FALL IN LOVE WITH A BAD BOY

THE SOFT SIDE OF A BAD BOY

Chapter 5

The Soft Side of a Bad Boy

Emma had no idea where they were going.

One moment, Jaxon had shown up outside her apartment on his sleek black motorcycle, his smirk full of promises. The next, she was on the back of his bike, arms wrapped tightly around his waist, the city lights fading behind them as they sped down the highway.

The cool night air whipped through her hair, and for the first time in a long time, Emma felt something dangerously close to freedom.

She should have asked questions. Should have demanded to know where they were going, why he had suddenly appeared after going radio silent for a day.

But with Jaxon, questions didn’t seem to matter.

The only thing that did was the way her pulse raced whenever he touched her.

The way her body still burned from the alley behind the bar.

She tightened her grip around his torso, feeling the solid ripple of muscle beneath his shirt. Jaxon’s hand dropped briefly from the handlebars, covering hers, squeezing once, before returning to the throttle.

That simple gesture sent a rush of warmth through her chest—dangerous, intoxicating warmth.

When they finally pulled off the road, Emma blinked up at the sight before her.

A secluded cabin, tucked deep in the woods, with soft golden lights glowing through the windows.

"This… is unexpected," she admitted as she slid off the bike.

Jaxon smirked, unzipping his leather jacket. "Figured you deserved a change of scenery."

Emma narrowed her eyes. "And why do I get the feeling you don’t bring just anyone here?"

Jaxon didn’t answer right away. Instead, he grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward the cabin door. "Come inside, Monroe. No more questions."

She knew she was already in too deep.

But when Jaxon dragged her inside, pressed her against the wooden wall, and kissed her like he needed her to breathe, she stopped caring about consequences.

Jaxon wasn’t the kind of guy to do domestic things.

He was the man you met in the back of a club, the man who left you breathless and ruined against a wall before vanishing into the night.

So why the hell was he standing in the kitchen of a secluded cabin, chopping vegetables like he did this all the time?

Emma perched on the counter, watching him move. His sleeves were rolled up, tattoos flexing as he wielded the knife with expert precision. A cigarette hung loosely from his lips, the faint scent of smoke mixing with the delicious aroma of seared steak.

"You cook?" she asked, raising a brow.

Jaxon shot her a look. "Don’t sound so surprised, sweetheart."

Emma smirked. "I just figured your idea of dinner was a bottle of whiskey and a questionable decision."

Jaxon chuckled, tossing a chopped bell pepper into the pan. "You wouldn’t be wrong."

The moment felt dangerously normal.

They laughed. They talked.

For the first time, Jaxon wasn’t just the bad boy with the sharp edges.

He told her about his first motorcycle, about how he used to sneak into underground fight rings just for the rush. About the places he had traveled, the people he had met.

He didn’t talk about his family. Didn’t talk about why there was always something haunted in his eyes when he thought no one was looking.

And Emma didn’t push.

Because for now, it was enough that he was here, sharing a part of himself she doubted many people got to see.

But the closer she got, the more she realized something terrifying.

She didn’t just want his body anymore.

She wanted him.

The fire crackled in the hearth, the warm glow casting flickering shadows across the wooden floor.

Emma lay on the plush rug, the heat from the flames licking at her skin. Jaxon sat beside her, swirling a glass of whiskey, studying her in the firelight.

His expression was unreadable.

"You keep looking at me like that," Emma murmured, "and I’m going to start thinking you have feelings, Wilder."

Jaxon smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Careful, sweetheart. That almost sounded like you wanted me to."

Her stomach twisted.

She didn’t know what they were. What this was.

But she did know that when Jaxon finally set his glass down and reached for her, she didn’t resist.

His lips brushed over hers, slow this time.

Not like the reckless nights before. Not like he was trying to claim her, ruin her, own her.

But like he was memorizing her.

Like he was afraid she’d disappear.

His hands skimmed down her sides, peeling her sweater over her head, fingertips tracing every exposed inch of skin. Emma shivered—not from the cold, but from the unbearable anticipation coiling low in her stomach.

"You drive me f*****g insane," Jaxon muttered against her neck, his voice rough.

Emma grinned. "I thought you liked trouble."

His eyes flashed with something dark. "I do."

And then, he was on top of her.

This wasn’t fast. This wasn’t rough.

This was slow, deliberate torture.

Jaxon kissed down her stomach, taking his time, his hands worshipping every curve, every dip of her body.

He didn’t just touch her.

He explored her.

By the time he finally pushed inside her, Emma was nothing but heat and desperate whimpers, her hands tangled in his hair, her nails scraping along his back.

Jaxon’s forehead pressed against hers, his breathing ragged.

"You feel too f*****g good," he growled.

Emma moaned, arching beneath him as he moved slow, deep, dragging pleasure out of her inch by agonizing inch.

She had never had s*x like this.

Had never felt this worshipped.

Jaxon wasn’t just f*****g her.

He was giving her something she hadn’t even realized she craved.

Something raw.

Something real.

And that scared her more than anything.

After, Emma curled against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Jaxon’s fingers traced lazy circles against her bare back, his body warm beneath hers. It was quiet, intimate, perfect.

Then, without warning, he pulled away.

Emma frowned as he sat up, reaching for his pack of cigarettes. "Everything okay?"

Jaxon exhaled a slow breath. "Yeah. Just… don’t read too much into this, Monroe."

Her stomach dropped.

The soft, vulnerable Jaxon from earlier? Gone.

His walls were back up. Higher than before.

Emma clenched the sheets, forcing a smirk. "Relax, Wilder. I’m not asking you to pick out curtains with me."

Jaxon’s lips quirked, but his eyes stayed guarded. "Good."

The room suddenly felt colder.

Emma swallowed hard, hating the ache spreading in her chest.

She should have known better. Should have remembered who he was, what he was capable of.

But as she lay there, watching him retreat into himself, one thing became painfully clear.

She wasn’t just falling for Jaxon Wilder.

She was falling in love with a man who didn’t know how to be loved.

And that?

That was a recipe for disaster.

The next morning, Emma wakes up to an empty bed.

Jaxon is gone.

No note. No text.

Nothing.

And just when she tells herself she’s done chasing him, her phone vibrates.

Jaxon: "Don’t fall for me, Monroe. You won’t survive it."

Emma’s heart shatters.

But it’s already too late.

She’s already his.