Page 61 of Puck Tease
His eyes, still unfocused, swept over my face. The air between us thickened, crackling with an almost visible static charge that made the hairs on my arms stand on end, a phantom burning sensation on my skin.
"You left," he said. His voice was flat, devoid of inflection, a simple statement of an impossible fact.
"I had to."
"I told you I needed you."
"And I told you I wasn't a toy."
"I deleted the video," he said, his voice gaining a sudden, dangerous edge. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a burner phone, its screen glowing faintly. He held it up, a small, black rectangle. "Cloud backup. Deleted. Local files. Deleted. It's gone, Tom. I scrubbed it."
"It wasn't about the video anymore, Jax."
"Then what?" The word tore from his throat, a guttural sound that rattled the windows. He slammed his hands onto the bar supports, the metal rig shuddering violently, a deep vibration running through the bench beneath me. "What was it?I gave you everything. I fell to my knees, put my face in the dirt. And you still walked out while I was sleeping."
He leaned down, his face a few inches from mine, the stubble on his jaw catching the dim light.
"Do you know what that was like?" he hissed, the words a spray of heat on my cheek. "Waking up? Reaching for you and grabbing a handful of cold sheets?"
"Jax, please..."
"I tore the apartment apart," he said, his voice rising, raw with a frantic energy. "I thought someone took you. I thought you were hurt. Then I saw your bag was gone."
A sound scraped from his throat, a broken, jagged laugh that held no humor, just a raw, desperate edge. "You tried to ghost me. After four years. After everything."
"I needed space," I said, trying to push myself up, my muscles still trembling from the failed lift.
He slammed a hand flat on my chest, right over my sternum, the force pinning me back against the vinyl. "You don't get space," he snarled, his lips peeling back from his teeth. "Not anymore. You voided that right when you walked out."
He climbed onto the bench, a fluid, predatory movement. He straddled my hips, his knees pressing down on my thighs, trapping them against the cracked leather. His heavy weight settled over my groin, a crushing pressure. We were in the middle of the campus gym, surrounded by mirrors reflecting our distorted forms, glass walls looking out into the dark, empty hallway.
"Jax, the cameras," I hissed, my voice tight with a sudden surge of fear. "Security comes through here."
"Let them come."
He grabbed my wrists, his fingers like steel manacles. He pinned them to the bar above my head, stretching my arms.
"You think you can just leave?" he asked, his eyes burning into mine, seeking something he couldn't name. "You think you can just walk away from this? From what I burn into you?"
"I'm trying," I admitted, a hot ache blooming behind my eyes. The first pinprick of tears stung, blurring his face. "I'm trying to survive you."
"You don't survive me," he whispered, his voice dangerously soft. "You endure me."
He released one of my wrists, his free hand snaking down the front of my gym shorts. No questions. No teasing. Just a brutal, possessive grab. My cock, soft and dormant, was instantly engulfed.
I gasped, my back arching off the bench, a sharp, involuntary cry tearing from my lips.
"Soft," he accused, his thumb pressing hard against the head of my shaft. "You're soft."
"I'm scared, Jax." My stomach clenched, a cold knot tightening in my gut.
"Good."
His hand began to stroke, a rough, punishing motion. He squeezed hard, forcing a sudden rush of blood into the shaft, a dizzying jolt of sensation.
"You haven't come since you left, have you?" he asked, his voice a low growl. "You've been sitting in the motel room, pulling at yourself, trying to forget me. But it didn't work."
He was right. The memory of Motel 6, the lukewarm water sluicing over my skin, the frantic, desperate attempts to conjure an image, a feeling, anything other than his face, his scent. My body had refused, gone numb, a dead weight in my hands.
