Page 16 of Puck Tease
"I had class."
"I don't care." The words sliced through the air, sharp and dismissive.
He hit a button, and the game froze, the vibrant colors on the screen locking into a still image. He set the controller down on the cushion beside him, the plastic clicking softly. Then, slowly, he turned his head. His eyes, the color of glacier ice, found mine.
His gaze felt like a physical weight, pressing down on me, heavy and cold. It raked over me, a slow, deliberate sweep from my face to my feet, dissecting every inch, searching for something, a weakness, a flaw. I felt exposed, stripped bare beneath that clinical appraisal.
"Come here," he said, the command a low rumble in his chest.
I dropped my backpack by the door, the heavy thud echoing in the quiet room. My shoulders hunched instinctively. My feet moved, one after the other, carrying me across the carpet. I stopped a few feet from the couch, my posture stiff, my hands clasped in front of me. I felt like a recruit, standing at attention, waiting for orders, or a dog, holding its breath, waiting to see if the hand reaching out would offer a treat or deliver a blow.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice deceptively mild.
"Sore," I admitted, the word a tight whisper.
"Good." The single word, delivered with a slow, almost thoughtful nod, sent a shiver down my spine. His eyes dropped, drawn inexorably to my crotch. The denim of my jeans was stretched taut, the unmistakable bulge of my erection a betrayal. "And that?"
"It hurts, Jax. Seriously." My voice cracked on the last word, the admission a raw plea.
He smirked, a cruel, small twisting of his lips. "Blue balls?"
"It’s been four days. It feels like... like bruising. Deep inside."
"Poor baby." The words were laced with mockery, a dismissive flick of his wrist.
He sat forward, spreading his knees wide. The gray sweatpants dipped even lower on his hips, exposing a hint of pale skin above the waistband. The gesture felt like an invitation, a challenge.
"Strip."
My heart gave a violent lurch, hammering against my ribs, suffocating me. "Here? In the living room?" The words came out in a rush, a desperate stammer.
"Blinds are closed," he said, gesturing vaguely toward the window with a tilt of his head. "Strip. Now." His voice brooked no argument.
I hesitated, my breath catching in my throat, for only a fraction of a second. The look in his eyes hardened, a silentwarning. My hand, trembling slightly, reached for my belt buckle. The metallic click echoed in the quiet room.
I toed off my sneakers, sending them skittering across the polished floor. Then, in one swift, almost desperate motion, I pushed down my jeans and boxers, kicking them aside. They lay in a crumpled heap on the carpet, a silent accusation.
I stood naked in the center of the living room, exposed. My cock, released from its denim prison, sprang up instantly, throbbing with a painful tension. A clear drop of pre-cum pearled at its tip, glistening, betraying the raw, frantic edge of my need.
Jax reached out a hand, his movements slow and deliberate. He didn't grab. He simply ran one finger, cool and firm, down the length of the shaft, tracing the prominent vein that pulsed beneath the skin.
I hissed, a sharp intake of breath. My hips jerked forward involuntarily, a desperate, uncontrolled spasm. The contact was a jolt, it burned down every wire in me in a half second.
"Sensitive," he murmured, his voice a low, knowing sound. "Way too sensitive. You’d pop in ten seconds if I let you touch it."
"Probably," I gasped, my chest heaving. "Please, Jax..." The plea was torn from my throat, raw and unbidden.
"That’s a problem," he said, pulling his hand back, leaving a cold trail on my skin. "I need you to have stamina. If you’re going to be my stress relief, you need to be able to last longer than a commercial break. I can’t have you tapping out before I’m even warmed up."
He pushed himself to his feet. He towered over me, a solid wall of muscle and dominance. The heat radiating from his chest, from his bare skin, enveloped me, a suffocating warmth.
"My bedroom. Get the tie."
I blinked, my mind slow, struggling to process the abrupt shift. "The... tie?"
"From my closet. The blue silk one. The one I wore to the banquet last year. Bring it." His voice held no room for questions.
He turned and walked away, his stride even, measured. He didn't glance back to see if I followed, his certainty absolute.
