Dex

Dex. Twenty years old. Six-foot-one. He moves like he owns every room he walks into and most of the time, he does. A certified playboy with a smirk that gets him out of trouble just as fast as it gets him into it. Sharp eyes, slow voice, and a reputation as bad as him. And then there’s you the golden girl. Light to his darkness. The one person he can’t charm, can’t control, can’t quite figure out. He shouldn’t want you. You shouldn’t want him. But you both do (and that’s a problem.)