad eyes lock onto mine, and god, they drown me, pulling me under with every glance.

“I don’t know how not to, Dax,” he admits, and I think it’s the most honest thing he’s ever said. There’s no anger in his tone—only an intense sadness that makes me believe he truly doesn’t know how to stop hurting me.The pain in his voice and the raw truth in his words drive me to wrap my hand around his neck as he sinks onto the bed. I pull him close, my legs wrapping around him, and when I pull back to look at his face, he lowers his head, as if he can’t bear meeting my eyes. I cup his cheeks, gently forcing him to look at me. He sighs deeply—eyes closed.

“Look at me,” I whisper, but he keeps his gaze down. So I lean in and kiss the cut on his lip, trailing soft kisses across his face—over his nose, his forehead, and finally back to his lips. His eyes flutter open, capturing me in a trance I can never escape. “I’m still mad at you,” I murmur against his lips.

“I know.” He breathes, the weight of his words hanging between us.

“But I need you.” The words are out just before our lips meet in a slow, deliberate kiss. Our tongues dance together as our heads move from side to side, unable to get enough of each other. I press against him, a soft moan escaping as my desire grows. His fingers dig into my hips, pulling me closer. The heat of his body seeps through our clothes, igniting every nerve. I breathe in his scent—a mix of pine and musk that is unmistakably him—and it sends my head spinning.For a moment, our lips part as I rest my forehead against his, feeling his warm, rapid breaths on my face. In the dim light, his eyes are dark pools in which I could easily drown.

“We shouldn’t,” he whispers, yet his hands slide up my back, revealing his own longing.

“I know,” I murmur softly, unable to stop myself from placing gentle kisses along his jaw. The tension between us crackles like an open fire.My heart beats so hard I wonder if he can hear it as I trail my fingers down his chest, matching the rapid rhythm of his pulse. His skin feels deliciously hot under my touch, and all I want is to explore every inch of him. But I hold back, savoring the slow burn of anticipation. My lips find the sensitive spot just below his ear, and he shivers, letting out a soft gasp that sends sparks racing down my spine. His fingers entwine in my hair, pulling me closer.

“We can stop,” I say, even as every part of me rebels at the thought. I want him—I have wanted him for so long. Even though I’ve had him before, this feels different. It isn’t rushed or angry; it’s just us, lost in the moment. His eyes meet mine, swirling with conflict. For a fleeting second, I fear he might push me away. Then his hand cups the back of my neck, drawing me in for another searing kiss. “Don’t you dare,” he growls softly against my mouth.

A rush of relief and lust overwhelms me as I push his shoulders, causing him to sink back onto the mattress. Our bodies pressed together in maddening friction. I roll my hips, drawing a low moan from him that reverberates through my chest. I feel every inch of him, hard and aching with desire. His hands roam my back, leaving burning trails on my skin, and I shiver at his touch as goose bumps run along my arms. The room feels too hot, too confined to hold the intensity between us. I pull back just enough to look at him, absorbing the sight of his flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and tousled hair. The vulnerability in his eyes tugs at my heart. This is more than physical attraction—it’s years of wanting finally coming to life.

“Are you sure?” I give him one last chance to retreat. Part of me hopes he will, knowing that for him, this may be nothing more than a moment of weakness. But for me, this is everything. He lifts his head, and our lips meet again as he gently spins me so that my back rests against the soft mattress. His strong arms hold me in a warm embrace as he leans over to press soft kisses along my chest.

“I want to feel you,” he whispers while sitting up on his knees. I nod, craving the feeling of him inside me as much as he craves me. When I start to turn around, he stops me with a shake of his head. “No. I want to see you.” A part of me wants to turn away. I know if I face him, I’ll fall apart, overwhelmed by the intimacy and the thought of my heart breaking with every thrust of his hips. But I stay, looking up at him as he pulls his boxers down, and his fingers gently tug at mine until they follow suit. We’re both visibly hard as a rock, and I take the moment to admire him—he is so incredibly perfect, maybe even too perfect for me.

“I don’t have lube.” He breathes heavily, glancing down at me. Usually, you wouldn’t take this chance without lube, but if I don’t feel him inside me right now, I feel like I might die.

“Spit on me,” I rasp, my voice low and husky. Trayton bites his lip, his nostrils flaring as a thin line of spit trickles out. I shiver when it touches me, and he does it a couple more times, spitting on himself as he strokes his even more hardening dick. Pre-cum leaks from the tip as he squeezes, and he gathers it with his fingers and pushes them into me. I gasp as he leans over me with unwavering eyes; he lines himself up and slowly eases inside me, making every inch deliberate, every sensation intense. My eyes flutter closed as he fills me completely, and his head drops to my neck, his soft moans sending shivers along my skin. I whimper, clutching his back—he is so big, I’ve never felt this full before. I never imagined Trayton could make me feel so utterly complete, and in this deep, intimate moment, all my doubts fade away with every steady thrust, every breathless gasp that escapes me, every tender whisper of my name as his teeth graze my collarbone.

“Tray.” I mewl as he grinds his hips, hitting that spot that drives me wild. He keeps doing it, and his hands slide down my legs, gripping my ass as he sits up. He pulls my hips up, slides out, and then eases back in, targeting that sweet spot. His eyes lock onto mine, holding me in place as he takes me completely. Each slow thrust steals my breath. He just stares, mouth slightly open, like he’s capturing everything about me. I hate it.

“You hate me,” I grit out as he presses that spot. He pauses, frowning, then thrusts in harder. “Oh my god, yes.” I breathe, the sensation overwhelming me. I don’t even need to touch myself; the way he moves and looks at me is enough.

“I don’t,” he argues, and I keep my eyes closed. I can’t face him when he says that; it’s just the moment talking.

“Fuckfuck,” I cry out as he keeps hitting that spot. “Trayton.” The tingling spreads from my spine through my body, and I tremble, my legs shaking in Trayton’s grip.

“Eyes here, Dax.” He leans in as he thrusts deeper.

“Fuck, you’re so perfect.” He groans. “Look at me, please.” His breaths are ragged now. I force my eyes open, knowing I’ll regret it. The moment our gazes lock, I let go. The sensation of falling overwhelms me as I climax, shooting out across our chests, but I barely notice as the descent continues. My stomach flips repeatedly as Trayton’s eyes pierce through me, and he thrusts into me with a powerful move, crying out my name over and over until his lips brush my ear.

“I don’t hate you,” he whispers.

I stop falling.

I hit the bottom.

I shatter.

The ride dragged on, silent and heavy, even though I felt strangely light, like a burden had been lifted—but it hadn’t. I was furious about what he did. He always twists things to seem justified, but I know he did it to hurt me, nothing else. And then, showing up last night—something I still need to talk with Cope about. Tray’s his friend, but why would you tell someone who despises me where I am? What was Cope thinking? Maybe I’d regret my night with Ross, but that regret should be mine alone, not his to decide. As the driver stops outside the college, I sigh, staring at the imposing building. I know once we pass through those gates, I’ll have to pretend to hate him again. I push open the door, one foot ready to step out, when Trayton grabs my arm, halting me. He doesn’t look at me at first, but then his eyes meet mine, trapping me. “You do matter enough,” he utters. I frown, confused, but he’s out of the car before I can respond.

I matter enough for what?