Page 36 of Puck Tease
As he walked around to the driver's side, I lifted a finger to my cheek. It was still sticky. He hadn't wiped it all away. I licked my finger. It tasted of salt and him. As the engine roared to life, a powerful rumble that swallowed the distant party music, a chilling realization settled deep in my gut. The video. The blackmail. They felt like distant echoes now, flimsy excuses. My body hummed with a different truth. I craved the edge. I craved him.
???
Neither of us spoke, just the low growl of the engine and the thick, dangerous heat rolling off both of us. Jax gripped the steering wheel with one hand, his knuckles white, the other resting on the gear shift. He drove fast, aggressively, weaving through the sparse late-night traffic, each turn a sharp, decisive movement.
I sat in the passenger seat, a tremor running through me. My body felt like a battlefield, sated by the sheer terror, yet aching with a raw, physical denial. My balls throbbed, a heavy, blue-balled ache that was quickly becoming my new normal.
He parked in our usual spot. We climbed the stairs. Jax unlocked the apartment door, the click echoing in the quiet stairwell, and threw the deadbolt the second we were inside. He didn't bother with the lights.
"Bedroom," he said, the single word a low command in the darkness.
I walked to the bedroom, my movements automatic, a practiced ritual. My fingers went to the drawstrings of my hoodie, pulling it over my head. Then my t-shirt.
"Leave the pants," Jax said.
My hands, mid-motion at my belt buckle, froze. "What?"
"Leave them on."
He strode across the dark room. He pushed against my chest, a firm, deliberate pressure, sending me stumbling backward onto the bed. I landed with a soft bounce on the mattress.
Jax crawled over me. He was still fully dressed—jeans, belt, boots. He straddled my hips, his weight pinning me to the mattress, a heavy, inescapable presence. He grabbed my wrists, pulling them above my head, securing them with one hand.
"You did good tonight," he said, his voice a low, raspy murmur close to my ear. "You kept quiet."
"I almost choked."
"But you didn't. You took it."
He released my hands. His free hand, rough with calluses, traced the line of my jaw. "You know what that makes you?"
"A slut?" I whispered, the word tasting bitter on my tongue.
"No." He shook his head, a slight movement against the dim light. "It makes you trustworthy."
He let go of my wrists. He sat back, his weight settling heavily on my thighs.
"Unzip your pants."
My fingers fumbled at my waist, pulling down the zipper.
"Pull it out."
I fished my cock out of my jeans. It sprang free, raging hard, purple and weeping a fresh bead of pre-cum in the dim light.
Jax looked at it. His eyes lingered, sharp and assessing, but he didn't touch.
"Jerk it," he said.
A sudden, fierce surge of heat ripped through my chest. "I... can I?" The question was a desperate plea.
"Yeah. I want to watch."
I wrapped my hand around my cock. The sensation was overwhelming, an electric current. After days of aching denial, the simple friction of my own skin felt like fire. I started to stroke, fast, desperate, my hips beginning to buck involuntarily.
"Slow down," Jax ordered, his voice flat.
I forced myself to slow, each stroke a deliberate effort against the frantic pulse in my veins. My hips fought against the command, twitching with an unbearable need.
