Chapter 13 The Rumor #2
Mills’ gaze flickered from Jax’s face to my eyes, then dropped to Jax’s arm, which was now a solid bar across my back. His eyes lingered on the gray sweatpants I wore, the soft fabric draping dangerously loose around my hips, hinting at the absence of underwear beneath.
“We heard… uh, we heard you might be busy tonight,” Mills stammered, his words stumbling over each other.
“I am busy,” Jax stated, his voice a low thrum against my ear. He looked down at me, his fingers finding the nape of my neck, tangling in my hair. He tilted my head back, exposing my throat to the crowded room, a deliberate offering. “Very busy.”
Mills’ eyes widened, suddenly understanding. The boisterous group of linemen behind him went utterly silent, their cups frozen in mid-air.
Jax offered no explanation, no defense. He simply held me there, utterly exposed, on display for five agonizing, burning seconds. The gaze of every person in the room felt like a physical touch, crawling over my skin.
Then he moved.
“Drink,” he said to me, the single word a command.
He steered me toward the back of the house, toward the sliding glass doors that led to the patio. It was just as crowded out there, a dense knot of smokers and couples, but the light was dimmer, softer.
“Jax, everyone is staring,” I hissed, my voice tight with a desperate plea.
“Let them stare.”
He shoved open the sliding door. The cool night air hit me like a revelation, a blessed relief against the sweat slicking my skin.
He didn’t stop on the patio. He walked to the very edge of the yard, where the frat brothers had built a raised wooden deck overlooking the sloping lawn. It was shrouded in deeper shadow, lit only by the distant spill of light from the house and the occasional flicker of a tiki torch.
A few couples were pressed into corners, making out. Smokers huddled in small groups, their cigarettes glowing like fireflies.
Jax walked to the railing. He turned me around, and with a sudden, deliberate motion, slammed my back against the rough wood.
The impact jarred my teeth, and the railing dug sharply into my spine.
Below us, the lawn dropped away into inky darkness.
Behind Jax, the party raged, muted and distorted through the glass.
We were utterly visible. Anyone looking out the window, anyone on the patio, could see us. We were stark silhouettes against the night, a tableau framed for their viewing pleasure.
“Perfect,” Jax whispered, his breath warm against my ear.
He crowded me, pressing his hips against mine. I felt the hard ridge of his denim-clad erection grinding against the soft fabric of my sweatpants, a sudden, insistent pressure.
“Jax, people can see.” The words were a desperate gasp.
“That’s the point.”
He grabbed the collar of my white t-shirt. This time, he didn’t just pull it aside. He ripped it.
The sharp, distinct sound of cotton tearing was loud in the relatively quieter space. He tore the collar down to my left shoulder, exposing a broad expanse of skin.
“They want to talk?” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. “Let’s give them something to talk about.”
He lowered his head.
He latched onto my neck.
It wasn't a kiss. It was an attack, savage and deliberate. He sucked hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin right over my pulse point, sending a jolt of pain and pleasure through me. He bit down, not enough to draw blood, but enough to instantly bruise, a sharp, possessive clamp.
“Ah!” I gasped, my hands flying up to clutch at the rough leather of his jacket, my knuckles white with strain.
He worked his way up my throat, a line of dark marks blooming under his mouth. From my collarbone to my jaw, he painted a stark, visible declaration, a brand of deep violet against my pale skin.
“Jax…” The sound was a strangled whimper.
“Quiet,” he hummed against my skin, the vibration deep and primal. “Or I’ll strip you right here.”
His hands moved, sliding down my back. He found the curve of my ass through the thin sweatpants. He squeezed, kneading the flesh, pulling me up and into him, pressing our bodies tighter.
My leg wrapped around his waist instinctively, seeking purchase.
A cheer, loud and sudden, erupted from the patio. Someone had seen.
Jax didn’t stop. He turned his head slightly, his eyes sweeping over the distant audience, a glint of defiance in their depths, then looked back at me, a slow, dark smirk spreading across his face.
He reached between us. His fingers, cool against my skin, slid into the waistband of my sweatpants.
“No underwear,” he reminded me, his voice a low growl. “Good boy.”
His hand dipped lower. He found my cock, already thick and wet, leaking pre-cum that soaked the fabric, chilling my skin.
“You’re a mess,” he whispered, his voice laced with a dark pleasure. “Leaking in public. Slut.”
He began to stroke me. His hand was rough, calloused, the friction both abrasive and exhilarating. He pumped me in a steady, relentless rhythm, hidden from direct view by our pressed bodies, but the motion of his arm, the rhythmic flex of his bicep, was unmistakable to anyone watching.
I threw my head back, biting down hard on my lip to stifle a moan, the sharp pain a counterpoint to the building pleasure.
“Don’t hide it,” he ordered, his voice suddenly sharp. “Let them hear you.”
His other hand moved. It slid around to my back, fingers tracing the curve of my spine before finding the soft cleft of my ass.
He pushed a finger inside.
“Fuck!” I cried out, the sound ripped from my throat.
There was no spit, no lube, just the sudden, brutal invasion of his dry finger past my rim, a searing stretch of unyielding flesh.
“Tight,” he grunted, the word ragged. “Always so tight for me.”
He curled his finger, hitting my prostate with pinpoint accuracy.
My knees gave out completely. If he hadn’t been pinning me to the railing, hadn’t been holding me so tightly against him, I would have slid to the floor, a heap of useless limbs.
“Jax, please, it’s too much…” The words were broken, pleading.
“It’s not enough.”
He added a second finger. He scissored them inside me, a brutal, stretching motion that tore at me, leaving me vulnerable and exposed in the cool night air.
I was unraveling. My body shook violently against his. My vision blurred. Faces pressed against the glass door of the house, a grotesque gallery of silent observers. The blinding flash of a phone camera momentarily burned a white spot into my vision.
“They’re filming,” I whimpered, the sound raw with shame and desperation.
“Let them,” Jax said, his voice hard. “Let them see that I’m the only one who gets to do this. Let them see that you take it.”
He kissed me then, a violent, consuming kiss. He mashed his mouth against mine, silencing my protests, cutting off my breath. He kissed me like he was trying to breathe for me, to consume my very air.
And down below, his hands worked relentlessly. He stroked my cock, pumped me with his fingers inside, a relentless, dual assault that obliterated all coherent thought, leaving only sensation.
“Cum,” he growled into my mouth, the word a demand, a dark prayer. “Cum right now.”
I couldn’t hold it back. The pressure was a volcanic eruption, too immense, too overwhelming.
I lost control.
A muffled scream tore from my throat, swallowed by his mouth. My hips bucked wildly against him, an uncontrollable spasm. I shot onto my own stomach, onto his hand, a hot, sticky mess staining the waistband of my pants.
Jax held me through it all. He kept his fingers inside, twisting, milking the orgasm, a relentless pressure that wrung every last drop from me until I was dry heaving with pleasure, my body limp and spent against him.
When my muscles finally went slack, he pulled his hand out, the sudden absence a cold shock.
He wiped his fingers on my torn white t-shirt, a deliberate smear of fluid and shine left squarely on my chest.
He stepped back.
He looked at me, a slow, assessing gaze. My shirt hung in tatters. My neck was a landscape of dark, bruised hickeys. My pants were stained, a visible testament to what had just transpired. I looked utterly, undeniably marked, a trophy on display.
He smiled, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips.
“Now we can go.”
He grabbed my hand. He didn’t offer to fix my clothes, didn’t let me try to hide the evidence.
He led me back through the party.
As we walked through the living room, the music seemed to die, the bass fading into an awkward silence. The crowd split open, bodies shoving against each other to clear a path for him.
Everyone looked.
Their eyes, wide and unblinking, fixed on my torn shirt. They lingered on the dark, angry marks blooming across my neck. They dropped to the wet stain on my gray sweatpants, then flicked up to Jax.
They saw the look on his face. There was no trace of shame, no hint of embarrassment. Only a cold, triumphant pride.
He walked with his head held high, his chin slightly lifted, daring anyone to meet his gaze, to utter a single word.
He met Tyler’s eyes across the room. Tyler, frozen mid-sip, looked at me, then at Jax, and slowly, deliberately, raised his red cup in a toast. A gesture of respect. Of understanding.
Message received.
We walked out the front door, leaving the silence and the staring behind. We walked down the driveway, the cool night air a stark contrast to the heat of the party, the heat of my own body.
Jax didn’t release my hand until we were inside his truck, the engine already rumbling to life.
He turned to me, his profile softened in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. “You okay?” His voice was lower now, gentler, the harsh edge gone, the performance over.
I touched my neck, my fingers tracing the raised welts. It throbbed, a dull, persistent ache.
“Everyone saw,” I whispered, the words barely audible.
“Yeah,” Jax said. He reached over, his fingers brushing against my temple, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Now they know. No more rumors. Just facts.”
“What fact is that?”
“That you’re mine,” he said, his voice a low, possessive growl. “And I don’t share.”
He put the truck in gear, the vehicle lurching forward.
“Let’s go home. I want to finish what I started on that balcony.”
As we drove away, I looked back at the frat house. The party lights still flickered, the bass still thrummed, but the atmosphere had irrevocably shifted. I was no longer the subject of hushed whispers and anonymous posts.
I was the Captain’s property.
And for the first time, I felt a strange, fierce defiance. For the first time, I didn't care who knew.