Page 4 of Puck Tease
He slid the phone back into his hoodie pocket, the gesture deliberate, final.
"Stand up."
I hesitated, a tremor running through me. "What?"
"Stand. Up." His voice, though still soft, carried an undeniable edge of command.
I pushed myself up, my sweatpants tangling around my ankles, forcing me to kick them off completely. I stood there, in my t-shirt, my cock half-hidden by his jersey, my legs bare and shaking.
Jax’s eyes swept over me, a slow, clinical assessment. He inspected me like a piece of equipment he was considering buying but wasn't quite sure was worth the price.
"You got big," he noted, his tone devoid of warmth, a mere observation of mass. "Gym's been paying off."
He took a step closer. He invaded my personal space, bringing that scent—the real scent, not the stale laundry version—right to my nose. He smelled of cedarwood soap and cold air, a clean, sharp scent that cut through the lingering locker room musk.
"Drop the jersey."
I gripped the fabric tighter, my knuckles white. "Jax..."
"Drop it. Or I send the video to Tyler right now."
He pulled the phone halfway out of his pocket, his thumb hovering over the screen.
My fingers went slack.
The navy mesh fell to the floor with a soft rustle, a pathetic puddle at my feet.
I stood there, fully exposed. My cock, still semi-hard, twitched with a confused mix of terror and adrenaline. The cool air from the vent brushed my bare skin. I wanted to cover myself, to curl into a ball and vanish.
Jax’s eyes dropped to my crotch. He stared at it for a long, uncomfortable silence, his gaze unwavering.
"Pathetic," he muttered, a low growl. "Four years we’ve lived together. Four years I’ve slept ten feet away from you. And this whole time, you’ve been a closet case sniffing my jockstraps?"
"I'm not—"
"Don't lie to me!" His voice cracked, a sharp, sudden thunderclap. He stepped in, closing the distance, and grabbed my chin. His grip was hard, fingers digging into my jaw, forcing my head up, pulling my gaze to meet his.
He stared into my eyes, his pupils blown wide, his gaze was a flat, dark void.
"You're a pervert, Tom. A little freak. You get off on being close to the talent, don't you? You like the smell of the locker room but you're too soft to play the game."
He released my face with a brutal shove.
"Here's the situation," he said, stepping back, crossing his arms again. His tone shifted, becoming flat, businesslike. "I'm stressed. The draft is in three months. The scouts are watching every move I make. Coach is riding my ass about leadership. My shoulders are tight. My head is foggy."
He gestured vaguely at my naked lower half, a dismissive flick of his hand.
"And clearly, you have a lot of... pent-up energy. And a fixation."
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying we can help each other."
He turned, walking over to his dresser. He picked up the laundry hamper—the very one I’d raided—and upended it. A cascade of clothes spilled onto the floor.
He kicked through the pile with the toe of his sneaker until he found what he was looking for.
His jockstrap.
