Page 12 of Puck Tease
He opened the fridge. The light spilled out, casting his sharp profile in relief. He grabbed a gallon of water, unscrewed the cap, and drank straight from the jug. He downed half of it in one go, his throat working, water escaping the corner of his mouth and tracking down his chin.
He slammed the jug down on the counter.
He leaned over the island, gripping the granite edges with white-knuckled force. He hung his head, breathing hard through his nose.
The silence stretched, thin and brittle.
"Rough practice?" I asked. The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Jax’s spine went rigid. His head pivoted with agonizing slowness, his gaze snagging mine over his shoulder. His eyes, dark pools under heavy brows, held the dull glint of a banked fire, an inferno of frustration barely contained.
"Did I give you permission to speak?" he barked.
My mouth clicked shut. I shook my head.
He swung around completely, bracing his hips against the counter’s edge, arms crossed tight over his chest. His eyes raked over my body, a cold, clinical appraisal, stripping me bare in the dim light.
"Coach is riding my ass," he said, answering the question I wasn't supposed to ask. "Says my head isn't in the game. Says I'm playing distracted."
He huffed a laugh, devoid of humor.
"He's right. I am distracted."
He pushed off the counter and started walking toward me.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a desperate bird trapped in a cage. I pressed deeper into the couch cushions, my shoulder blades digging into the fabric, a futile attempt to shrink my defensive lineman’s frame into something less visible.
Jax stopped at the edge of the rug. He stood over me, blocking out the light from the kitchen. He smelled of the rink—that sharp, chemical ammonia smell mixed with the deep, earthy funk of a man who had pushed his body to failure for three hours.
"Stand up," he said.
My legs felt like lead weights, each joint protesting as I pushed myself upright. My six-foot-four frame usually dwarfed others, yet Jax, standing before me, seemed to absorb all the vertical space, an immovable pillar against the dim light.
He reached out and grabbed the front of my t-shirt. He bunched the fabric in his fist, pulling me a step closer until our chests brushed.
"You're shaking," he noted.
"I'm..." I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. "I haven't..."
"Haven't what?"
"I haven't touched myself. Since Friday."
Jax’s eyes narrowed. He let go of my shirt and dropped his hand to my crotch. He squeezed.
A choked gasp tore from my throat, my knees giving way beneath me. My cock sprang to attention, a blindingly rigid column, stretching the material of my briefs to its limit. His grip was a vice, a crushing pressure that sparked a white-hot current, a simultaneous jolt of searing pain and dizzying pleasure.
"Good," he muttered. "That's good. Means you're desperate."
He shoved me backward. I stumbled, catching my balance.
"Bedroom," he ordered. "Now."
He didn't wait for me. He turned and walked down the hall, entering his room.
My feet dragged, each step a leaden weight, carrying me down the narrow hall. My breath hitched, a knot tightening in my stomach. Was this the precipice of my undoing, or the long-awaited release? My body didn't know which, only that it moved forward.
When I entered the room, Jax was already stripping. He pulled his hoodie over his head, tossing it onto the floor. He wasn't wearing an undershirt. His torso was flushed, a map of exertion. Sweat glistened in the hollow of his throat and ran down the center line of his chest hair. He unlaced his track pants and shoved them down, kicking them away. He was left in black compression shorts. The bulge was prominent, straining against the lycra.
