Page 42 of Puck Tease
"Come here."
I slid across the seat, my body responding without conscious thought. He wrapped his massive arm around my shoulders, a heavy, possessive weight. He pulled my head down, pressing it against his chest.
The blanket settled over us both, a shroud.
I lay there, my ear pressed against his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart, a deep, resonant rhythm. I smelled his scent—cedar and iron—now mixed inextricably with the faint, metallic tang of my own sex, a smell that clung to me, to us.
"Sleep," he ordered, the word a soft command against my hair.
His hand came up, tracing slow, rhythmic circles on my scalp, stroking my hair. It was a gentle, soothing motion, a tender, possessive petting.
"We have practice at noon. You need rest."
I closed my eyes. The sharp edges of terror began to blur, receding into a heavy, narcotic sense of safety. My muscles, previously locked in tension, slowly uncoiled. My breathing deepened, evening out. The overwhelming warmth of his body seeped into my cold bones, a comforting weight.
It was twisted, I knew. A voice, small and distant in my mind, tried to scream the words: *He just sexually assaulted you. He blackmailed you. He used you.* But the words felt hollow, like echoes in a vast, empty space.
As his hand stroked my hair, and his heat enveloped me, the concept of "victim" felt alien, separate from the profound, physical comfort that now held me. My body, sticky and aching, sank deeper into his embrace. I felt like I was exactly where I belonged, the world outside a distant, irrelevant hum.
"Good boy," he whispered into the top of my head, a soft, satisfied murmur.
I fell asleep to the hypnotic drone of the tires and the steady, powerful beat of his heart, sticky and claimed, as the bus carried us home through the unrelenting dark.
???
The bus pulled into the arena parking lot at 4:30 AM.
The complex lights, brilliant sodium-vapor lamps, glared down, blinding after hours spent in the dark. The bus hissed to a halt, the air brakes sighing, a long, drawn-out exhalation.
"Wake up," Jax said, his voice a low, firm prod. He shook my shoulder gently.
I jerked awake, my body stiff. My neck ached from being twisted. My jeans were cold and damp against my skin where the fluid had dried, a constant, sickening reminder.
Around us, the team groaned, stretched, and fumbled for bags. The illusion of our private cave crumbled, replaced by the mundane reality of fluorescent light and groggy teammates.
Jax stood up, unfolding his massive frame with a fluid ease. He reached into the overhead bin, retrieved his bag. He looked impossibly fresh, alert, his eyes sharp and clear. The predator who had fed.
I pushed myself up, my limbs heavy. My skin felt clammy, a lingering film of sweat and dried semen. I wanted a shower, a scalding deluge to wash away the night.
"Wait for me by the truck," Jax said, his voice quiet, for my ears only. "I have to talk to Coach."
I nodded, my throat tight. I grabbed my backpack and shuffled down the aisle, my movements stiff and clumsy.
I stepped off the bus, the cold morning air hitting my face like a slap.
I walked towards Jax’s truck, parked under a sodium light at the far end of the lot, a lonely beacon in the pre-dawn gloom. I leaned against the passenger door, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat that still radiated from my body, waiting.
Five minutes later, Jax appeared from the arena entrance. He walked with Tyler, their shoulders brushing. They were laughing, a low, easy sound that cut through the silence.
Jax reached the truck. He clapped Tyler on the back, a resonant thud. "See you at noon, man."
"Later, Cap." Tyler glanced at me, his brow furrowing slightly. "Rough ride, Tom? You look like you got hit by a truck."
I flinched, a sharp, involuntary movement. "Just... couldn't sleep." My voice was a tight, mumbled excuse.
Jax smirked, a quick, almost imperceptible curl of his lips. "He gets car sick."
He unlocked the truck. The doors clicked open, and we climbed in.
