Chapter 4 : Good Girl Gone Wild (ii)

Alexander’s POV

I just never realize I am the one needing protection—from her.

Now?

She laughs louder. Walks bolder.

Moves like sin dipped in sunlight, and when she looks at me...

Goddamn.

It’s not safety she’s asking for anymore—it’s something else. Something that makes my blood run hot and wrong and desperate.

I lean back in my chair, feeling the old leather creak under the tension thrumming in my body. I pinch the bridge of my nose, squeezing my eyes shut.

“You’re losing it,” I mutter to myself, the words harsh and ugly in the quiet room. "You're the fucking adult. She’s just—"

I stop.

I flinch. At my own filthy thoughts.

The shit swirling in my head would make a priest start smoking again.

No.

I’m not that man.

I don’t cross lines. I don’t even fucking look at them.

I build walls so high even God has to ask for permission to peek over.

And then she walks in—skirts swirling, lips curling—and she doesn't just knock on the walls.

She burns them the fuck down.

My chest heaves like I just ran a mile. My hands are fists on the armrests.

I’m losing ground.

And Ivy?

She’s just getting started.

Later that afternoon, I’m holed up in the library, pretending to read.

At least, that's the lie I’m telling myself.

Truth?

I haven't turned a page in twenty minutes.

The heavy oak door creaks open, and I don’t even have to look to know it’s her.

I feel her. Like a fucking storm rolling through the room.

She pads in barefoot—barefoot, for Christ's sake—in the tiniest scrap of denim shorts I’ve ever seen.

Crop top. No bra.

Hair twisted up, messy and sweet, a few rebellious strands falling around her flushed cheeks.

A walking goddamn fantasy. A little slice of summer hell.

And I’m already burning.

She pretends to skim the shelves, fingertips grazing the old spines, swaying her hips like she knows I’m watching—and fuck me, I am watching. Every swing. Every inch of golden skin.

“You know...” she says, voice lilting, playful. “I used to think you were scary.”

I don’t even lift my head from the book. My voice comes out low and rough. “I still am.”

She giggles—low, breathy, teasing—the sound slicing straight through the flimsy defense I’ve been clinging to.

“Not to me. Not anymore.”

Not anymore.

Fuck.

I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood.

“Then you’re dumber than you look,” I growl.

She just smiles, all smug and dangerous, like she’s poking a lion with a goddamn stick and loving it.

She moves behind me, slow as molasses, and I feel her before I see her.

Warm fingers, soft and feather-light, trail down the back of my neck.

I go stiff. Like a fucking board.

“You’re tense, Daddy,” she whispers, voice dripping in fake sympathy. “Need me to rub it out for you?”

Rub it out.

Jesus Christ.

I slam the book shut with a loud crack and shoot to my feet so fast the chair scrapes across the floor.

She doesn’t even flinch.

She stands there, inches away, all wide-eyed innocence wrapped in sin.

Her chin tips up.

Her chest rises with every shallow, taunting breath.

Her nipples are hard under that flimsy little top, and I want to bite them through the fabric, leave bruises she’ll wear like fucking jewelry.

“You wanna know what scares me, Ivy?” I grind out, voice a lethal whisper.

She blinks, but she doesn’t back down.

God, she never fucking backs down.

“Tell me, Alexander,” she purrs.

I step closer, my chest brushing hers, just barely, enough to feel her heat bleed into me.

“You.”

Her lips part. A soft gasp. She wasn’t expecting that.

“You scare the ever-loving hell out of me,” I say, my voice dropping even lower. Dangerous now. "Because you don't even fucking realize what you’re doing to me. Or worse—you do. You know exactly what that mouth does. What that body does. What those little fucking smiles do."

I catch a whiff of her shampoo—vanilla and sunshine and fucking temptation.

It wraps around me, choking me.

"But I won’t break," I promise, the words rolling out between clenched teeth.

"You want to see me fall? You want to watch me lose my mind over you? You want me on my knees, begging to taste you?"

I lean in, until my lips are brushing the shell of her ear.

"Not. Going to. Happen."

Her breath catches. Her thighs press together. Her hands tremble just a little.

Victory—and agony—punch me in the gut.

She thinks this is a game.

But this?

This is war.

Her voice comes out thin, breathy, rebellious to the end. “That sounds like a challenge.”

I smile then—a cruel, wolfish thing.

“It’s a fucking promise, baby girl.”

Then I walk out, without another look, leaving her standing there trembling, heart pounding against her ribs, skin flushed and needy.

And me?

I walk straight to the coldest, goddamn shower in the house.

Hard. Hungry. Haunted.

Knowing damn well...

I’m already losing the battle.

To Be Continued...