Chapter 3 #2
"Don't get used to this," he muttered, his breath hot against my ear. "I'm not doing this to make you feel good. I'm doing this to clear my head."
He spat into his other palm. A thick, wet sound.
He reached between my legs and slapped the spit onto my hole.
My body recoiled, a shiver running through me.
The spit felt cold, viscous, a crude, dismissive lubrication.
No gentle fingers, no careful stretching, just a rough, perfunctory smear around the rim of my tight opening.
"Relax," he ordered.
"Jax, please, it's been years, I'm not—"
"I said relax."
He lined himself up. I could feel the head of his cock—broad, blunt, and terrifyingly hard—pressing against my tight ring. He grabbed my hips. His fingers dug into the flesh, bruising deep.
He shoved.
"Ah!" I screamed into the mattress, the sound muffled by the fabric.
He broke the barrier in one violent motion.
It felt like being split open with a wedge of hot iron.
He was too big. Too dry. The stretch was blinding, searing pain that wrapped around my nervous system and squeezed.
He didn't stop. He drove his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt.
My arms gave out. My elbows hit the mattress, my face burying in the duvet.
I gasped for air, tears pricking my eyes.
"Fuck," Jax groaned above me. "You're tight."
He held himself there, deep inside me, motionless. I could feel his pulse throbbing against my internal walls. I could feel the sheer density of him, filling a space that hadn't been touched since high school.
"Breathe," he commanded.
I tried. I took shallow, jagged breaths. My body was trying to reject him, my muscles clamping down in a panic.
"Loosen up," he growled. He slapped my ass. Hard.
The sting shocked my system. I gasped, and in that moment of distraction, my muscles relaxed just a fraction.
Jax took advantage. He pulled back, almost all the way out, and then slammed back in.
The impact rattled my teeth. My forehead knocked against the headboard.
He began to move.
No caress, no whisper of tenderness. This was not lovemaking, barely even sex.
This was a piston-like rhythm, a blunt instrument of friction and release.
He fucked me with cruel efficiency, his hips snapping forward, his pelvis slapping against my ass cheeks with a wet, meaty thwack that cut through the strained silence of the room.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
"Take it," he snarled. "Take every inch."
I whimpered, my fingers clawing at the sheets. The pain was receding, replaced by an overwhelming, terrifying fullness. Every thrust hit a spot deep inside me—that dormant, shameful bundle of nerves that turned agony into white-hot static.
"Jax..."
"Shut up," he panted. "Don't talk to me. Just take it."
His hand snaked down, grabbing a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back, then shoving my face down into the mattress.
My cries became muffled groans, absorbed by the duvet.
He didn't want my voice, didn't want my eyes on him.
He wanted only the raw, unadulterated friction.
He shifted his angle, driving deeper, grinding against my prostate on the downstroke.
A slick warmth bloomed on the sheets beneath my cock.
My hands remained flat on the duvet, Jax’s hands far from me, yet the internal friction, the relentless deep thrusts, had wrung this response from me.
I was dripping, a wet testament to my body’s involuntary compliance, a shameful confirmation of his power.
Jax’s hips paused, a subtle shift in his rhythm. He must have felt the slight give in my muscles, the way my body began to mold itself around him.
"Yeah," he grunted. "There it is. Greedy little hole. Trying to milk me?"
He picked up the pace, a frantic, driving rhythm.
Sweat streamed from his face, hot droplets splattering onto my back.
The scent of aggression and raw salt filled my nostrils, thick and dizzying, pulling me deeper into the current of his force.
He was getting close. I could feel the change in his rhythm—it became erratic, desperate.
He abandoned all technique and just pounded into me, chasing his release.
"Fuck," he roared. "Fuck!"
He let go of my hair. He grabbed my hips with both hands, anchoring me in place.
He slammed deep, bottoming out, and froze.
I felt his entire body go rigid. I felt the twitch of his cock inside me.
And then the flood.
He came hard. I felt the pulses, hot and thick, shooting deep inside me.
He groaned, a long, broken sound that echoed in the small room, a sound of almost painful relief.
He poured himself into me, emptying days of frustration and stress into my gut.
A shudder ran through my entire frame, a tremor born of being utterly, completely filled.
My brain short-circuited, every thought dissolving into a blank, visceral acceptance of his presence deep within me.
My own cock throbbed, desperate for release.
I bucked my hips, rubbing against the sheets, trying to get some friction.
A subtle shift in Jax’s weight, a tensing of the muscles in his legs, registered my movement.
He pulled out.
The loss was immediate. I felt gaping, empty, and cold.
I collapsed onto the bed, panting.
Jax pushed himself upright, his breath coming in ragged gasps, hands braced on his hips. He stared down at my prone form, his face slack with exhaustion, a faint, almost imperceptible curve at the corner of his mouth. He saw me grinding my hips against the mattress.
"Stop," he said.
I froze. I looked up at him over my shoulder. My eyes were wet. My face was flushed.
"Jax, please," I whispered, my voice raw. "I'm so close. Please let me..."
He looked at my cock, hard and leaking against the navy sheets. He looked at my face, a desperate plea etched into my features. The faint curve vanished. His jaw tightened, the faint light catching the hard planes of his face, leaving his eyes flat, impenetrable.
"Rule Number Three," he said.
He turned and walked toward the bathroom.
"Clean yourself up," he threw over his shoulder, his voice flat. "And strip the bed. I'm not sleeping in that mess."
He walked into the bathroom and shut the door.
I lay there for a moment, the smell of sex and musk heavy in the air.
My body was vibrating. My hole was throbbing, warm and full of him.
My cock was painfully hard. I reached down.
My hand hovered over my erection, my fingers twitching, a centimeter from the slick, engorged head.
A tremor ran through my arm. I clenched my hand into a fist and pulled it away.
I rolled off the bed, my legs shaking so hard I almost fell.
I felt the slide of his cum inside me, a heavy, secret weight.
I gathered the sheets, bunching them up.
The sting in my ass, the raw ache in my muscles, the tight, frustrated burn in my cock—each sensation a physical testament to his control, to his deliberate withholding.
As I shuffled toward the laundry hamper, the sharp, musky scent of him still clinging to my skin, a cold, undeniable wave washed over me, chilling me to the bone.
The emptiness inside me, despite being filled, gnawed with a fresh, aching hunger. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. I craved the pain, the denial, the sheer force of him, like a parched man craves water.