Page 2 of Puck Tease
I sat there, in my t-shirt and briefs, legs spread wide, Jax’s sweat-soaked jersey heavy in my lap. My hands ran over thecoarse mesh, rough and abrasive against my palms. I imagined it was his skin, taut over muscle. I imagined the rough stubble of his jaw, the calloused grip of his hands.
My hand dove down, fumbling, into the front of my boxers.
My cock sprang free, angry, weeping with pre-cum. A clear bead sealed the tip shut. I gripped myself. My own hand felt too small, too familiar, the skin too soft. I wanted something heavier. Rougher.
I wrapped the jersey around my fist.
The mesh, initially cold against my hot skin, quickly warmed. I stroked myself, the rough fabric of his number 17 scraping against the sensitive skin of my shaft. The friction was a sharp, burning drag, the tiny holes of the mesh catching and dragging.
A groan tore from my throat. My head fell back, eyes squeezing shut.
"Jax," I breathed, the name a raw sound, a curse and a prayer.
I leaned forward, burying my nose back into the collar of the jersey, dragging the scent deep into my lungs, letting it dizzy me. Below, my hand worked a steady, punishing rhythm. I imagined him standing over me. Not the roommate Jax who grunted about needing more milk. But the Captain. The monster on the ice who drove opponents through the glass for the sheer pleasure of it. I imagined him walking in, seeing me like this, and not turning away. I imagined the click of the lock, the heavy weight of his body pinning me down, his voice a low growl in my ear, telling me I was pathetic, disgusting, exactly what he wanted.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
The wet, rhythmic sound of my fist hitting my own thigh echoed loud in the quiet room.
I was close. Too fast. It always happened like this when it came to him. Shame, a potent accelerant, poured gasoline on thefire. I was a thief, a creep, defiling his property with my own filth.
The degradation made my hips buck, an involuntary spasm.
I stroked faster, abandoning any pretense of pacing. I twisted the jersey tighter around my dick, wringing myself out. I needed release, needed to empty this pressure before it cracked my ribs.
My breathing turned ragged, harsh pants tearing from my throat. "Fuck... Captain... please..."
I was there. The edge was a physical cliff, my toes curling over the precipice. White static bloomed at the corners of my vision. My thighs clenched, my entire body vibrating, ready to bust.
Then, a floorboard creaked.
It was barely a sound. Just the subtle shift of weight on old wood.
But in the heavy silence of the apartment, it ripped through me like a gunshot.
My eyes snapped open.
The adrenaline dump hit my heart so hard I thought it stopped beating. Blood drained from my face, leaving me cold and dizzy, a sudden emptiness in my head.
I wasn't alone.
My head snapped up.
Jax stood framed in the doorway.
He wasn’t in his gear. He wore street clothes: faded jeans, a black hoodie, arms crossed casually over his chest. He leaned against the doorframe, relaxed, as if he’d been standing there for a while.
As if he’d been watching.
Time warped, stretching thin, then snapping. The universe compressed down to the terrifying, suffocating distance between my bed and the door. My muscles locked, a sudden, rigid paralysis. My hand, still wrapped around my cock, froze. Thenavy-blue jersey was tangled in my fist, the stark white number 17 glaring against my pale skin. My legs lay spread wide, sweatpants around my ankles.
Exposed. Caught. Dead.
"Jax," I choked out, the name a breathless croak, barely audible.
He didn’t move. Not a muscle twitched. His face was unreadable, a mask of stone. His eyes—those cold, glacier-blue eyes that could spot a passing lane through three defenders on the ice—were locked, not on my face, but on my hand. On the jersey.
No anger tightened the lines around his mouth. No disgust wrinkled his nose.
