Chapter 2
A clock hand crawls. Each second stretches, taut and humming.
Five minutes. The number itself felt like a lie.
In the roaring arena of a hockey game, five minutes could carve out an entire narrative: three goals screaming past the net, a flurry of fists exploding at center ice, a lead snatched away in a blink.
Here, in the quiet of my own hallway, the time dissolved into nothing.
The radio would play a single pop song. A commercial break would flicker to an end.
But I stood naked, the chill of the linoleum biting at my soles, clutching Jax’s sweat-stiffened practice jersey against my bare thigh, and five minutes became an eternity of suspended animation.
Two minutes left.
A tremor started deep in my chest, a quick flutter that spread outwards.
The central heating hummed at seventy degrees, but my skin prickled, hypersensitive to the phantom currents stirring the air around me.
My clothes lay in a crumpled heap by my bedroom door—denim jeans inverted, boxer briefs tangled in the legs.
Every inch of my skin felt exposed, vulnerable.
Two hundred and twenty-five pounds of muscle, built and honed over years, a deliberate shield against this very sensation, now felt like a thin membrane, easily pierced.
Stripped bare, I waited, a supplicant for entry into a room that was half mine by right of rent.
From behind the closed bathroom door, the shower roared. Pipes groaned in the walls, a low, mechanical vibration that resonated with the clenching knot in my gut.
I looked down at the jersey in my hand. Navy mesh.
White number 17. The fabric felt rough, abrasive under my thumb, the edges of the stitched numbers already fraying.
Ten minutes ago, I had pressed it to my face, inhaling deeply, a slow, deliberate act of worship.
Now, its damp weight felt like a stone in my hand, a silent witness. A tool.
My cock still hung heavy, a dull ache thrumming against my thigh, a traitorous pulse of blood.
A cold, clear part of my mind screamed for flight.
Pack a bag. Drive to the dean’s office. Request a transfer, anywhere.
But another part, a dark, primal instinct that had been hammered into shape by four years of obsession, squeezed tight.
It feared Jax might actually open the door and let me walk away.
The water shut off.
The shower cut off dead, and the sudden quiet slammed into me like a cross-check to the chest, leaving the hallway thick, ringing, and way too small. I heard the distinct snick of the glass shower door sliding open, then the heavy, wet thud of feet hitting the bathmat.
"Time's up," Jax’s voice cut through the wood. It wasn't a yell. It was a flat, unhurried statement, devoid of emotion, and it carried through the door as easily as if he stood beside me.
I drew a breath, held it until my lungs burned, and pushed the door open.
The bathroom was a white-tiled box, a dense cloud of humidity that clung to my skin. Steam billowed out, thick and heavy, carrying the sharp, clean scent of cedarwood soap and the metallic tang of hot tap water. The mirror was a solid sheet of white, my own reflection swallowed whole.
Jax stood in the center of the room.
Water sluiced down his body in rivulets.
He hadn't bothered to reach for a towel.
His hair was slicked back, dark and wet, revealing the sharp, almost predatory angles of his face.
Beads of water tracked over the heavy slabs of his pectorals, collected in the deep, defined V of his hips, then disappeared into the dark hair at his groin.
He stood like a statue, immovable, dense. Packed with hard, wet muscle. A silent, imposing presence.
And he was fully, terrifyingly hard.
His cock stood straight up against his stomach, thick and veined, a slight bobbing motion accompanying his breathing.
It was engorged, flushed with blood, the head a broad, dark purple.
His hands hung loose at his sides. He wasn't touching it.
He wasn't acknowledging it. It was simply there—a weapon drawn, laid bare on the table between us.
His eyes, the color of storm clouds, swept over me. His gaze was thorough, taking in my bare chest, my legs, the jersey clutched in my hand. He held no expression.
"Close the door," he said.
I stepped inside. The humid air enveloped me. My hand moved to the knob and clicked the door shut. The latch engaged with a sharp snick that vibrated through the frame, a sound that made my stomach lurch.
"Lock it."
My thumb found the small turning mechanism. Click. The bolt slid home.
"Jersey," he said. He pointed to the tile floor directly in front of his feet. "Spread it out."
I hesitated. The white tile was wet, speckled with dark hairs and faint smudges from his feet.
"Did I stutter?" Jax asked softly. The words held no heat, only a low, dangerous hum.
I walked forward. My legs felt stiff, heavy, as if moving through thick water. I knelt down. The cold tile bit into my knees, a sharp shock against my skin. My hands trembled as I spread the navy mesh out on the floor, smoothing the wrinkles. The white number 17 stared up at me, bold and stark.
"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, overwhelmingly him. 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, resonant thud against 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."
He dropped his hand to my hip, gripping the bone.
"Turn around."
I turned. I faced the fogged mirror, seeing only the vague outline of my own body—broad shoulders, thick back, heavy thighs. And behind me, the darker, taller shadow of Jax.
He slapped my ass.
Crack.
It was a full-swing strike. The sound was a gunshot in the small room.
"Ah!" My body jumped, a reflex. My hand flew back, clutching the stinging cheek. The pain was sharp, immediate, and hot, a spreading blush beneath my skin.
"Hands on the wall," Jax snapped. "Feet back. Spread them."
I slapped my palms against the cool, slick glass of the mirror. I kicked my feet back, spreading my legs wide, a familiar, instinctive stance—one I’d assumed countless times in my nightmares, bracing for a frisk.
Jax stepped in close. He didn't press his body against mine. He maintained a deliberate inch of space, letting the tension coil, letting the anticipation do its work.