Page 7 of Puck Tease
"Good," Jax said. "Now, clean it."
I looked up. He towered over me, a wall of wet muscle and dirty intentions. A single drop of water, warm and heavy, fell from his chin and landed on my shoulder.
"Clean it?" My voice came out rough, a dry rasp.
"You were eager enough to sniff it when you thought I wasn't looking," he said. He crossed his arms over his chest, his biceps flexing, pulling taut against his skin. "You wanted my sweat? You wanted my scent? Take it. Lick it off."
He gestured to the fabric on the floor with a slight tilt of his head.
"Every inch of the number. I want it spotless."
I looked down at the jersey. It was damp from his practice, damp from my own sweat that had soaked into it, now damp from the bathroom floor. The thought of it made my throat constrict. It was an act of abasement. It was something a dog would do.
I leaned forward.
My tongue touched the fabric.
The taste exploded on my palate—a sharp burst of salt, the bitter tang of synthetic fibers, and the deep, musky funk of dried sweat. It was intensely, overwhelminglyhim.It coated my tongue, filling my mouth, every receptor firing.
"Lick," Jax commanded.
I dragged my tongue across the bottom curve of the number one. The mesh was abrasive, a rough rasp against my taste buds. I licked again. And again. My jaw ached with the repeated motion.
"Jesus," Jax muttered above me, a low sound. "Look at you."
His voice held no disgust. Only a deep, resonant satisfaction. As if watching a play unfold precisely as he’d envisioned it on a tactical whiteboard.
I worked my way up the number, my tongue scraping the dirty fabric. My pride, what little remained, screamed in silent protest, but my body hummed with a different frequency. My cock twitched, hardening fully, pressing against my stomach. The humiliation, the degradation, was an accelerant. On my knees, at his feet, tasting his filth—it was exactly where some dark, buried part of me had yearned to be for years.
"The seven," he ordered. "Get the edges."
I shifted, crawling forward slightly, bringing the second number into reach. I lapped at the fabric, my saliva mixing with the grime. My breath came in short, jagged gasps, a panting sound in the quiet room.
Jax watched for another minute, a silent observer. The only sounds were the wet, rasping friction of my tongue on the mesh.
"Enough," he said.
I stopped. My head hung low, still on all fours, a string of saliva trailing from my lip to the floor. I felt lightheaded, a dizzying mix of oxygen deprivation and an overdose of his scent.
"Stand up."
I scrambled to my feet, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
Jax uncrossed his arms. He took a single step toward me, not backing down, but invading my personal space until the radiating heat from his body enveloped me.
He reached out and grabbed my arm.
His grip was shocking in its intensity. His fingers dug into my bicep, hard and testing. He squeezed, his thumb pressing into the distinct separation between the muscle groups.
"You really did build yourself a tank," he murmured. It wasn't a compliment. It was an assessment, a clinical evaluation. "Two years of lifting. Protein shakes. Creatine."
He released my arm and slapped his open palm against my chest. A heavy, resonantthudagainst my pectoral.
"Solid," he noted. "Not soft anymore."
His hand trailed down my torso, over the hard ridges of my abs. His palm was rough, calloused from the hockey stick, and still wet from the shower. It left a searing trail of heat on my skin.
"But it doesn't matter how big you get, does it?" Jax said, his storm-cloud eyes locking onto mine, holding me captive. "You're still just a hole waiting to be filled. You built all this armor, and one look from me strips it right off."
