Page 39 of Puck Tease
"Jax," I whispered, the sound a desperate rasp, my throat tight with a rising terror. "Don't."
"Don't what?" His voice was a flat, even question.
"We're on the bus. The coaches are right there." My gaze flicked towards the front, then back to his impassive profile.
"They're sleeping," he said, his tone utterly calm, undisturbed. "And even if they weren't... it's dark. No one can see under the blanket."
His hand reached the apex of my thigh. He brushed against the distinct, undeniable bulge in my jeans.
My body twitched, a violent, uncontrollable jerk. A rush of heat flooded my groin. I was already semi-hard, a traitorous, automatic response. His touch was a trigger, a hardwired connection forged from months of fear and a perverse, unwanted lust. He touched me, and I swelled. Simple biology, twisted and rewired.
"See?" he whispered, leaning in closer, his lips brushing my earlobe, sending a shiver down my spine. "You want it. You're begging for it."
"I'm terrified." The words were a desperate plea.
"Good. Fear keeps you quiet."
He shifted his body slightly, turning more fully towards me. His broad shoulders instantly formed an impenetrable wall, blocking any potential view from the aisle. To a casual glance, we would simply appear as two large teammates trying to find a comfortable position in the cramped seats.
Under the blanket, his hand moved with practiced precision. He unbuttoned my jeans.
The metal button popped, a sharp, shockingly loud sound in the hushed cabin, like a gunshot echoing in a library. My entire body went rigid. I froze, every nerve stretched taut, waiting for heads to turn, for eyes to snap open.
Nothing. Only the ceaseless hum of the tires.
He lowered my zipper. ZZZZzt. Slow. The teeth grated, one by agonizing one, a whisper that shrieked in my ears.
He reached inside. His rough hand bypassed my boxers, sliding down the front, skin against skin.
He wrapped his fingers around me.
A sharp gasp escaped my throat, my back arching off the seat in a silent spasm. My hand flew to my mouth, clamping down, stifling the sound, biting into the flesh of my palm.
His hand was cold. Cool from the air conditioning that permeated the bus, the shock of it against my fever-hot skin was electric, a jolt that ran through every nerve ending.
"Shh," he hissed, the sound a low warning. "You make a sound, and I stop."
He squeezed. His grip tightened, a possessive vice.
"Rule Number Two," he whispered, his voice a dark caress. "Submission. You take what I give you."
He began to stroke me.
It was no gentle caress. This was a claiming, a relentless assertion of control. He pumped his hand, slow and deliberate, using the slick pre-cum already leaking from me as lubricant. The friction was rough, almost dry, and searingly hot.
"Close your eyes," he ordered.
"Jax..." The protest was weak, barely a breath.
"Close them. Pretend you're asleep."
I squeezed my eyes shut, the darkness inside my eyelids deepening the darkness around us.
It only made it worse. Without sight, every other sensation magnified. I felt the deep, resonant vibration of the bus engine rattling through the seat, transferring directly into my bones. I felt the insistent heat of his leg pressed tight against mine. I felt the rough callouses on his palm dragging, relentlessly, over the sensitive head of my cock.
"That's it," he murmured, a low, satisfied sound. "Just a tired little boy having a wet dream."
He leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his own eyes. His face, in the dim light, looked completely relaxed, peaceful even, as if he truly were napping.
