Page 65 of Puck Tease
“Because it shows everything when it gets wet.” He smirked then, a slow, dangerous curl of his lips that promised trouble, an invitation to chaos. “And wear the gray sweatpants. No underwear.”
“To a frat party?” My voice was barely a squeak.
“To a statement.”
???
The Sigma Chi house loomed against the twilight, a sprawling brick edifice with peeling paint and overflowing trash cans, a monument to collegiate excess. Even from the sidewalk, the bass was a physical force, a deep, throbbing pulse that vibrated through the ground, up my legs, and into my chest. The lawn was a sea of bodies, a blur of sweating of faces illuminated by the glow of phone screens and the red plastic of Solo cups. Shouts and laughter, distorted by the thrumming music, spilled out into the cool evening air.
As we started up the cracked concrete driveway, I felt the eyes. They landed on us, heavy and invasive, a hundred unseen pinpricks against my skin.
Jax didn’t flinch. His head stayed high, his shoulders back, his stride long and deliberate. He moved with the arrogant, rolling gait of a predator, utterly unconcerned by the sudden cessation of conversations, the abrupt shifts in attention. He didn’t walk beside me. He walked slightly ahead, a living battering ram carving a path through the throng, his hand reaching back to grip my wrist.
It wasn’t a gentle clasp. It was a shackle, his fingers circling my wrist, pulling me along in his wake. I was a prize, tethered, towed behind him, offering no resistance.
“Heads up,” he muttered, his voice low, meant only for me. “Don’t look at them. Look at me.”
My gaze fixed on the broad expanse of his leather-clad back, the worn texture of the jacket, the subtle flex of muscle beneath. My world narrowed to the warmth of his fingers around my wrist, the rhythm of his steps ahead of me.
We pushed through the front door. The heat hit me instantly – a suffocating wall of damp air thick with the cloying sweetness of cheap beer, the sharp tang of sweat, and the heavy floral notes of expensive perfume.
The main room was a pulsing, writhing mass of bodies. Figures danced on tables, their movements jerky and exaggerated under the frantic strobe light that turned the scene into a stop-motion nightmare.
As Jax dragged me deeper into the house, the whispers started, a low, buzzing hum that followed us. I saw heads turn in unison, a ripple of movement through the crowd. Phones rose, like tiny, glowing eyes, cameras flashing indiscriminately in the gloom.
Is that him? Ooh. He’s pretty cute.
That’s the roommate.
Look at the way he’s holding him.
Jax didn’t break stride. He pulled me through the living room, past the overflowing kegs gushing foam onto the floor, past the DJ booth where a figure in a backward baseball cap bobbed his head.
“Carter!” A shout cut through the din. It was Mills, the starting defensive lineman, leaning against the banister of the staircase with a group of his teammates, red cups sloshing in their hands. “You made it!”
Jax stopped, yanking me flush against his side. His arm, heavy and possessive, clamped around my shoulders, pressing me into his body. He held me captive, pinned against him.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Jax said, his voice calm, projecting effortlessly over the thumping bass.
Mills’ gaze flickered from Jax’s face to my eyes, then dropped to Jax’s arm, which was now a solid bar across my back. His eyes lingered on the gray sweatpants I wore, the soft fabric draping dangerously loose around my hips, hinting at the absence of underwear beneath.
“We heard… uh, we heard you might be busy tonight,” Mills stammered, his words stumbling over each other.
“I am busy,” Jax stated, his voice a low thrum against my ear. He looked down at me, his fingers finding the nape of my neck, tangling in my hair. He tilted my head back, exposing my throat to the crowded room, a deliberate offering. “Very busy.”
Mills’ eyes widened, suddenly understanding. The boisterous group of linemen behind him went utterly silent, their cups frozen in mid-air.
Jax offered no explanation, no defense. He simply held me there, utterly exposed, on display for five agonizing, burning seconds. The gaze of every person in the room felt like a physical touch, crawling over my skin.
Then he moved.
“Drink,” he said to me, the single word a command.
He steered me toward the back of the house, toward the sliding glass doors that led to the patio. It was just as crowded out there, a dense knot of smokers and couples, but the light was dimmer, softer.
“Jax, everyone is staring,” I hissed, my voice tight with a desperate plea.
“Let them stare.”
