Page 29 of Puck Tease
He didn't need to be told twice.
He readjusted his grip on my hips, his fingers digging in. He slammed me against the wall one last time, pinning me there with his sheer weight, his body a hot, wet shield.
He started to piston, fast, hard, reckless, his movements losing all semblance of control. I could feel his muscles seizing up, his breath turning into ragged shouts, primal sounds that resonated through his chest and into mine.
"I'm close," he warned, his voice strained. "Don't you dare come yet."
"I can't hold it," I whined, my hand already stroking myself, slippery with soap and water, a desperate attempt to control the inevitable. "Jax, please."
"Hold it!"
He drove deep, hitting that spot inside me that made my vision go black, sparks dancing behind my eyelids.
He groaned, a sound that vibrated through his chest and into mine, a visceral release.
"Fuck!"
He came.
I felt the spasms deep inside me, violent and undeniable. He unloaded, hot fluid filling me up, mixing with the shower water, washing down my legs. He slumped against me, his forehead resting on my wet shoulder, his weight heavy, a dead mass.
"Now," he whispered, his voice hoarse, spent. "Let go."
I didn't stroke. I just clenched my muscles around him, squeezing the last drops out of him, milking him dry. The sensation, the intense internal pressure, was enough, more than enough.
I blew my load like a busted pipe.
My release was ferocious, unassisted, a full-body tremor. I shot onto his stomach, onto the wall, the white ropes of cum washing away instantly in the powerful spray. My legs gave out. If Jax hadn't been holding me, a rigid pillar against my collapse, I would have crumpled onto the slick tile floor.
We stood there for a long time, held together by exhaustion and the lingering aftershocks. The water ran over us, washing away the sweat, the cum, the evidence of our transgression.
My shoulder throbbed where he’d bitten me, a dull, insistent ache. My back ached from the relentless impact against the wall. My hole felt stretched, full, and exquisitely tender.
Jax finally pulled out, a slow, deliberate withdrawal. He stepped back, separating our bodies.
He looked at the bite mark on my shoulder. It was an angry red oval, already bruising, with a small smear of fresh blood trailing down.
He reached out and traced it with his thumb, a feather-light touch.
"Perfect," he whispered, a chilling satisfaction in his voice.
He turned off the shower. The sudden silence was deafening, a ringing in my ears. The hum of the compressors seemed louder now.
"Get dressed," he said, his voice returning to that flat, commanding tone, the mask of the Captain firmly back in place. "We need to get out of here before the crew comes down."
I grabbed my towel, my hands shaking. I dried off, the rough cotton abrading my tender skin. I put my clothes back on, each movement an effort. The hoodie rubbed against the bite mark, a constant, stinging reminder of what had just transpired.
Jax dressed quickly, efficiently. He didn't look at me, his focus already elsewhere – checking his phone, grabbing his bag, preparing for the exit.
We walked out of the locker room. The hallway was still empty, eerily silent. The clank-squeak of the mop bucket was gone, vanished like a ghost.
We walked out the back door, stepping from the humid warmth into the biting cold of the night air.
"My truck is in the north lot," Jax said, not looking at me.
"I walked," I replied, my voice hoarse.
"Get in the truck."
