Page 62 of Puck Tease
"Rule Number Three," I whispered, a desperate, hysterical laugh bubbling up, hot and dry, in my throat.
"Exactly," Jax said, a dark satisfaction in his voice. "Your body knows. It knows who holds the keys."
He pumped me faster, harder. My cock stirred, responding against my will, a traitorous surge of blood. Heat flooded my groin.
"See?" he murmured, leaning closer, his breath hot against my ear. "There he is. There's my good boy."
He leaned forward, his mouth opening. He bit my neck, his teeth finding the mark he’d left on Tuesday—the bruise that was now a sickly yellow-green—and sinking in right over it. A fresh spike of pain shot through me, sharp and immediate.
"Jax!"
He stood up, straddling my face now. His hands went to his sweatpants, yanking them down. No underwear. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, slapping against my chin with a soft thud.
"Suck it," he ordered, his voice raw.
"Here?"
"Suck. It."
He grabbed the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair. He forced himself into my mouth. It was not gentle. It was frantic, a desperate, driving push. He tasted of salt and unwashed skin, of something bitter and metallic that spoke of sleeplessness and a raw, gnawing need. His hips snapped forward, a rhythmic assault, his thighs clamping around my ears, holding me fast.
I gagged, a choking sound, my hands gripping the bench press bar above me, knuckles white with strain. He didn't care. He simply drove, needing the physical connection, the brutal reclamation of territory lost for twenty-four agonizing hours.
He pulled out with a wet, sucking pop.
"Turn over," he said.
"Jax, the bench is too narrow."
"Figure it out."
He hauled me up, spinning me around. He shoved me face-down onto the vinyl bench. My legs dangled off the sides, knees knocking against the metal frame. My chest pressed against the cold, cracked leather, the rough texture digging into my skin. He ripped my shorts down, not bothering to remove them, just yanking them to my knees, trapping my legs.
The cool, stale air of the gym washed over my exposed ass. In the mirror wall opposite us, our reflection stared back—my body bent awkwardly over the narrow bench, his figure looming behind me, a dark, consuming shadow.
He spat on my hole, the warm, wet sensation a shock against my skin.
Then he pushed in.
"Fuck!" I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat, raw and uncontrolled.
He was huge. He felt bigger, wider than before, filling me completely, stretching me to my limits. Maybe the withdrawal had sharpened my senses, or maybe the awkward angle intensified the invasion, but it felt like he was rearranging my very spine. A long, deep groan, a guttural sound of profound release, rumbled from his chest.
"Home," he whispered, the single word thick with a desperate, animal relief. "Fuck, finally."
He started to move.
The narrow bench protested beneath us, a rhythmic squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. He grabbed the bar supports on either side of my head, leaning his weight over me, his body a solid bracket. He drove into me with long, deep strokes, each thrust a physical punctuation mark.
"You thought you could leave?" he grunted, slamming his hips against my ass, the impact rattling my teeth. "You thought you could exist without this?"
"No," I sobbed into the vinyl, the word muffled. "I couldn't."
"You're mine," he said, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "Say it."
"I'm yours."
"You're never leaving again."
