6. Axel
Six
Axel
I ’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of this all goddamn afternoon. Not enough to let my guard down, not enough to get distracted and risk Jem’s safety, but as a constant background thing.
How pretty Jem is. How spiky and strong and cute.
What her slender body would feel like pressed against mine.
And how she’d shiver beneath my touch—how she’d widen her thighs for me, letting me closer to that secret heat—
“That’s it.” I lick the bare skin of Jem’s shoulder, soothing where I bit down. She tastes like soap and rainwater, and beneath all that, sweet as toffee. Or maybe that part’s in my mind. “Relax, princess. Let me in. Good girl.”
Her body clutches at my finger, so tight and hot and wet, and it’s like her inner muscles can’t decide whether to suck me deeper or force me back out again. I’m only as far as the second knuckle, and already we’re both shaking as I press inside, my wrist jammed awkwardly between her thighs.
What would she feel like wrapped around my cock instead? Would Jem claw at my shoulders and urge me deeper? Would she moan and thrash and beg for more? Or would it be too much for her?
I’m not a small man. I’m big and brutal all over.
But some instinct deep inside me says Jem could take me. That she was built for my cock, just like I was made for her.
“Perfect,” I grit out, hiding a smile in Jem’s hair when she moans, lifting her hips and trying to ride my hand. “You’re so goddamn perfect, Jem, look at you.”
A few more heated words, a hungry kiss beneath her jaw, and then my finger slips deeper inside, pressing as far as it can go. Jem’s body clutches at my digit, her inner muscles rippling with desire.
Christ, it’s hard to think straight when she does that.
In the end, it doesn’t take long. We’re both too keyed up, too on edge, with every single touch feeling electric. Jem rides my hand, crying out until her voice cracks, while I urge her on, thrusting deep with my middle finger while grinding my palm on her clit.
My wrist aches, but I don’t care.
The armchair creaks, but I don’t care.
I’m too hot in my leathers, sweaty and uncomfortable, and I badly need to change, but I Do. Not. Care.
Nothing matters except Jem’s weight in my lap, and her hair tickling my neck, and the shocked sound she makes when stiffens up and comes—like she didn’t expect how this all would end.
The light from the TV screen flickers across our tangled bodies. We sit in silence for a long time, limbs sprawled, breathing hard.
Twenty four hours? I’m not sure I can walk away from this girl.
* * *
Jem falls asleep so easily, she reminds me of my old man. One minute she’s fussing around the bed, plumping the pillow and asking me for the millionth time if I want to share. The answer, as I explain to her gently, is yes , of course I want to sleep beside her, but if I stretch out on that tiny single bed, I’ll reduce it to a pile of lumber. She laughs, and it takes some of the bitterness away.
The next minute, Jem’s tucked up and breathing softly, the blankets clutched beneath her chin, while traffic rumbles past outside the window and the streetlamp glows steadily through the curtains.
I watch her for a long time from my spot on the floor. She built me a kind of nest on the rug, with a spare blanket and a wadded up clean towel for my head, and I stretch out gingerly, careful not to knock any furniture. I’ve changed into the sweatpants from my backpack, and my limbs feel weirdly unencumbered after a full day of leathers, but my mind is crystal clear.
Sure, it’s warm and dry and I’ve slept in plenty of worse places—but this isn’t gonna be a good night’s sleep for me.
But then, it wouldn’t be anyway. I’m on duty, and I need to stay alert. Really, I’m just lying down to work the kinks out of my back.
Hours pass, and shadows shift across the ceiling. Even in the half-darkness, I pick out at least three DIY projects for me to do tomorrow before leaving Jem’s apartment, and I make a mental list of supplies I’ll need to run out for. It’s restful thinking, meditative and calm, so my breathing is steady when a floorboard creaks outside the front door.
I go still, ears pricking.
A person shifts their weight out there. Something metal scratches against the lock, like a key held by a clumsy hand—but after a few failed tries, the key slides into the door and turns.
I’m already up, darting across the room on silent feet, positioning myself so I’m behind the door when it swings open. The motion disturbs the air, sending the softest breeze across Jem’s apartment, and when a man steps inside, I don’t need a light on to recognize this guy.
Peter. That’s what she called him, right? The creep from the market. Jem’s sometime ex.
Peter. Peter the prick.
My fingers twitch around my knife handle, and I gust out a long-suffering sigh before setting the blade on top of Jem’s bookcase. Won’t be needing that—and I won’t be the reason my girl has to scrub blood out of her floor.
The soft noise makes Peter spin around to face me, but he’s too slow in the darkness, his eyes not yet adjusted to the gloom. It’s the easiest thing in the world to grip him by the throat and hoist him into the air, kicking and struggling, holding him away from the bookcase so he doesn’t knock over Jem’s stuff. My hair may be pressed against the ceiling, but there are whole inches of empty air beneath this guy.
“Here we are again.” My tone is pleasant, but my grip is so harsh on his throat that Peter’s eyes bulge. Already, his face is an ugly crimson color, and his kicks are getting wilder, more desperate. He claws at my hand. “And I was so sure we understood each other after our chat earlier. That’s a shame.”
A soft noise drifts over from the bed, followed by the rustle of bed covers. Jem flicks on the lamp on her nightstand, then gapes at the scene in the middle of her rug.
“Sweatshirt,” I grit out, my tone harsher than it should be, but I don’t want Peter the prick to see a single inch of Jem’s bare skin. Not when she’s wearing that skimpy top and those tiny shorts; not when I’m at risk of committing murder. She’s mine.
Jem dives for a sweatshirt draped over the end of her bed, shoving it on over her head. I can breathe properly once her body’s swamped in fabric, safely hidden from prying eyes—not that Peter’s in any position to perv. He’s too busy gasping for breath and turning purple.
“He has a key,” I tell Jem, shaking her intruder like the key might jiggle loose. “Did you give him one?”
“N-no.” Jem is bleary-eyed when she swings her legs out of bed, tip-toeing closer. “Of course not. We only went on a few dates, and then I called it off.”
The hem of her sweatshirt hangs halfway down Jem’s bare thighs. It’s still too much skin on show, but it’ll have to do.
“Check his pockets.”
Jem wrinkles her nose, but steps forward and does it, pulling out a sleek leather wallet, an iPhone, a small stack of business cards, and—a small, brassy key.
“Try it.”
Peter smacks at my arm again, trying to break my hold, but it’s useless. He watches, bug-eyed, as Jem crosses to the door and lets herself out of the apartment.
Our breathing is the only sound in the small room—Peter’s gasping, mine steady. The key slides into the lock easily, and the door swings open.
“Oh,” Jem says, clearly shaken as she comes back inside. She stares down at the key in her hand, looking faintly sick. “Oh, god. I knew it.”
“We’ll change the locks tomorrow,” I tell her, wishing more than anything that I could comfort her right now rather than deal with this piece of human garbage. But then again, maybe this is how I comfort her. Right? She was scared, so she came to Spartan Shield Corp. Decision made, I turn to the man dangling in my grip.
“Not that you’ll be coming back,” I say.
Peter tries to shake his head, desperate to agree with me. He’d say anything, do anything, to get me to release his throat.
“And not that you’ll be able to hold a key. Hey man, just wondering: are you right or left handed?”
Peter struggles harder, freaking out, but it was a trick question. I already know, because I watched him come in, the key glinting in his right hand.
“Whoopsie,” I say, breaking his wrist easily. Peter howls, angry tears spilling down his flushed cheeks, but when I hold his face close to mine, he stops thrashing. His panicked heartbeat is so loud in this room.
“You’re never coming near Jem again. Say it.”
He wheezes, the words getting trapped in his crushed throat. I smile, enjoying this way too much.
“Good. You’re going to leave this city and go far, far away. You’re going to start a new life in that faraway place, and you’re never coming back. Not even to visit.”
More gargling. I’d feel guilty if he weren’t such a prick.
“Because you know if I ever see you again—not in this apartment, you understand, or in the market hall, or near Jem, but anywhere —I will kill you and toss your lifeless body in the river. I am not a forgiving man. Tap my arm if you agree.”
Frenzied tapping. Then Peter visibly panics, his eyes flaring wide, because he’s not sure if that was a trick question.
It wasn’t. He got his second chance and he blew it. There won’t be a third.
Christ, I feel so alive right now. I’m grinning broadly as I carry Peter to the door, holding him away from the furniture as we go, and there’s a bounce in my step when I thrust him toward the stairs. He sprawls on the floor, howling with pain. There’s something so satisfying about tidying up loose ends.
“Sayonara,” I say, watching as Peter sprints down the steps so fast he slams into the stairwell wall. It jars his broken wrist, and he lets out a pained yelp, then cradles it to his chest before running down the next flight. “Fun chat,” I call, my voice echoing.
When I go back inside the apartment, I feel light as air. This is what I can do for Jem, this is how I can keep her safe, and I’m goddamn thrilled to do it for her. Part of me had worried that our twenty four hours would run out and Peter would still be out there, plotting and perving and making Jem feel unsafe. This has turned out better than I hoped.
But Jem isn’t smiling back at me when the door closes us in together. She’s hugging herself around the middle, and her face is ashen. She looks sick.
Was I too violent?
Did I freak her out? Break her trust in me?
“Is it—is it over?” Jem asks, and her voice shakes. My gut sinks.
Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s over.
Shit.