"Mads."
The way he says my name makes something flip in my stomach. I clench my jaw, glancing away. "It's not my business, Jax. You can do whatever, whoever, you want."
He exhales, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not here with her. Have zero interest, if you want complete honesty." He pauses, his eyes never leaving mine. "I don't want Allie. I don't want anyone else."
My heart stutters in my chest. "Jax?—"
"Let me be clear," he continues, his voice low and steady. "I'm not looking at other women. I'm not interested in other women. I haven't been for...a long time."
There's something so raw, so honest in his expression, it steals my breath. "Since when?" I whisper, the words barely audible over the music.
His lips quirk slightly, a hint of vulnerability beneath the confidence. "Since always, Mads. Since we were seven, and you told me my football uniform made me look like an overstuffed sausage."
A startled laugh escapes me, but my chest feels too tight, emotions warring inside me—the deep-seated fear of losing him battling with the overwhelming desire to take what he's offering.
"You know who I want," he says simply, the certainty in his voice sending shivers down my spine. "I've never tried to hide it."
Something inside me settles slightly at his words. The jealousy from earlier fades, replaced by a different kind of tension—something heavier, more significant.
But I don't respond. If I say something, if I let him see how his words affect me, then I'm admitting this thing between us is real and I want it too. The thought of stepping off that ledge, of risking everything we have, still terrifies me.
Part of me wants to run. Part of me wants to stay right where Iam, caught in this limbo of possibility. And a growing part of me wants to cross that line once and for all.
Jaxon studies me for a second longer, then smirks slightly. "Come on."
I frown. "Come on where?"
His smirk deepens. "Dance with me."
I blink. "Jax?—"
"Don't think. Just dance with me."
23
JAXON
"Come on," I say, my voice low but firm.
She frowns, still not turning. "Come on where?"
"Dance with me."
She tenses, her fingers digging into her own arms. "Jax..."
"Don't think." My fingers brush against hers—light, teasing, a promise of what could be. "Just dance with me."
She hesitates for just a second too long, and I can almost see the war happening inside her head—the part that wants to give in battling with the part that's scared to death.
So, I take my shot.
I don't give her the chance to make up an excuse. I slide my fingers around hers, pulling her toward the crowd. She resists slightly—like she wants to fight this, fight me—but she follows. Her hand is warm in mine, fingers curling almost instinctively around my own.
Because she wants this, just like I do. She just needs permission to admit it.
We push into the mass of people, deep bass vibrating through my chest as I pull her against me. My hands settle at her waist, fingers brushing the warm, bare skin just above the waistband of her jeans. She stiffens for half a second before exhaling, her handspressing lightly against my chest. I can feel her heartbeat, quick and steady, through the thin material of her tank top.
The tension between us is thick—so thick, I can feel it in every breath, every shift of her body against mine. It's always been there, this pull between us, but tonight, it feels like a living thing, crackling in the small space we've left between our bodies.
