Page 45 of Puck Tease
His hands shot out, grabbing the front of my shirt with a desperate, crushing grip. He yanked, hard. The fabric tore with a violent rip, splitting down the middle. Buttons popped, small plastic projectiles pinging off the concrete floor, echoing in the confined space.
“I can’t let you go,” he groaned, his voice cracking, the rage bleeding into a raw, terrible desperation. “I need you. I need to clear the pipes. I need to get this poison out of me before the third period or we’re going to lose the championship.”
He didn't lean in to kiss me. He didn’t ask.
He shoved me backward.
I flew, a weightless moment of terror, before crashing hard into the worktable where the equipment managers repaired helmets. My lower back hit the unforgiving edge with a jolt of searing pain that stole my breath.
“Pants,” he barked, the word a sharp command. “Off. Now.”
My fingers slipped off the buckle again, metal clattering, useless. The shake started in my wrists and rolled through every muscle until my teeth nearly chattered.
Jax stood motionless, staring. His eyes burned with something vicious, something starved. I couldn’t tell if hewanted to ruin me or devour me; the difference had vanished somewhere between one heartbeat and the next.
I shoved my jeans and boxers down to my ankles, the denim catching on my shoes. I couldn't get them off in time. I was trapped, hobbled, my legs bound by the fallen fabric, vulnerable.
Jax didn’t care. With one sweeping arm, he cleared the worktable. Screwdrivers, visors, rolls of tape, pucks, and spare cage masks went flying, clattering and skittering across the floor, adding to the general chaos.
He grabbed my hips, his fingers digging in with bruising force, and hoisted me up onto the cold laminate surface of the table.
The surface was cold, gritty with dust and dried epoxy.
Jax stepped between my spread legs. The table height would have been perfect, but on his skates, he was too tall. He had to crouch, widening his stance, a primal, animalistic pose that made his massive pads seem even more monstrous.
He fumbled with his hockey pants. The laces were knotted, stubborn. He ripped at them, a guttural curse tearing from his throat, and snapped the string. He shoved the heavy padding down just enough to free himself.
He was hard. Rock hard. A weapon, forged in the crucible of stress and adrenaline, burning with a frantic, desperate heat.
He didn't use spit. He didn't use lube. He didn't check if I was ready.
He grabbed my thighs, his fingers sinking into the muscle so hard I knew, with sickening certainty, that dark bruises in the shape of his hands would bloom there within the hour.
“Take it,” he growled, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. “Take the failure. Take the loss.”
Then he slammed into me.
“Fuck!” I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat, raw and agonizing. He entered me dry, forceful, and deep, a brutalinvasion. It felt like being stabbed with a blunt object, splitting me open. The friction was immediate, intense, a burning stretch that made my vision spot white with pain.
He didn’t stop. He didn’t slow down, not a fraction, to allow me to adjust. He started pistoning immediately, driving his hips forward with a brutal, punishing rhythm.
Thud. Crunch. Thud. The sounds filled the room, the impact of his body against mine.
His pads slammed against my chest, knocking the air from my lungs. His hip guards bruised my inner thighs with each violent thrust. The smell of him was overwhelming—ammonia, sweat, and the acrid tang of pure rage.
“You like this?” he shouted in my face, his breath hot, smelling of Gatorade and desperation. “You like ruining my game? You like making me look like a fool out there?”
“No,” I sobbed, clutching at his shoulders. The plastic pads were slick with sweat, my fingers slipping on the rigid surfaces. “Jax, please, it hurts—”
“Good! It should hurt! I’m hurting!”
He fucked me like he hated me, each thrust a deliberate act of destruction. He fucked me like he wanted to sand away his own existence inside of me, to grind his shame and frustration into my very core. Every impact was an accusation, every drive a punishment for the hold I had over him, for daring to exist in his head.
The table shook violently beneath us, its legs screeching against the rubber floor. Tools rattled on the shelves, a metallic percussion accompanying his furious rhythm.
He reached down, his fingers tangling in my hair, and yanked my head back until my neck cracked with a sickening pop. He stared down at me, his face a grotesque mask of contorted fury and pain.
“You did this,” he snarled, his voice thick with accusation. “You made me weak.”
