Page 17 of Puck Tease
I stumbled toward his closet. It smelled like him—a clean, sharp scent of cedar and freshly laundered fabric, overlaid with something indefinably male. My fingers fumbled through the hangers, finding the blue silk tie. It was smooth, cool against my skin, the expensive fabric sliding through my touch.
When I walked into his bedroom, Jax was standing by the bed. He had already pushed the mattress slightly askew, exposing the cold, gleaming metal bars of the headboard. The room felt smaller, the air thicker.
"Lie down," he said. "On your back."
My legs felt like lead, but I obeyed, lowering myself onto the mattress protector. Its rough texture rasped against my bare back. I looked up at him, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
"Hands above your head. Grab the headboard."
I stretched my arms overhead, my fingers closing around the cold, unforgiving metal bars.
Jax took the tie from my hand. He wrapped the smooth silk around my left wrist, the fabric cool and soft against my skin, then looped it around the metal bar in a figure-eight pattern. He repeated the process with my right wrist, securing both hands. He tied the knots tight, pulling the silk until it bit into my skin, not enough to cut off circulation, but enough to ensure I couldn’t pull free.
I was trussed up, splayed open, a sacrifice on the altar of his desire. My chest heaved, my ribs expanding against the stretched skin of my torso. My cock, a desperate, throbbing column of flesh, bobbed against my stomach.
Jax stood over me for a long moment, his eyes dragging down my tied wrists, bare chest, the hard-on standing like a flagpole. His mouth hooked into that slow, filthy smirk that said he was already balls-deep in my head.
"We’re going to play a game," he said, his voice a low, silken promise. "It’s called 'How much can you take?'"
He climbed onto the bed, his weight settling on the mattress. He crawled over me, his knees pressing down on either side of my hips, pinning me in place. His presence was overwhelming, a suffocating weight.
He didn't use lube. He simply looked down at my cock, already glistening with its own fluid, the pre-cum beaded at the tip. "Natural lube," he noted, his voice a low murmur. "Let's see if it lasts."
He wrapped his fingers around the base of my cock. His grip was firm, unyielding, a vise of flesh and bone. His palm, calloused and rough from years of gripping a hockey stick, scraped against the velvet-smooth skin.
He started to stroke.
"Oh god," I groaned, my head tossing back into the pillow, a sound torn from the deepest part of my throat.
It was too much. The friction, after four days of desperate denial, was a white-hot fire, searing through my nerves. The sensation ofhishand—Jax’s hand—dragging over my over-sensitized skin was blinding, a flash of pure, mind-numbing pleasure that threatened to consume me whole. The world narrowed to the feel of his touch, the rhythmic push and pull.
"Quiet," he said, his voice a low command, cutting through the rising tide of sensation. "Focus on the sensation."
He pumped me. One. Two. Three.
I was already climbing, scrambling up the sheer face of ecstasy. The pressure built instantly, a tidal wave crashing overme, roaring in my ears, threatening to drag me under. My vision blurred, spots dancing behind my eyelids.
"Jax, I'm gonna—"
He stopped.
He squeezed the base of my cock, hard, a brutal clamp. His thumb pressed down on the head, sealing the urethra, physically blocking the release.
"No," he said calmly, his voice a flat, emotionless line.
The pleasure, so intense a moment before, twisted into a sharp, jagged ache. A strangled gasp ripped from my throat. I strained against the ties, the blue silk biting into my wrists, the knots digging deep. My hips bucked and writhed, a desperate, primal effort to chase his hand, to force the orgasm out against his unyielding grip.
He held me there, suspended, right on the cliff, freezing me in that agonizing split second before relief. The air in my lungs felt trapped, my body locked in a scream that wouldn't come.
He waited. He watched my face contort, my jaw clenched, my eyes squeezed shut. He watched the veins in my neck bulge, thick cords straining against my skin.
Finally, the wave receded, leaving me stranded and gasping. The blinding urgency faded to a dull, throbbing roar. I lay there, panting, my chest heaving, the mattress protector sticking to my sweat-slicked back.
"That was one," he said, his voice casual, as if commenting on the weather.
"Jax, please," I begged, the words ragged. "Just let me finish. It hurts."
"It’s supposed to hurt," he said, staring down at me with those cold, glacier eyes. "That’s how you learn control. You don't get to come just because it feels good. You come when I decide you've earned it."
