Page 46 of Puck Tease
He slammed deep, hitting my prostate with zero mercy.
My body betrayed me. Despite the searing pain, despite the anger radiating from him, the sheer, overwhelming stimulation was too much. My cock, trapped between our stomachs, began to leak, a shameful, involuntary response. My hips bucked up to meet him, an instinctual, animalistic craving for the fullness, for the relentless pressure.
“Yeah,” he sneered, his lips curling back from his teeth. “That’s it. Take it, slut. Be my cum bucket.”
He shifted his grip, one hand releasing my hair to fasten around my throat, his thumb pressing hard into my windpipe. He cut off my air.
Panic flared, hot and sharp, a desperate, clawing thing in my chest. I clawed at his wrist, my nails scraping uselessly against the thick fabric of his glove. He didn’t let go. He stared into my eyes, his own unblinking, as I gasped, as my face flushed with the struggle for breath. He wanted to see the life flicker, to witness the fading light. He wanted total, absolute control in a night where he had none.
“I own you,” he rasped, his voice a ragged whisper, close to my ear. “I own your breath. I own your ass. I own your fucking scholarship.”
He released my throat just as my lungs began to burn, a searing agony. I sucked in a ragged, desperate breath, coughing, my body convulsing with the effort.
He used the moment, the raw gasp of my recovery, to drive harder, faster. He was close. I could feel the tension ratcheting up in his massive frame, every muscle coiling. His quads, massive in the hockey pants, trembled with the sheer effort.
“Fix me,” he begged, the anger cracking, splintering to reveal the raw, desperate plea underneath. “Tom, fuck, fix me.”
He buried his face in my neck, the rough stubble of his chin scraping my skin raw. He bit down on the sensitive cord of muscle, a muffled groan tearing from his throat.
His rhythm started to stutter, breaking from its brutal pace. He hammered into me—three, four, five fast, shallow strokes—and then slammed home with a final, shuddering impact.
He bottomed out, grinding his pubic bone against me, the sensation raw and intense.
He came with a roar that shook the very walls of the equipment room, a violent, guttural sound of release.
It was a violent release, a convulsion that shuddered through his entire body. I felt the pulses, hot and thick, flooding me, filling me to the brim. He emptied himself, pouring all the frustration, the fear, and the shame of the game, of the night, into my body.
I came too. Hands-free. The intensity of his climax, the crushing tightness of his grip, the sheer, brutal sensory overload triggered a dry, racking orgasm that left me shaking uncontrollably, seeing stars behind my tightly squeezed eyelids.
He stayed locked deep, grinding, emptying every ounce of rage and hunger into my gut while his teeth sank into my shoulder. The place reeked of sweat, chlorine, and the sharp, unmistakable stink of a hate-bred load shot so deep I’d feel him for days.
He didn't pull out. He leaned his heavy, sweat-drenched weight on me, his forehead resting against the cold laminate of the table beside my head. His breathing was harsh, sawing in and out of his lungs, gradually slowing to a ragged pant.
The silence returned to the room, heavier than before, thick with the aftermath. The distant roar of the crowd, muted before, now seemed miles away, a sound from another dimension.
I lay there, legs spread, my jeans and boxers tangled around my ankles, filled with him, the evidence of his desperation stillinside me. My lower back throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. My neck stung where he’d grabbed my hair, then my throat.
Slowly, imperceptibly, the suffocating tension began to bleed out of the room.
Jax’s breathing softened, evening out. The rigid, coiled tension in his shoulders seemed to melt away, leaving them slumped, exhausted.
He lifted his head.
He looked at me. Not just glanced, butreallylooked at me, his gaze sweeping over my face, the torn shirt, the mess.
The madness was gone from his eyes. The angry red rim was still there, but the pupils had focused, the wildness replaced by a weary clarity. The predator was sated, leaving only the man.
His gaze dropped to my torn shirt, then lingered on the dark bruises already blooming on my hips, circular imprints of his fingers. He saw the tears, dried tracks on my temples, and the fresh ones still tracing paths from the corners of my eyes.
He didn’t apologize. Jax Carter didn’t apologize. The words simply weren't in him.
But he did something else.
He pulled out, slowly, the thick warmth receding. The sudden loss of him was a cold, hollow ache.
He adjusted his gear, tucking himself away with practiced movements, but he didn’t step back, didn't create distance.
He reached out. His hand, usually so rough and calloused from years of gripping a stick, cupped my cheek. His thumb brushed away a tear, a gentle, tender gesture that felt utterly alien after the preceding violence.
