Page 3 of Puck Tease
He looked... bored. A heavy-lidded gaze, a slight slump in his shoulders that suggested he found the scene tedious.
"Don't stop on my account," he said.
His voice was calm, conversational, utterly devoid of emotion. It terrified me more than any scream could have, chilling me to the bone.
My hand flew off my cock like I’d been burned, searing pain where the jersey had been. I scrambled backward on the mattress, a clumsy crab, fumbling to yank the jersey over my lap, desperate to hide the raging, throbbing evidence of my guilt.
"I—I thought you were at the rink," I stammered, my voice jumping an octave, cracking on the words. "The app said—"
"Practice got cancelled. Ice problem," he cut in, pushing off the doorframe. He took a single step into the room. Then another.
His gaze never left my crotch. Even covered by the jersey, the tent in my briefs was undeniable. I was still rock hard. The paralyzing fear hadn’t killed it; God help me, the fear had spiked it higher.
"That my away jersey?" he asked, a slight tilt of his head towards the bundle in my lap.
I looked down. The white 17 stared back at me, a silent, blazing accusation.
"I... I was doing laundry," I lied, the words sounding hollow and pathetic even to my own ears. It was the worst lie in the history of mankind, transparent as glass. "I found it and..."
"And you decided to fuck it?" Jax finished for me, his voice flat.
He stopped at the foot of the bed, a solid wall of indifference. He loomed. Even with the two years of punishing workouts, the muscle I’d packed on specifically to avoid this feeling, he still made me feel small, shrunken. The air pressure dropped—heavy, suffocating—just from his presence.
"I wasn't—"
"Shut up, Tom."
The command was soft, a mere murmur, yet it snapped my mouth shut instantly, my jaw clenching.
Jax pulled his phone from his hoodie pocket. His thumb moved across the screen a few times, his expression still bored, then he turned the phone toward me.
It was a video.
The angle was from the doorway, shaky at first, then steady. It showed me sitting on the edge of the bed. It showed my face buried in the jersey. It showed my hips bucking. It showed my mouth open, my ragged breaths, my whispered name. *Captain... please...*
The audio was crystal clear. The wet, slapping sound of my hand against my thigh. The raw, desperate edge of my breathing.
He’d been filming.
He hadn’t just walked in. He’d stood there, watched me, pulled out his phone, hit record, and waited.
"Delete that," I whispered, the words rasping in my throat. The blood rushed back to my face, a searing flush that made my skin prickle, my stomach churn. "Jax, please. Delete that."
He tapped the screen again, pausing the video. A close-up of my face filled the frame, eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent, pleading O.
"Why?" he asked, glancing at me from the phone. A slight, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his lips. "It’s good footage. Lighting’s a bit shit, but the audio? Top tier. The guys in the group chat would lose their minds. 'Look at the little nerd, getting off on the Captain's sweat.'"
My stomach bottomed out, a sickening lurch. The room tilted, spun. My vision tunneled.
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
His gaze sharpened, boring into mine. I saw it then: the cold, calculating intelligence, the predatory gleam behind his eyes. He wasn't the roommate anymore. He wasn't the friend I'd grown up with. He was the shark I’d seen on the ice, circling a wounded player, waiting for the referee to look away before delivering the crushing elbow.
"Jax, I'm begging you," I pleaded, my voice breaking on the last word. Hot, humiliating tears pricked the corners of my eyes, a fresh wave of shame. "My scholarship. My dad. If people see that..."
"Yeah," he agreed, his voice flat. "It would be pretty bad. Career-ending, probably. Social suicide definitely."
