Page 72 of Puck Tease
"I own this city tonight," Jax said, biting my earlobe lightly. "I own that trophy. I own the draft."
He thrust harder, snapping his hips, a sudden, powerful jolt.
"But none of it matters as much as being inside you right now."
The confession, raw and unexpected, made my heart stutter in my chest. My breath caught.
"Jax..."
"I mean it," he said, his voice straining as he picked up the pace, the rhythm quickening. "The whole time... on the ice... I just wanted to get back here. To this."
He reached around, his hand finding my cock. His fingers, slick with champagne and sweat, wrapped around me. He started to stroke me in time with his thrusts, a precise, agonizing rhythm.
"Cum for me, baby. Celebrate."
My body dissolved beneath his touch. It wasn't the jagged, desperate release of the bus or the gym. This was a rolling, powerful wave, building slowly, inexorably, until it broke over me. I cried out, a guttural sound, my head falling forward onto the velvet chair back. I shot onto the fabric, coating the plush material with my release.
Jax roared, a primal, exultant sound.
He drove deep, one, two, three times, his hips snapping against my ass, and then unloaded inside me. I felt him pulsing, hot and endless, emptying himself into me. The sensation was a physical release, a pouring out of the season’s stress, the last vestiges of adrenaline, filling me with his warmth.
He collapsed against my back, his weight heavy, crushing, perfect. We stayed like that for a long time, held together by sweat and champagne, our only sounds the ragged cadence of our breathing and the low hum of the hotel HVAC.
Jax slowly pulled out, the wet sound loud in the room. He turned me around, his hands on my hips.
He kissed me. Deeply. His tongue tasted of himself, of champagne, of victory.
He walked over to the table. He picked up the championship ring from where he’d placed it beside the trophy.
He walked back to me.
He placed the silver chain over my head. The massive ring settled heavily on my chest, cold against my still-feverish skin.
"Property of Carter," he whispered, his finger tracing the engraving along the band.
He picked me up, cradling me in his arms as if I weighed nothing. He carried me to the king-sized bed and laid me down on the crisp white sheets. He didn't get dressed. He didn't turn on the television.
He crawled into bed beside me, pulling the thick duvet up. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me back against his chest, tangling his legs with mine.
"Sleep," he said, his voice a low rumble against the back of my neck. "We have a flight in the morning."
"What about the party?" I asked, my hand finding his in the dark.
"They can start without me," Jax said. He pressed a soft kiss to the back of my neck. "I've got the real prize right here."
I closed my eyes. The cold weight of the ring pressed into my chest. The champagne was sticky on my skin, and my body ached in all the places he had claimed.
Outside, the city of St. Paul celebrated, its joy a distant, muted thrum.
But in the dark of the penthouse suite, as Jax Carter’s breathing evened out against my ear, a profound sense of peace settled over me. A warmth spread through my chest, a deep contentment that had nothing to do with hockey. We had survived the season. We had survived the blackmail. We had survived each other.
And we had won.
15 – THE MORNING AFTER
Aleaden pressure clung to my limbs, a heavy cloak that resisted movement. My head throbbed with a dull, distant ache, and my mouth felt like sandpaper. Waking up wasn't a gentle transition; it was a violent breach, a sudden, gasping ascent from crushing depths.
The light was the first assault—a blinding, white glare that ripped through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite. It struck my eyelids, raw and demanding, searing a bright red imprint even through the thin skin. I squeezed my eyes tighter, a fresh wave of pain blooming behind them.
