Chapter 12 Withdrawal #2
"Exactly," Jax said, a dark satisfaction in his voice. "Your body knows. It knows who holds the keys."
He pumped me faster, harder. My cock stirred, responding against my will, a traitorous surge of blood. Heat flooded my groin.
"See?" he murmured, leaning closer, his breath hot against my ear. "There he is. There's my good boy."
He leaned forward, his mouth opening. He bit my neck, his teeth finding the mark he’d left on Tuesday—the bruise that was now a sickly yellow-green—and sinking in right over it. A fresh spike of pain shot through me, sharp and immediate.
"Jax!"
He stood up, straddling my face now. His hands went to his sweatpants, yanking them down. No underwear. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, slapping against my chin with a soft thud.
"Suck it," he ordered, his voice raw.
"Here?"
"Suck. It."
He grabbed the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair.
He forced himself into my mouth. It was not gentle.
It was frantic, a desperate, driving push.
He tasted of salt and unwashed skin, of something bitter and metallic that spoke of sleeplessness and a raw, gnawing need.
His hips snapped forward, a rhythmic assault, his thighs clamping around my ears, holding me fast.
I gagged, a choking sound, my hands gripping the bench press bar above me, knuckles white with strain. He didn't care. He simply drove, needing the physical connection, the brutal reclamation of territory lost for twenty-four agonizing hours.
He pulled out with a wet, sucking pop.
"Turn over," he said.
"Jax, the bench is too narrow."
"Figure it out."
He hauled me up, spinning me around. He shoved me face-down onto the vinyl bench.
My legs dangled off the sides, knees knocking against the metal frame.
My chest pressed against the cold, cracked leather, the rough texture digging into my skin.
He ripped my shorts down, not bothering to remove them, just yanking them to my knees, trapping my legs.
The cool, stale air of the gym washed over my exposed ass. In the mirror wall opposite us, our reflection stared back—my body bent awkwardly over the narrow bench, his figure looming behind me, a dark, consuming shadow.
He spat on my hole, the warm, wet sensation a shock against my skin.
Then he pushed in.
"Fuck!" I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat, raw and uncontrolled.
He was huge. He felt bigger, wider than before, filling me completely, stretching me to my limits.
Maybe the withdrawal had sharpened my senses, or maybe the awkward angle intensified the invasion, but it felt like he was rearranging my very spine.
A long, deep groan, a guttural sound of profound release, rumbled from his chest.
"Home," he whispered, the single word thick with a desperate, animal relief. "Fuck, finally."
He started to move.
The narrow bench protested beneath us, a rhythmic squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. He grabbed the bar supports on either side of my head, leaning his weight over me, his body a solid bracket. He drove into me with long, deep strokes, each thrust a physical punctuation mark.
"You thought you could leave?" he grunted, slamming his hips against my ass, the impact rattling my teeth. "You thought you could exist without this?"
"No," I sobbed into the vinyl, the word muffled. "I couldn't."
"You're mine," he said, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "Say it."
"I'm yours."
"You're never leaving again."
"Never."
"If you leave," he threatened, driving so deep I saw stars, bright pinpricks of light behind my eyelids, "I will hunt you down. I will drag you back by your hair. I don't care if I get arrested. I don't care if I get expelled. I will burn the world down to keep you."
The words should have triggered a cold, visceral terror, a scramble for escape. They should have been the moment I felt the icy certainty of a police report forming in my mind. But God help me, a strange, burning heat spread through my chest, twisting my gut in a way I couldn't explain.
He reached under my stomach, his fingers finding my cock. It was leaking, a steady stream onto the bench, making a slick mess on the leather. He started to jerk me off.
The sensations overwhelmed me: the cold glare of the mirrors, the acute risk of a security guard's footsteps, the raw pain of his grip, the utter fullness of him inside me.
"Jax, I'm gonna cum!"
"Do it," he roared, his voice thick with exertion. "Cum for me. Mark the bench."
My spine snapped back like I’d been shocked, hips jerking hard enough to slam the seat.
Cum shot out of me in thick, endless ropes, splattering the vinyl, my fist, his forearm, hot and slick and everywhere.
My vision tunneled, then flashed white, gone for a heartbeat while my cock kept pumping like it was trying to turn itself inside out.
Jax slammed in one last time, balls-deep, and stayed there.
I felt his shaft swell, then kick, hard, once, twice, again and again, each brutal pulse flooding me with heat that spread fast and deep, thick jets painting my insides until I was dripping with him.
His growl vibrated straight through my back, low and ragged, my name punched out between clenched teeth while he unloaded everything he had, filling the raw, empty ache I’d carried since the second I walked away.
He collapsed on top of me, his heavy weight pressing me into the bench. We lay there, a tangle of limbs and sweat, our skin slick. The gym fell silent again, save for the ragged sound of our breathing.
Jax’s heavy breaths slowly evened out. He turned his head, resting his cheek against my back.
"Don't," he whispered, the single word raw, fragile. "Don't ever do that again."
I felt the moisture of his breath on my skin, warm and damp. And something else. A cold wetness. A tremor ran through his body, subtle but unmistakable. His shoulders shook.
I reached back, my fingers finding his hand, still gripping the bar support. I laced my fingers through his, fitting them together.
"I won't," I promised, the words a low murmur. "I'm staying."
He squeezed my hand, a crushing grip that made my bones grind together.
"Let's go home," he said.
He pulled out with a soft sound. He helped me up, his hands steady on my waist. He pulled my shorts up for me, smoothing the fabric over my ass.
We walked out of the gym, the automatic doors hissing open and closed behind us. He didn't let go of my hand, his grip firm and possessive. He led me to his truck, opened the passenger door, and buckled me in.
He drove us back to the apartment. He didn't guide me to the guest room, didn't point me towards the couch. He led me straight to his bedroom, to his bed. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me tight against his chest. He tangled his legs with mine, a heavy anchor.
And for the first time in four years, his breathing deepened, his body went slack, and he fell asleep before I did, his arms clamped around me like I was the only thing keeping him from dissolving into the darkness.
The blackmail was a ghost now. The game, a forgotten memory. Now, there was only the raw, visceral fight to keep breathing. And we would do it, clenched together, or not at all.