Page 74 of Puck Tease
"I didn't mean to," I whispered, though the words felt like a lie on my tongue.
"Liar. You loved it."
He sat up on the edge of the bed, his spine cracking with a loud pop as he stretched. Then he stood, his naked body unselfconscious, unapologetic in the bright, unforgiving daylight. He moved with an easy power, his gaze steady.
"Shower," he announced. "Before the food gets here. I want to wash the champagne off you."
I sat up, the thick ring clinking against my collarbone. "I can shower myself, Jax."
He stopped. His head tilted, then he turned, slowly, deliberately. The lazy, softened look dissolved from his face, replaced by a familiar hard line. His eyes, no longer hazy withsleep, sharpened, focusing on me with an intense, unwavering blue. The Captain had returned.
"Did I say you could?"
My heart did that traitorous little stutter-step, a cold squeeze of anticipation in my chest. "No."
"Exactly. Get up."
I obeyed. My muscles protested, a pleasant, deep ache settling in my hips and thighs. I stretched subtly, a slow, internal sigh of satisfaction, then swung my legs over the side of the bed. I followed him into the bathroom.
It was massive. Marble gleamed everywhere, reflecting the light. The walk-in shower was a cavernous space, easily large enough for six people.
Jax reached in, twisting the handle. Water gushed, steaming. He tested the temperature with his hand, adjusting it until the spray was hot, enveloping, but not scalding.
He stepped in, the water immediately sheeting over his body. He held out his hand.
I took it. His fingers were warm, firm around mine.
He pulled me under the spray.
The hot water hit my skin, a cleansing torrent washing away the sticky residue of last night's celebration. Jax reached for a bar of soap, unwrapping it, then lathered his large hands until they were slick with creamy white foam.
He began to wash me.
It was methodical, deliberate, stripped of urgency. He scrubbed my chest, his palms firm against my skin, then moved to my arms, his touch thorough. He turned me gently, washing my back, digging his fingers into my scalp as he massaged shampoo into my hair. It wasn't about pleasure, not yet. It was about care, a meticulous attention to detail, an unexpected intimacy that resonated deeper than any fleeting passion. Thiswas the other side of the coin, the aspect he’d only hinted at on the bus – not just taking, but keeping. Maintaining.
"Turn," he said, his voice low against the rushing water.
I turned my back to him, letting him guide me.
He moved to my legs, his hands firm as he worked the soap over my calves and thighs. Then, his touch softened, almost tender, as he washed my ass, cleaning the area he had claimed so thoroughly hours before.
"Sore?" he asked, his voice a low rumble just above the sound of the water.
"A little," I admitted, a shiver running through me.
"I'll go easy today," he said. The words lingered, thick and wet, clinging to the humid air like sweat.
He stepped closer, pressing his chest against my back. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me captive under the hot spray, his chin resting on my wet shoulder.
"No more blackmail," he said suddenly, the words quiet yet echoing off the polished tile.
My body stiffened. Every muscle in my back went rigid. "What?"
"The video. The threats. The 'deal.' It's done."
He rested his chin more firmly on my wet shoulder, his breath warm against my ear.
"I don't need leverage anymore," he said. "Do I?"
