Page 67 of Puck Tease
His other hand moved. It slid around to my back, fingers tracing the curve of my spine before finding the soft cleft of my ass.
He pushed a finger inside.
“Fuck!” I cried out, the sound ripped from my throat.
There was no spit, no lube, just the sudden, brutal invasion of his dry finger past my rim, a searing stretch of unyielding flesh.
“Tight,” he grunted, the word ragged. “Always so tight for me.”
He curled his finger, hitting my prostate with pinpoint accuracy.
My knees gave out completely. If he hadn’t been pinning me to the railing, hadn’t been holding me so tightly against him, I would have slid to the floor, a heap of useless limbs.
“Jax, please, it’s too much…” The words were broken, pleading.
“It’s not enough.”
He added a second finger. He scissored them inside me, a brutal, stretching motion that tore at me, leaving me vulnerable and exposed in the cool night air.
I was unraveling. My body shook violently against his. My vision blurred. Faces pressed against the glass door of the house, a grotesque gallery of silent observers. The blinding flash of a phone camera momentarily burned a white spot into my vision.
“They’re filming,” I whimpered, the sound raw with shame and desperation.
“Let them,” Jax said, his voice hard. “Let them see that I’m the only one who gets to do this. Let them see that you take it.”
He kissed me then, a violent, consuming kiss. He mashed his mouth against mine, silencing my protests, cutting off my breath. He kissed me like he was trying to breathe for me, to consume my very air.
And down below, his hands worked relentlessly. He stroked my cock, pumped me with his fingers inside, a relentless, dual assault that obliterated all coherent thought, leaving only sensation.
“Cum,” he growled into my mouth, the word a demand, a dark prayer. “Cum right now.”
I couldn’t hold it back. The pressure was a volcanic eruption, too immense, too overwhelming.
I lost control.
A muffled scream tore from my throat, swallowed by his mouth. My hips bucked wildly against him, an uncontrollable spasm. I shot onto my own stomach, onto his hand, a hot, sticky mess staining the waistband of my pants.
Jax held me through it all. He kept his fingers inside, twisting, milking the orgasm, a relentless pressure that wrung every last drop from me until I was dry heaving with pleasure, my body limp and spent against him.
When my muscles finally went slack, he pulled his hand out, the sudden absence a cold shock.
He wiped his fingers on my torn white t-shirt, a deliberate smear of fluid and shine left squarely on my chest.
He stepped back.
He looked at me, a slow, assessing gaze. My shirt hung in tatters. My neck was a landscape of dark, bruised hickeys. My pants were stained, a visible testament to what had just transpired. I looked utterly, undeniably marked, a trophy on display.
He smiled, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips.
“Now we can go.”
He grabbed my hand. He didn’t offer to fix my clothes, didn’t let me try to hide the evidence.
He led me back through the party.
As we walked through the living room, the music seemed to die, the bass fading into an awkward silence. The crowd split open, bodies shoving against each other to clear a path for him.
Everyone looked.
