Page 58 of Puck Tease
"Jax..." The name was a whisper.
"I'll delete it," he said frantically, his eyes darting to the phone on the floor, then back to my face. "The video. I'll delete it right now. Just stay."
His hand, still shaking, slid from my face to the hem of my t-shirt.
"Let me show you," he begged, his voice cracking. "Let me make you stay."
He ripped the shirt upward, the fabric tearing with a sharp, violent sound.
I didn't stop him. I couldn't. All the fight, the anger, the bone-deep exhaustion just bled out of me in one breath. What rushed in to fill the hole was that same gut-punching pull that had been jerking me toward him for four goddamn years.
He stripped me efficiently, desperately, his movements clumsy with urgency. He tore my jeans off, the denim scraping against my skin. He shoved my boxers down, then kicked them away.
He stood up, his own mesh shorts falling to the floor. He was already hard, painfully, brutally hard, a thick, throbbing column.
But he didn't demand. He didn't order me to turn over.
He grabbed my ankles and pulled me down the mattress, dragging my body until my ass hung precariously at the edge of the bed.
He stepped between my legs, his hips pressing against my inner thighs.
He looked at me. Eye to eye. Soul to soul. His chest heaved.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered, his voice raw, hoarse with emotion. "Tell me to stop and I will. I swear to god, Tom, tell me to stop and I'll walk away and you can leave."
I looked at him. I looked at the raw, agonizing need in his expression, the desperation etched into every line of his face.
I realized then that the power had shifted. He wasn't keeping me here with a video. He was keeping me here because I couldn't bear the thought of him falling apart without me.
"Don't stop," I breathed, the words barely audible, a ragged gasp.
Jax made a sound, a low, guttural noise like a wounded animal, a mix of relief and anguish.
He pushed inside.
No lube. Just the slick pre-cum leaking from his own tip, a burning trail against my skin. He entered me slowly, agonizingly slow, letting me feel every millimeter of the invasion. A searing stretch, a fullness that bordered on pain, then the slow, deliberate expansion.
It wasn't a conquest. It was a merger.
He buried himself to the hilt, a deep, throbbing ache. He held my gaze, his eyes still wide, searching.
"Mine," he whispered, the word a desperate plea, a fragile claim. "Please be mine."
He started to move.
It was the most intense sex we’d ever had. It wasn't about performance. It wasn't about an audience. It was primal, stripped bare. He fucked me with a rhythm that felt like a heartbeat – heavy, steady, life-sustaining.
He released my wrists, only to grab my hands, interlacing our fingers, pinning them to the mattress. Not to trap me, but to anchor himself, a lifeline in the swirling storm of emotion.
"I'm sorry," he groaned with every thrust, his voice thick with apology, with regret. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
I lifted my legs, wrapping them around his waist, pulling him deeper, desperately, needing to feel him fill every empty space. I wanted him to bruise me, to mark me in a way that had nothing to do with teeth and everything to do with depth.
"Shut up," I gasped, my voice raw. "Just fuck me, Jax."
He did. He drove into me, hitting that deep, sweet spot over and over again. The friction was unbearable. The emotion was suffocating, a heavy blanket pressing down.
Tears streamed from my eyes, hot tracks running into my ears. I didn't know when they had started, only that they wouldn't stop.
