Page 32 of Puck Tease
"Jax?" I whispered into the dark, my voice a fragile thread.
"Cold," he grumbled, his breath warm on my neck, right over the bandage. "You're a space heater. Shut up and sleep."
I lay there, frozen, my body rigid with the unexpected intimacy. His breath was warm on my neck, a soft current against the bandage. His hand rested on my stomach, his thumb stroking back and forth in a slow, unconscious rhythm, a hypnotic caress.
I could feel his heart beating against my spine, a steady, powerful thrum.
It wasn't transactional. Not this part. This part felt... real. The thought of severing this tie, of walking away, felt like tearing off my own limb. The idea of his absence left a hollow ache in my chest, a craving more profound than any pain he inflicted, a gnawing hunger that had consumed everything else.
I closed my eyes. I felt the throb of the bite, the ache in my legs, and the warmth of the man who had inflicted both, holding me tight.
I realized then that the blackmail video didn't matter anymore. He could delete it tomorrow, erase all evidence of his hold, and I wouldn't leave.
I was addicted.
And lying there in the dark, held tight in his arms, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against my back, the firm grip of his arm, the slow, hypnotic stroke of his thumb on my stomach – these weren't gestures of a captor, but of a man clinging, his own desperate need mirroring mine in the suffocating dark.
7 – THE PARTY TRICK
The bass pulsed a violent rhythm against the soles of my sneakers, a low thrumming that clawed its way up my calves and rattled the bones in my knees. It vibrated through the sagging floorboards of the "Hockey House"—a dilapidated Victorian off-campus rental that exhaled a permanent stench of stale keg beer, damp earth, and dry rot. The air hung thick and humid, a soup of churning body heat, cloying cheap perfume, and the sharp, underlying tang of marijuana smoke.
I stood pressed into a corner of the kitchen, the chipped linoleum cool beneath my feet. My fingers were clamped around a red Solo cup, its plastic flimsy against my palm, filled to the brim with lukewarm tap water. A black hoodie swallowed my frame, the hood drawn tight, its drawstrings pulled until the fabric nearly obscured my eyes. Sweat slicked my skin, a sheen across my forehead and down my back. The heat inside the house was a suffocating blanket, but the cotton offered no relief, only a denser insulation. Beneath it, on the curve of my neckwhere it met my shoulder, a bandage pressed against a patch of skin that felt raw and bruised. Jax’s bite, a furious purple-black, lay hidden there, a brand two nights old. It pulsed in time with the music, a secret, aching beat.
My gaze swept across the room. A churning sea of bodies swayed, pressed shoulder to shoulder, a dense mass of college students. The entire hockey team, a hulking presence of muscle and bravado, was here. Half of sorority row glittered amidst them, their laughter shrill. Scattered throughout were the puck bunnies, their eyes bright, scanning for a jersey to claim before the night ended.
Jax dominated the living room's core.
He perched on the back of a beat-up leather sofa, his feet propped carelessly on the cushions. A beer bottle rested in one hand, condensation beading on its glass. He looked like a king on a throne of trash, surveying his kingdom. A tight white t-shirt stretched across his chest, emphasizing the tanned swell of his biceps, and a backwards cap sat low on his head. His mouth stretched into a wide, easy laugh that cut through the surrounding din. A blonde girl, a volleyball player he’d mentioned, or perhaps another one – they all blurred into a single, glittering image tonight – leaned into his space. Her hand rested on his knee, her fingers splayed casually against the denim of his jeans.
I watched her hand.
A sudden, hot constriction seized my throat, tasting like bile. My fingers tightened on the Solo cup, the plastic groaning under the pressure. The urge to crush it, to splinter it into sharp, jagged pieces, became a physical ache in my palm.I had no right.The words echoed in the hollow space behind my ribs. I wasn't his. Not in any way that mattered to the outside world. I was his dirty secret, the collateral he kept in the dark to keep his head straight, a desperate, shameful bargain. But the sight of herhand, so casual, so public, so utterly fearless, made my stomach clench.
Jax’s head snapped up.
His eyes, dark as bruised plums, sliced through the haze of smoke and bodies. They found me instantly, pinned me in the kitchen corner. No smile touched his lips. No flicker of recognition, not even a subtle nod. He simply stared, a long, unblinking gaze. His eyes drifted down, settling on the bulk of my hoodie, lingering on the spot where the bandage lay hidden. Then, they climbed back to my face. His pupils seemed dilated, glossy and unfocused, not exactly drunk, but loose. A dangerous, uncoiled edge shimmered within their depths.
He lifted his beer bottle, took a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving mine.
The blonde girl whispered something into his ear, her lips brushing his lobe. He didn't flinch. He didn't respond. He simply watched me watch him.
"Tom? Earth to Tom."
My head jerked to the left, a sharp, involuntary movement. Tyler, the assistant captain, loomed beside me. He was a mountain of a man, a defenseman with a nose that had been broken three times and a wide, a “suck my dick” grin that promised trouble.
His eyes scraped down my body, slow as a blade drawn across skin, tracing the rise of my chest under the shirt's fabric, then dipping lower to fix on the bulge at my crotch, a raw, perverted gleam igniting in them that sent heat flushing through my veins, prickling every inch of exposed skin until I shifted under the weight of his stare.
"Hey, Ty," my voice rasped, thin and dry.
"You look like you're at a funeral, man," Tyler bellowed, his voice straining over the pounding music. A heavy hand clapped down on my shoulder—thewrongshoulder, thank God, theone free of the bandage. "Drink up. We beat Ohio State. It's a celebration."
"I'm good with water. Big test on Monday."
Tyler rolled his eyes, the gesture a practiced dismissal. "Nerd. Jax said you were studying your ass off. Said you've been practically living in the library."
My stomach muscles drew tight, a knot of apprehension. "Yeah. He's been... helping me focus."
Tyler laughed, a booming sound that reverberated in my chest. "Jax? Focusing? The guy's been an animal this week. Whatever he's doing, it's working. He's playing out of his mind. But he's wired tight. Snapped a stick in practice yesterday just because Mills missed a pass." Tyler leaned closer, his voice dropping, a conspiratorial murmur against my ear. "Between you and me? I think he needs to get laid. Like, seriously laid. Maybe that blonde will fix him."
