Page 54 of Puck Tease
We were alone.
Jax didn't push me off. He stayed inside me, his cock slowly softening, shrinking, a warm weight. He kissed the top of my head, a soft, lingering touch.
"He's never going to look at you the same way," Jax said, his voice a low satisfaction.
"I know," I whispered into his skin, the admission a quiet acceptance.
"Good. I want him jealous. I want him to know that every time he sees you in class, every time he sees you on campus... he can look, but he can never, ever touch."
He lifted my chin, his fingers gentle. He kissed me, his lips soft, lingering, surprisingly sweet.
"You're my trophy, Tom," he said. "And I like keeping my trophies on the top shelf."
He pulled out of me with a wet, sucking slide, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room. He lifted me off his lap and set me gently on the cushion next to him.
We sat there, naked and messy, the FIFA game still playing on the screen, the announcers' voices droning on.
Jax picked up his controller. He unpaused the game.
"I was winning," he said, his voice matter-of-fact. "2-0."
He started playing against the computer, his thumbs working the buttons with practiced ease.
I leaned my head on his shoulder, watching the hypnotic dance of his hands across the controller. I felt the sticky slide ofhis cum, warm and wet, leaking out of me onto the cool leather of the couch.
I was exposed. I was marked. I was the talk of the locker room before a word had even been spoken. And I was exactly where I wanted to be.
11 – THE THREAT
The fallout from Sunday didn't whisper in hushed tones; it solidified in the hard set of a jaw, the quick dart of a gaze, the sudden, charged silence that followed.
It was Tuesday morning. The air bit with a crisp, late-autumn chill as I pushed through the heavy doors of the Life Sciences building. My head hung low, chin tucked to my chest, eyes fixed on the worn concrete path. I worked to dissolve into the river of students flowing towards the lunch rush, a phantom limb in the bustling quad. My shoulders hunched, my steps quickened, a desperate prayer for anonymity thrumming behind my ribs.
Then, a sudden stop in the current.
My gaze snagged on Tyler. He stood near the fountain, a monolith against the backdrop of falling leaves, his team jacket a broad, dark mass. Mills and a few other players formed a loose circle around him, their heads bent in shared amusement. Tyler was laughing, a booming sound that carried easily on the wind, his thumb scrolling something on his phone.
He looked up. His eyes, the color of a summer sky, snapped directly to mine.
The laughter died. The sound choked off, leaving an abrupt, gaping hole in the ambient noise of the quad.
No friendly wave, no shouted greeting. Just a horny stare. His eyes, unblinking, dropped to my crotch, a deliberate, slow sweep, then climbed back to meet mine. A quick, unconscious flick of his tongue darted across his lower lip, a movement so swift it was almost missed. Then, a nod. Not a friendly dip of his head, but a slow, heavy acknowledgment. A silent pact.
I saw you.
I know what you are.
A fire ignited at the base of my neck, scorching its way up my scalp. My knuckles whitened around the straps of my backpack, the rough nylon digging into my skin. I quickened my pace, pushing through the last few students, turning the corner sharply, the image of his eyes burned into my vision.
Jax had talked about jealousy, about me being a gleaming trophy on a high shelf. He hadn’t mentioned the suffocating weight of being a piece of meat, dissected and appraised with every step across campus.
???
The apartment door clicked shut behind me at precisely 4:00 PM.
My body screamed with a dull, persistent ache. My knees throbbed, still protesting the scrubbing session from the weekend, a mess of ugly violet and yellow bruises surfacing on my skin. My ass, a tight knot of muscle, remembered the relentless pounding against the couch cushions. But more than the physical exhaustion, my brain felt like a fried circuit board, sparks misfiring behind my eyes. The Macroeconomics midterm loomed, a monstrous shadow in the morning, holding 30% ofmy final grade hostage. Failure meant my scholarship dissolved, meant a one-way ticket back to the greasy, familiar smell of my dad’s auto shop in Detroit.
I needed to cram. I needed the kind of silence that pressed in on your eardrums. I needed eight hours of dreamless sleep.
