Page 41 of Puck Tease
He went back to stroking, but the rhythm had changed. It was faster now, more aggressive, a frantic, almost violent pace. The interruption had clearly spiked his own adrenaline.
"Finish," he ordered, his voice a low growl.
"Jax, I can't... it's too risky..." My voice was a choked plea.
"I said finish. Silent. If you make a noise, I'll pull your pants down right here."
The threat, stark and immediate, sent a final, shattering wave through me.
The pressure stacked in my balls, a brutal ache screaming for release. I clenched everything, tried to ride the edge, but his hand kept pumping, merciless, unstoppable. He owned my body—knew the exact spot to grind, the perfect squeeze to break me, the twist that demolished my control.
I arched hard, cheek smashed to the icy glass, teeth clenched so tight my jaw shook, trying to swallow the roar clawing up my throat.
“Come on,” he snarled, lips brushing my ear, voice pure gravel and sin. “Flood those fucking jeans for me.”
I broke.
Cock jerking, thick pulses slammed through me, hot ropes soaking cotton in endless waves while my whole body seized, hips bucking helplessly against his grip, every spurt dragged out of me like he owned the orgasm itself.
It was a silent, violent explosion. My hips bucked, spasming uncontrollably against his hand. I came hard, hot jets of semen shooting out, coating his hand, soaking instantly into the fabric of my jeans, making a warm, sticky mess.
I shook, my mouth open in a silent, desperate scream of release, my body trembling from the force of it.
Jax didn't stop immediately. He milked me, his hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes. He squeezed every last drop out, keeping his hand moving until I was hypersensitive, twitching, and utterly spent.
Then, he stopped.
He withdrew his hand from my pants.
I slumped in the seat, boneless, every muscle drained. My breathing was ragged, loud in my own ears, a gasping sound that I prayed was quiet enough for the sleeping bus. I felt sticky, wet, and deeply, irrevocably ruined.
Jax pulled his hand out from under the blanket.
In the dim, blueish glow of the safety strip running along the floor, his hand glistened. It was coated in my fluids, wet and shining.
He looked at it. Then, his gaze lifted, locking onto mine.
He didn't reach for a tissue. He didn't wipe it on the seat or his own jeans.
Slowly, deliberately, he brought his hand to his mouth.
He licked his palm.
He cleaned himself off, slowly, methodically, his eyes never leaving mine. He tasted me. He swallowed me. Each movement was a calculated act of consumption, a final, intimate degradation.
"Salty," he whispered, his eyes still fixed on me. "You need to drink more water."
He wiped the last of it on his own jeans, a casual, dismissive gesture.
Then, he did something that broke me more completely than the act itself.
He reached under the blanket again. With precise, careful movements, he zipped me up. He buttoned my jeans. He tucked my shirt in. He adjusted my clothes, smoothing them down, asif dressing a child, or a doll, leaving me perfectly neat, perfectly contained, perfectly defiled.
"Clean it up later," he said, his voice flat. "Sit in it for now. Let it remind you."
He shifted his body, lifting the armrest between us with a soft click.
He pulled me against him.
