Chapter 6 #2
He reached behind me, his fingers finding my slick hole. He spat into his hand—a gesture that had become Pavlovian for me, a signal of what was to come—and slicked my opening, rough and fast.
Then he pushed.
My head cracked back against the tiles with a dull thud. "Ah!" The sound was ripped from my throat.
He entered me standing up. It was awkward, slippery, and brutally efficient. He had to crouch slightly to get the angle, driving upward into me with a grunt. The position stretched me in a way the bed never did, forcing my weight onto one leg, leaving me completely reliant on him for balance.
He buried himself to the hilt, a deep, invasive fullness.
I groaned, clutching his wet shoulders for stability, my fingers digging into the slick muscle. The fullness was immediate and staggering, an encompassing invasion. He felt bigger in the shower, heavier, his presence overwhelming.
"Wrap your leg tighter," he ordered, gripping my ass with both hands, his fingers digging into my flesh, holding me up.
I hooked my ankle around his lower back, my muscles straining.
Jax began to move.
It wasn't a rhythm; it was a struggle, a series of violent collisions.
His feet slipped slightly on the wet floor, forcing him to correct his stance with harsh, driving shoves.
Every thrust was a brutal impact. My back slammed against the wall.
Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound echoed, stark and loud, amidst the roar of the water.
"Quiet," he hissed, biting my ear, his teeth scraping against the lobe. "Do you want to get caught?"
"Then... stop... hitting... the wall," I gasped, the words punched out of me, each syllable a desperate plea.
"Can't help it," he grunted, his breath hot against my neck. "You feel too good. So fucking tight."
He sped up, his thrusts becoming a frantic blur.
The water pounded around us, a deafening roar that swallowed the wet, slapping sounds of our bodies colliding.
Steam filled my lungs, making it hard to breathe, each inhale a desperate struggle.
I felt lightheaded, dizzy with the oppressive heat and the overwhelming sensation.
Jax was relentless, a force of nature. He fucked me with a desperate, angry energy, his hips grinding, rubbing his pubic bone against my ass, stimulating us both to a fever pitch.
"Look at you," he snarled, his voice thick with raw possessiveness. "Taking it in the showers like a varsity slut. Is this what you dreamed about?"
"Yes," I sobbed, the word tearing from my throat. "Yes, Jax."
"Say it louder."
"Yes, Captain!"
He pulled back, almost dropping me, then slammed back in with a force that rattled my teeth.
"Who owns this locker room?" he demanded, his voice a guttural roar.
"You do."
"Who owns you?"
"You do!"
He leaned back, his eyes fixed on my face. He looked at my lips, parted and panting, slick with steam and my own saliva. He looked at my eyes, blown wide with lust and a terrifying vulnerability.
His gaze dropped to my neck.
"Too clean," he muttered, a dark glint in his eyes.
He leaned in, his breath hot and ragged against my skin. He opened his mouth.
He bit me.
It wasn't a love bite, no gentle hickey. He sank his teeth into the sensitive muscle where my neck met my shoulder, a sharp, sudden agony. He bit down hard, a sickening pressure.
"Jax!" I screamed, the sound tearing out of my throat, raw and desperate.
The pain was sharp, agonizing, a white-hot spear. I felt the skin break, a tearing sensation. I felt his teeth grinding against the muscle beneath, a sickening intimacy.
He didn't let go. He clamped down, shaking his head slightly like a dog with a bone, worrying the flesh. He thrust harder into me while he marked me, blending the pain and the pleasure into a blinding, white-hot spike of sensation that consumed my entire being.
He held the bite for ten seconds, a lifetime. When he finally pulled back, I felt a trickle of something warm running down my shoulder that wasn't water, but thick and viscous.
Blood.
"There," he panted, admiring his work, his eyes glazed with a savage satisfaction. "Now everyone knows."
"You... you broke the skin," I whispered, my fingers tentatively touching the wound. It stung, a searing pain in the hot water.
"Good. It'll scar."
He grabbed my face with both hands, squishing my cheeks, forcing my eyes to meet his.
"I want people to see it," he said, his eyes wild, utterly unhinged. "I want them to look at you in the locker room tomorrow. I want them to see that mark and know that I put it there. I want them to know you're damaged goods."
A tremor shot down my spine. My lungs constricted, and the air soured in my throat.
My knees trembled, threatening to buckle, a sudden, desperate urge to flee battling with an even stronger, sickening pull to stay.
This wasn't the cold blackmail of the first night.
This was something else, something deeper, darker. This was obsession, raw and untamed.
And god help me, my dick throbbed harder, a furious beat against his stomach.
"Fuck me," I begged, the words escaping in a ragged moan. "Jax, please, finish it."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He readjusted his grip on my hips, his fingers digging in. He slammed me against the wall one last time, pinning me there with his sheer weight, his body a hot, wet shield.
He started to piston, fast, hard, reckless, his movements losing all semblance of control. I could feel his muscles seizing up, his breath turning into ragged shouts, primal sounds that resonated through his chest and into mine.
"I'm close," he warned, his voice strained. "Don't you dare come yet."
"I can't hold it," I whined, my hand already stroking myself, slippery with soap and water, a desperate attempt to control the inevitable. "Jax, please."
"Hold it!"
He drove deep, hitting that spot inside me that made my vision go black, sparks dancing behind my eyelids.
He groaned, a sound that vibrated through his chest and into mine, a visceral release.
"Fuck!"
He came.
I felt the spasms deep inside me, violent and undeniable. He unloaded, hot fluid filling me up, mixing with the shower water, washing down my legs. He slumped against me, his forehead resting on my wet shoulder, his weight heavy, a dead mass.
"Now," he whispered, his voice hoarse, spent. "Let go."
I didn't stroke. I just clenched my muscles around him, squeezing the last drops out of him, milking him dry. The sensation, the intense internal pressure, was enough, more than enough.
I blew my load like a busted pipe.
My release was ferocious, unassisted, a full-body tremor.
I shot onto his stomach, onto the wall, the white ropes of cum washing away instantly in the powerful spray.
My legs gave out. If Jax hadn't been holding me, a rigid pillar against my collapse, I would have crumpled onto the slick tile floor.
We stood there for a long time, held together by exhaustion and the lingering aftershocks. The water ran over us, washing away the sweat, the cum, the evidence of our transgression.
My shoulder throbbed where he’d bitten me, a dull, insistent ache. My back ached from the relentless impact against the wall. My hole felt stretched, full, and exquisitely tender.
Jax finally pulled out, a slow, deliberate withdrawal. He stepped back, separating our bodies.
He looked at the bite mark on my shoulder. It was an angry red oval, already bruising, with a small smear of fresh blood trailing down.
He reached out and traced it with his thumb, a feather-light touch.
"Perfect," he whispered, a chilling satisfaction in his voice.
He turned off the shower. The sudden silence was deafening, a ringing in my ears. The hum of the compressors seemed louder now.
"Get dressed," he said, his voice returning to that flat, commanding tone, the mask of the Captain firmly back in place. "We need to get out of here before the crew comes down."
I grabbed my towel, my hands shaking. I dried off, the rough cotton abrading my tender skin. I put my clothes back on, each movement an effort. The hoodie rubbed against the bite mark, a constant, stinging reminder of what had just transpired.
Jax dressed quickly, efficiently. He didn't look at me, his focus already elsewhere – checking his phone, grabbing his bag, preparing for the exit.
We walked out of the locker room. The hallway was still empty, eerily silent. The clank-squeak of the mop bucket was gone, vanished like a ghost.
We walked out the back door, stepping from the humid warmth into the biting cold of the night air.
"My truck is in the north lot," Jax said, not looking at me.
"I walked," I replied, my voice hoarse.
"Get in the truck."
"Jax, I can walk. It's not far."
He stopped, turning slowly. Under the harsh security light, his eyes were shadowed, unreadable.
"Get in the truck, Tom." His voice was low, laced with an unmistakable warning.
"Why?"
"Because I'm not done with you."
My heart skipped a beat, then hammered against my ribs. "You... we just..."
"That was just the warm-up," he said, a glint in his eye. He pressed the unlock button on his key fob, the truck's lights flashing in the distance. "I'm still wired. And you still have a mouth."
He opened the passenger door, gesturing for me to get in.
"Besides," he added, his gaze dropping to my neck where the hoodie had slipped, revealing the angry red mark. "I want to see what that mark looks like under the streetlights."
I climbed into the truck. The leather seat was cold against my bare skin.
Jax climbed into the driver's side. He started the engine, the rumble a deep thrum in the quiet night. He didn't drive immediately. He reached across the console, his fingers hooking under the collar of my hoodie, pulling it down to expose my shoulder.
He looked at the bite, his gaze intense. He ran his thumb over it again, pressing hard, testing the tenderness.
I winced, a sharp intake of breath.