Chapter 7 #2
He unbuckled my belt. The sharp jingle of metal was muffled by the music, but in the close confines of the closet, it sounded like a blaring siren in my ears.
"Jax, the door is open," I hissed, my chest fluttering like a trapped bird. "People are right there."
"I know."
He unzipped my fly. He shoved my jeans and boxers down past my hips, catching them at my thighs. My cock sprang free, pale and engorged in the shadows, a single bead of pre-cum glistening at its tip.
"Knees," he ordered.
"Here? In the closet?" The protest was weak, barely a whisper.
"Knees."
I sank down, the movement awkward in the cramped space. My knees landed on a pile of someone’s old, damp snow boots. The heavy coats brushed against the back of my neck. My eyes were level with the tarnished metal of his belt buckle.
Jax didn't unbutton his pants. He simply unzipped his fly and fished himself out. He emerged, thick and heavy, a pulsing mass of flesh that twitched in front of my face. The scent of his musk, sharp and primal, instantly overpowered the stale dust and wet wool.
"Open," he said.
My mouth parted, dry.
He didn't thrust. He stepped closer, nudging himself forward, feeding himself to me slowly.
The blunt head pushed past my lips, filling my mouth, stretching me.
He tasted of salt and skin, a familiar, robust flavor.
I wrapped my lips around him, drawing him deeper, my nose brushing against the cold metal of his zipper.
"Good boy," he groaned, his hand coming down, firm, to the back of my head. His fingers tangled in my hair, pulling gently. "Suck it. Keep me quiet."
I began to work him. My head bobbed, my tongue swirling around the ridge, sucking hard on the upstroke, a desperate, greedy rhythm.
A surge of forbidden pleasure ripped through me, hot and dizzying.
I hated the way my body responded, the sheer, animalistic thrill of having him in my mouth, of tasting his pleasure, of feeling the power of it. It was a potent, addictive drug.
Jax leaned his head back against the doorframe, his hips snapping forward, fucking my face in short, sharp thrusts.
Through the six-inch crack in the door, a parade of feet shuffled past: worn sneakers, precarious heels, heavy work boots.
They were *right there*. If anyone turned their head, if anyone pushed the door open just a few more inches, we would be exposed.
The risk sent a jolt of pure adrenaline, cold and electric, straight to my groin.
My cock throbbed, a slow, heavy pulse, a drop of pre-cum dripping onto the dirty floor of the closet.
"Yeah," Jax whispered, his voice hoarse. "Just like that. Use that tongue."
Suddenly, the footsteps stopped.
"Carter? You in there?"
I froze. Every muscle in my body locked.
My breath caught in my throat, a painful gasp.
It was Miller. The goalie. He stood directly outside the door.
I could see the side of his worn hockey shoe through the crack.
I tried to pull back, to spit Jax out, to create some space, but Jax’s hand tightened in my hair, a steel vice.
He shoved my head down, forcing me back onto his cock, trapping me, my mouth full of him.
"Occupied," Jax called out, his voice calm, steady, laced with a faint annoyance, as if he were merely trying to retrieve a jacket or find a moment of peace. He did not sound like a man currently getting blown by his roommate in a coat closet.
"Shit, man," Miller’s voice drifted through the crack. "Coach is looking for you. Said something about the curfew check."
Jax didn't pause his movements. He kept thrusting into my mouth, slow and deep, forcing me to take him while he held a casual conversation.
I gagged, a desperate sound caught in my throat.
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes.
I tried to breathe through my nose, but the overwhelming scent of his crotch filled my senses, a suffocating perfume.
"Tell him I left," Jax said to Miller, his voice still even. "Tell him I went home to sleep."
"You sure? There's a keg stand competition starting."
"I'm done. Head hurts." Jax bucked his hips hard, driving deep, hitting the back of my throat. I made a muffled, choking noise, a sound like a strangled animal.
"You okay in there?" Miller asked, a note of concern in his voice. "Sounded like a cat dying."
"Dropped my phone," Jax lied, his voice smooth as glass, without a hint of strain. "It's fine. Get lost, Miller."
"Alright, alright. Later, Cap."
Miller’s footsteps receded, fading into the party’s roar.
The moment his presence was gone, Jax’s chest collapsed, expelling the tension in a harsh rush. His legs trembled slightly. "Fuck," he whispered, "That was close."
He looked down at me. I met his gaze, my eyes wide and swimming with a frantic terror, his cock still buried to the hilt in my throat, drool leaking from the corners of my mouth. The fear in my eyes, the raw, unadulterated panic, didn't deter him. It ignited him.
"You heard him," Jax growled, his voice a low, fierce snarl. "We have to go. So finish me. Now."
He abandoned all pretense of caution. Both hands tangled in my hair, and he began to skull-fuck me, a violent, desperate rhythm.
He slammed into my mouth, using my throat like a sleeve, a wet, smacking sound echoing in the tiny closet.
Slap. Slap. Slap. The sound of his hips hitting my face was loud, insistent.
"Take it," he hissed, his voice strained. "Take it, slut. Swallow it down."
He was panting now, his composure cracking, the thin veneer of control shattering under the pressure. The proximity of the team, the casual conversation with Miller, the sheer, reckless risk—it had pushed him over the edge.
"I'm gonna—" he gasped, the word ripped from his throat.
He pulled out at the last second.
No warning. He simply yanked himself free and aimed.
He came all over my face.
Hot, thick ropes of semen lashed across my cheek, my nose, my eyelids. It coated my lashes, gluing one eye shut, a massive, explosive load fueled by adrenaline and alcohol. He groaned, a deep, shuddering sound, his body shaking as he emptied himself onto me.
I knelt there, panting, my face slick and gleaming.
I tasted the salt on my lips. I felt the heat of it sliding down my chin, a warm, viscous stream.
Jax leaned against the hanging coats, his chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
He looked down at me. He looked at the mess he’d made.
He looked at the cum dripping off my nose.
He smiled.
It was a dark, possessive curve of his lips. "Beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled handkerchief. He crouched down. His hand, surprisingly gentle, wiped my face. Not rough, but not soft either. He cleaned my eyes, my cheeks, dabbing away the evidence.
"Stand up," he said.
I pushed myself to my feet. My legs felt like jelly, trembling beneath me.
My fingers, still sticky, fumbled with my belt, buckling it.
Jax tucked himself back into his pants, zipped up, and smoothed his shirt.
He looked perfectly composed, as if nothing had happened, save for the tell-tale flush on his cheeks and the lingering darkness in his eyes.
"Hood up," he ordered.
I pulled my hood up, obscuring my face.
"Let's go."
He opened the door.
We stepped out into the hallway. The music still blared, a wall of sound. The party raged on, a swirling vortex of bodies and noise. No one looked at us. No one knew that five feet away, the Captain had just taken his roommate in a coat closet while talking to the goalie.
Jax’s hand landed on the back of my neck. He squeezed, his thumb pressing right into the bandage under my hoodie, sending a sharp spike of pain through the hazy aftermath of pleasure. "My room," he whispered, leaning close, his lips brushing my ear. "We're leaving."
"Your room?" The question was a dull echo in my still-reeling mind.
"Yeah. The truck is outside."
He steered me toward the back door, bypassing the kitchen, away from the lingering scents and sounds of the party.
"But... the blonde," I stammered, my thoughts still thick and sluggish. "You were talking to her."
Jax scoffed, a short, dismissive sound. "I don't want the blonde, Tom," he said, his grip tightening on my neck as he pushed me out into the cool night air. "She doesn't know how to keep a secret."
He unlocked the truck, the sharp click cutting through the faint party din. He opened the passenger door for me. "And she definitely doesn't look as good as you do with my cum on her face." He slammed the door shut.
As he walked around to the driver's side, I lifted a finger to my cheek.
It was still sticky. He hadn't wiped it all away.
I licked my finger. It tasted of salt and him.
As the engine roared to life, a powerful rumble that swallowed the distant party music, a chilling realization settled deep in my gut.
The video. The blackmail. They felt like distant echoes now, flimsy excuses.
My body hummed with a different truth. I craved the edge. I craved him.
???
Neither of us spoke, just the low growl of the engine and the thick, dangerous heat rolling off both of us.
Jax gripped the steering wheel with one hand, his knuckles white, the other resting on the gear shift.
He drove fast, aggressively, weaving through the sparse late-night traffic, each turn a sharp, decisive movement.
I sat in the passenger seat, a tremor running through me. My body felt like a battlefield, sated by the sheer terror, yet aching with a raw, physical denial. My balls throbbed, a heavy, blue-balled ache that was quickly becoming my new normal.
He parked in our usual spot. We climbed the stairs. Jax unlocked the apartment door, the click echoing in the quiet stairwell, and threw the deadbolt the second we were inside. He didn't bother with the lights.
"Bedroom," he said, the single word a low command in the darkness.
I walked to the bedroom, my movements automatic, a practiced ritual. My fingers went to the drawstrings of my hoodie, pulling it over my head. Then my t-shirt.
"Leave the pants," Jax said.
My hands, mid-motion at my belt buckle, froze. "What?"
"Leave them on."
He strode across the dark room. He pushed against my chest, a firm, deliberate pressure, sending me stumbling backward onto the bed. I landed with a soft bounce on the mattress.
Jax crawled over me. He was still fully dressed—jeans, belt, boots. He straddled my hips, his weight pinning me to the mattress, a heavy, inescapable presence. He grabbed my wrists, pulling them above my head, securing them with one hand.
"You did good tonight," he said, his voice a low, raspy murmur close to my ear. "You kept quiet."
"I almost choked."
"But you didn't. You took it."
He released my hands. His free hand, rough with calluses, traced the line of my jaw. "You know what that makes you?"
"A slut?" I whispered, the word tasting bitter on my tongue.
"No." He shook his head, a slight movement against the dim light. "It makes you trustworthy."
He let go of my wrists. He sat back, his weight settling heavily on my thighs.
"Unzip your pants."
My fingers fumbled at my waist, pulling down the zipper.
"Pull it out."
I fished my cock out of my jeans. It sprang free, raging hard, purple and weeping a fresh bead of pre-cum in the dim light.
Jax looked at it. His eyes lingered, sharp and assessing, but he didn't touch.
"Jerk it," he said.
A sudden, fierce surge of heat ripped through my chest. "I... can I?" The question was a desperate plea.
"Yeah. I want to watch."
I wrapped my hand around my cock. The sensation was overwhelming, an electric current. After days of aching denial, the simple friction of my own skin felt like fire. I started to stroke, fast, desperate, my hips beginning to buck involuntarily.
"Slow down," Jax ordered, his voice flat.
I forced myself to slow, each stroke a deliberate effort against the frantic pulse in my veins. My hips fought against the command, twitching with an unbearable need.
"Look at me," he said.
My gaze snapped to his. He watched me with intense, unwavering focus, his face unreadable in the dark. He made no move to touch himself, his own arousal a silent, coiled tension beneath his clothes. He was getting off on the spectacle, on watching me unravel.
"Tell me who you belong to," he said, his voice a low growl.
"You," I gasped, the word torn from my throat. "I belong to you."
"Who am I?"
"Jax. Captain."
"That's right."
I pumped faster, my hand a blur. I couldn't help it. The pressure built, a roaring freight train in my veins, demanding release. "Jax, please, I'm close."
"Come for me," he whispered, his voice dark and thrilling. "Come on your own stomach. Show me how much you needed it."
My body convulsed.
I cried out, arching my back off the mattress, a guttural sound that tore through the quiet room.
I came hard, a messy, brain-melting explosion.
Gobs of cum shot up, hitting my chest, my chin, puddling on my stomach.
The release was immense, wracking my body, wringing out every drop of tension from the last week of denial.
It went on and on, my body shaking, twitching.
When it finally subsided, I collapsed, panting, slick and ruined, my muscles trembling.
Jax remained straddling me. He reached out, his finger tracing a line through the warm, sticky mess on my stomach. "Good boy," he murmured.
He climbed off me, his weight lifting from my thighs. He stood up and stripped off his clothes, letting them fall in a heap on the floor. He got into bed and pulled the covers up, settling in.
"Clean that up in the morning," he said, nodding toward my stomach. "I'm tired."
He rolled over, turning his back to me.
I lay there for a long time in the dark, the mingled scents of sex and sweat thick in the air.
My pants were still around my ankles. The fluid on my chest cooled and stiffened as it dried.
Shame should have burned. The feeling of being used should have chafed my skin.
But as I listened to Jax’s breathing even out into the steady rhythm of sleep, a strange, profound stillness settled over me.
A twisted sense of peace. I was his. And tonight, he had kept me.