Page 5 of Puck Tease
The grey, elastic waistband was frayed, stretched. The cup pouch bore a faint, yellowish stain. He picked it up by a strap, dangling it between two fingers.
He walked back to me, holding it out. It swayed inches from my face.
"You like my gear so much?" he asked softly, his voice a silken trap. "You want it?"
I stared at the jock. My heart rate kicked up again, a frantic flutter. Every rational cell in my body screamed in protest.I shouldn't want it. I should punch him. I should pack my bags and leave.
But the video.
And the smell.
And the way he was looking at me—a cold, possessive gaze that stripped me bare, that knew exactly which buttons to press to make me break.
"What do I have to do?" I whispered, my voice a thin thread.
Jax smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was a slow, arrogant curl of his lip, a flash of triumph in his eyes, the smile of a man who’d just realized he held a winning lottery ticket he hadn't paid for.
"You do what I say," he said, his voice dropping, "When I say it. No questions. No complaining. You become my stress ball. You take whatever I need to dish out to get my head right for the season."
He leaned in close, his breath warm against my ear.
"You be my bitch, Tom. And in exchange, the video stays in the vault. And maybe... I don’t know... I let you sniff the gear fresh off my body instead of digging it out of the trash like a rat."
He pressed the jockstrap against my chest, the rough fabric a shocking contrast to my bare skin.
"Do we have a deal?"
I looked at him. My eyes flickered to the phone in his pocket. My gaze dropped to the jockstrap pressed against my skin.
A cold dread settled in my chest. I knew this was a bad idea. I knew this would ruin me in ways the video never could, in ways that would hollow me out from the inside.
But God help me, I didn't want him to leave.
My hand, numb, reached up and took the jockstrap. My fingers brushed his, a fleeting spark of contact.
"Deal," I rasped, the word a confession.
Jax’s grin widened. He patted my cheek, a stinging, condescending tap.
"Good boy."
He turned and walked toward the door, his back to me.
"Where are you going?" I asked, my voice thin, clutching his underwear to my chest.
"Shower," he said without looking back. "Practice wasn't cancelled. I just got kicked out for fighting. I'm full of adrenaline and I need to come down."
He stopped at the bathroom door.
"Give me five minutes," he called back over his shoulder. "Then get your ass in here. Naked. And bring the jersey. You're going to clean it."
"Clean it?" My voice hitched.
He looked over his shoulder, his eyes dark, unreadable.
"Yeah. With your tongue. While I watch."
He stepped into the bathroom and shut the door with a soft click.
