god father obsession

tipping point

Chapter Fifteen: Tipping Point

I hadn’t spoken to Xavier since that night.

At breakfast, I avoided his eyes.

In the hallway, I passed him like he didn’t exist.

When he dropped me at school, I didn’t even say thank you.

But I could feel his gaze—always.

Burning holes into my back.

Desperate. Angry.

And I didn’t care.

Let him feel it.

Let him suffer the same ache he left in me.

That night, the house was quiet.

Everyone asleep.

Except him.

I had just curled into bed in one of his oversized shirts I’d “accidentally” stolen—soft, warm, and still faintly scented like him—when I heard it.

The door creaked open.

I turned.

Xavier stood there, bathed in moonlight.

His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing the rise and fall of his chest.

His eyes—stormy, unreadable—locked with mine.

He said nothing as he stepped inside.

Closed the door.

Locked it.

My heart stuttered.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he said, voice low, rough.

I sat up slowly, keeping my tone flat. “You’ve made it clear I mean nothing to you. I’m just returning the energy.”

His jaw ticked. He moved closer.

In seconds, he was towering over me.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered. “Walking around this house looking like that… you know exactly what you’re doing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said—lying, breathless.

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. His touch lingered. “You think I don’t want you?”

My lips parted. No sound came out.

“I’ve been trying so hard to stay away,” he said, voice cracking. “But tonight… I can’t.”

Then he kissed me.

Not soft.

Not careful.

Desperate. Starving.

It was everything he’d buried and tried to deny. Weeks of tension and restraint, unraveling in one brutal, beautiful kiss.

I whimpered against his mouth as he leaned me back, climbing over me gently. His hands gripped the sheets beside my head like anchors, like he was barely holding himself back.

“Xavier…” I breathed.

His lips traveled to my jaw, down my neck. Each kiss slow, reverent—like I was something sacred.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he growled against my skin.

His hands traced my sides, fingertips dragging over the thin cotton of his shirt on my body. When he reached the hem, he paused.

His eyes searched mine.

I nodded.

He lifted the shirt slightly, fingers brushing my thighs. I trembled.

“Tell me to stop,” he said hoarsely.

“I won’t,” I whispered.

He kissed me again—deeper this time. His body hovered over mine, close enough to feel the heat, but still… not touching. The restraint made it all feel more dangerous, more electric.

His fingers skimmed the inside of my thighs, teasing. My back arched involuntarily, aching for more.

But then—he stopped.

His forehead pressed to mine, breath harsh and uneven.

“I want to taste every inch of you,” he rasped, voice broken. “But if I do… I won’t stop.”

His words sent a shock through my core.

But after a long, tense pause, he pulled back—just enough to deny us both what we craved.

He looked at me like he wanted to devour me. Like he hated himself for walking away.

“Not tonight,” he said roughly. “But soon. And when that day comes… I won’t hold back.”

Then he got off the bed.

Unlocked the door.

And left.

Leaving me burning.

Shaking.

Wanting.