Page 49 of Puck Tease
Sunlight, strained and dusty, bled through the drawn blinds, striping the carpet in precise, geometric bars. The air hung warm, thick with the sharp, clean scent of lemon cleaner, a frantic, underlying musk of my own nervous sweat cutting through it.
Jax occupied the leather sofa, a picture of casual command. Ripped denim hugged his powerful thighs, a black t-shirt stretched taut across the planes of his chest. His bare feet, calloused from weeks on the ice, rested atop the very coffee tableI was meant to be polishing. His gaze, heavy-lidded and slow, tracked my movements, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He tapped the edge of his phone against his thigh, the soft click echoing in the stillness.
"Missed a spot," he said, his voice a low rumble, the phone tapping once more as he pointed a thumb toward the black entertainment unit.
I shifted my weight, the flesh of my ass jiggling with the movement, a cool whisper of air currents caressing my skin. I walked toward the unit, the Windex bottle growing slick in my palm. Bending at the waist, I reached for a glass shelf, a fine film of dust visible under the slanting light.
"Lower," Jax instructed, the words drawn out, deliberate. "Really get in there. Bend your knees."
My knees flexed, the motion pulling at the deep ache in my thighs—a persistent reminder of Friday’s equipment room session. I squatted, the cold glass pressing against my fingertips as I scrubbed, a faint squeak accompanying each swipe of the paper towel.
"Tyler's coming over," Jax announced, his tone as flat and casual as if he were commenting on the weather.
The paper towel froze against the glass. A sudden chill snaked its way up my spine, chasing away the warmth of the room. "What?" The word emerged as a choked gasp.
"Tyler. He's bringing the new FIFA. Wants to play a few rounds before video review tomorrow."
I straightened, the Windex bottle pressed hard against my chest, a flimsy, transparent shield. "Jax... I'm naked." The words felt small, pathetic.
"I know." His voice held no inflection, no surprise.
"You said... you said if I cleaned the apartment, we could watch a movie. You didn't say anyone was coming over." A tremor ran through my voice.
"Plans change." Jax shrugged, a lazy, dismissive lift of one shoulder. He picked up a PS5 controller, its black plastic cool against his fingers. "Besides, the place looks better with you like that. Decorative."
"I'm going to my room," I said, my voice rising a half-octave, my bare feet already shuffling backward across the carpet.
"No, you're not."
Jax’s voice remained even, but the playful edge vanished, replaced by a sudden, metallic sharpness. His eyes, previously lidded, snapped open, pinning me where I stood. The easy boredom that had softened his features evaporated, revealing the coiled tension of a predator.
"You're not done cleaning. The baseboards are dusty. The windows need wiping."
"Jax, I can't be out here like this with Tyler. He's the Assistant Captain." My voice was a desperate plea.
"Exactly. He's my right hand. He knows the score."
Jax pushed off the sofa, his movements fluid, unhurried. He closed the distance between us in three long strides. He plucked the Windex bottle from my hand, the plastic cold where my skin had warmed it, and set it with a softclinkon the entertainment unit shelf. Then, his fingers closed around my chin, tilting my head back, forcing my eyes to meet his.
"He knows you're mine," Jax said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur, the words vibrating through my jaw. "He saw the mark at the party. He knows what we do."
"Knowing is different than seeing," I whispered, the words catching in my throat.
"Is it?" Jax’s mouth curled, slow and filthy, the “I’m going to fuck you senseless” smirk that always made my gut drop. "I don't think so. I think you want him to see. I think you liked it on the bus when everyone was watching the blanket move."
A hot flush crawled up my neck, spreading across my cheeks, setting my ears alight. He wasn't wrong. The memory of the bus—the daring risk, the silent, shared thrill—still sent a shameful, undeniable twitch through my dick.
"Here's the deal," Jax continued, his thumb stroking the curve of my jaw. "Tyler comes in. We play FIFA. You keep cleaning. You don't speak unless spoken to. You don't make eye contact. You're just... background."
"Background?" The word tasted bitter on my tongue.
"Yeah. Like a piece of furniture. A very fuckable piece of furniture."
A heavy, insistent *pound* rattled the front door. My heart slammed against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against my bare sternum.
"Go," Jax said, a sharp command, his hand shoving me lightly toward the kitchen area. "Do the dishes. Bending over the sink gives a great view from the couch."
"Jax—"
