Chapter7:Temptation
1782 Words
Jaxon
I knew Celeste would be a problem.
But I didn’t expect this level of a goddamn test.
She steps out of the bathroom like she’s walking a goddamn runway—spine straight, chin high, her dark hair falling in loose waves over her bare shoulders. But it’s not the attitude that has my grip tightening around my whiskey glass.
It’s what she’s wearing.
That flimsy scrap of silk masquerading as a nightgown.
The deep crimson fabric clings to her like a second skin, draping over her curves, dipping criminally low at the neckline. The slit at her thigh? High enough that I’m one breath away from seeing something I shouldn’t.
And Celeste knows exactly what she’s doing.
I take a slow sip of my whiskey, letting the burn coat my throat as I study her, deliberately unimpressed. You want to play, princess?
Fine.
Game on.
I arch a brow, my voice flat. “Tried to find the least decent thing to wear, did you?”
She meets my gaze with a smirk that’s pure, unfiltered sin. “Why? Distracted, husband?”
My jaw flexes.
She spits that word out like it’s a curse, and f**k, it probably is. Neither of us wanted this marriage, but now we’re here, locked in this game of who can drive the other one insane first.
I let out a slow breath, watching as she strolls to her vanity with no goddamn care in the world, her hips swaying just enough to make me suspicious. She sits, pretending to be busy with her reflection, running her fingers through her hair.
I roll my glass between my fingers, eyes narrowed. She wants a reaction? She’ll get one.
I stand, setting my drink down with a soft clink before making my way toward her. Slow, measured steps. The kind of approach that makes a woman aware.
She notices.
I catch it in the way her back straightens just a little. In the flicker of her lashes when she meets my gaze in the mirror, like she’s debating whether to ignore me or brace for whatever comes next.
Smart girl.
Too bad I don’t play nice.
I stop behind her, just close enough that the heat between us thickens, just far enough that she’d have to be the one to move if she wanted to break it.
Her breath hitches—barely—but I f*****g hear it.
I smirk. “You always dress like this for bed, princess? Or is this a special occasion?”
She tilts her head, her voice syrupy sweet. “Oh, did you think this was for you?”
That little brat.
I chuckle, dark and low. “No, but it’s funny how you keep looking at me like you want it to be.”
Her lips part just a fraction, the tiniest tell. But she recovers quick. Too quick.
Her jaw tightens. “In your dreams, Wolfe.”
I lean in, my breath ghosting over the shell of her ear.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I murmur, my voice dipping into something that makes her lashes flutter, “you don’t want to know what I dream about.”
Her chest rises a little too fast.
Checkmate.
Celeste
I should’ve known playing with fire would get me burned.
Jaxon fcking Wolfe is dangerous.
And yet, here I am, playing the game like I won’t end up scorched.
His words from earlier still linger in my head. You don’t want to know what I dream about.
Bastard.
I turn away from the mirror and force myself to walk toward the bed, ignoring the heat simmering under my skin. The silk of my nightgown glides over my thighs, whisper-light, but I swear I can feel his gaze scraping over every inch of me.
I don’t even make it three steps before it happens.
Jaxon moves.
Fast.
One second, he’s by the vanity, all smug confidence and sharp smirks. The next, his hand is on my waist.
Firm. Commanding. Possessive.
A sharp breath escapes me before I can stop it.
Fuck.
Big mistake.
Because his fingers tighten, gripping me through the thin fabric, his palm pressing heat straight into my skin.
“You stopped,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing, like he’s enjoying this.
No.
No, I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
I force myself to scoff, willing my voice to stay steady. “You caught me off guard, that’s all.”
He hums, a deep, lazy sound that slides down my spine like warm honey. Like he doesn’t believe a damn word I’m saying.
“That why you’re breathing like you just ran a marathon?” he murmurs, his breath brushing the back of my neck.
Oh, I hate him.
And the worst part? He’s not wrong.
My pulse is hammering, my breaths just a little too quick, my body betraying me in ways that make me want to slap myself.
I should move. Step away. Push him off.
But I don’t.
Because his fingers shift—just slightly—but enough to do things to me. His thumb strokes a slow, agonizing circle against my hip, his grip still firm, like he’s testing me. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Jaxon is an asshole, a smug, cocky bastard who thrives on power plays.
And yet, right now, I feel like he has all the power.
No. No fcking way.
I spin in his grip, fire blazing in my eyes, my hands pressing against his chest to put space between us. But it backfires—because touching him only makes it worse.
He’s solid, all muscle and heat, and I swear I feel his heartbeat beneath my palm. Steady. Unbothered.
Unlike mine.
Jaxon grins, slow and lazy, because he knows. He f*****g knows.
“And yet,” he muses, head tilting slightly, eyes glinting, “you’re still standing here.”
My fingers twitch against his shirt. I should push him away. I need to push him away.
But I don’t.
Because the air between us is thick. Stifling.
Because his grip tightens, just slightly, like he knows he’s winning.
Because his gaze drops to my lips.
And mine?
Mine drop to his.
Shit.
I swear to God, if he leans in—
And then I do something I’ll regret.
I exhale.
Soft. Breathless. Too much.
Jaxon?
His eyes darken like he just won the whole damn war.
Celeste
The air between us is lethal.
Thick. Charged.
Like a storm seconds from breaking.
Jaxon doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
His hand is still on my waist, hot and unyielding, like he owns the space between us. My fingers twitch at my sides, aching to do something—push him away, pull him closer, drag my nails down his smug f*****g chest just to see if he’d shudder.
His gaze flicks to my lips.
Just once.
Barely a second.
But I feel it.
A slow, intoxicating coil of heat blooms low in my stomach.
I hate him. I hate how good he smells, like whiskey and something dark and sinful. I hate how sharp his jaw is, how his mouth looks like it was made for trouble. I hate that every breath I take is full of him.
I hate him.
I hate him.
Then why the f**k aren’t I moving?
His grip tightens, just slightly, his fingers pressing into my waist like he’s daring me to react. And his eyes—dark, predatory, starving—roam over my face, studying me like he’s trying to figure something out.
His thumb strokes my hip, slow and deliberate.
It’s stupid. It’s reckless. It’s—
I swallow.
A mistake.
Because his eyes drop to my throat, tracking the movement like he felt it.
Fuck.
I should step back.
I need to step back.
But I don’t.
Because my body is a traitor—a pathetic, desperate traitor that doesn’t give a damn about logic or pride or the fact that the man standing in front of me is the absolute worst f*****g person to feel this way about.
The heat between us is suffocating. His fingers flex on my waist, like he’s fighting some internal battle of his own.
Or maybe he’s already lost.
Because when I look up, his eyes are darker. Hungrier. Dangerous.
I f*****g hate the way my pulse betrays me, slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.
I lick my lips—instinct, not intention—and his gaze snaps to my mouth like I just offered him my throat on a silver platter.
Oh, f**k.
His chest rises, slow and deep. His fingers tighten.
And then—
He leans in.
Just a fraction. Just enough for my breath to catch.
The tension is unbearable.
Every inch of me is wired, waiting, daring him to close the distance.
I should slap him. I should shove him off.
I shouldn’t want this.
But I do.
God help me, I do.
His breath is warm against my lips.
My head is spinning, caught between good decisions and f*****g terrible ones.
Then—
A knock.
Loud. Sharp. Infuriating.
The moment shatters.
Like a gunshot through glass, the spell breaks, and we both jerk apart as if electrocuted.
I stumble back, inhaling like I’ve been drowning. Jaxon’s hands drop from my waist, his jaw tight as he rakes a frustrated hand through his hair.
Silence crashes between us, heavy and unspoken.
My skin is burning.
My pulse is raging.
I don’t dare look at him. I can’t. Because I know if I do, I’ll see it—the truth we’re both pretending doesn’t exist.
The truth that we both wanted it.
Even for just a second.
I don’t say a word.
I just turn. Walk straight to the bed like I didn’t just almost make a horrible mistake. Like my body isn’t on fire from the ghost of his f*****g touch.
I slip under the covers, facing away from him.
But I can feel him.
I can feel his presence across the room, heavy and sharp.
Jaxon exhales roughly, a muttered “f**k” under his breath. Then I hear the clink of ice as he grabs his whiskey glass and downs the rest in one go.
Neither of us speak.
Neither of us move.
The tension?
Still here. Still thick. Still pressing down on both of us like a f*****g noose.
Because no matter how much we pretend it didn’t happen—
No matter how much we pretend we don’t want it—
One of us is going to break first.
And it’s only a matter of time.
Because this war?
Just got a hell of a lot harder.
End of Chapter 7
- Writer
