Chapter 15 The Morning After
A leaden pressure clung to my limbs, a heavy cloak that resisted movement. My head throbbed with a dull, distant ache, and my mouth felt like sandpaper. Waking up wasn't a gentle transition; it was a violent breach, a sudden, gasping ascent from crushing depths.
The light was the first assault—a blinding, white glare that ripped through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite. It struck my eyelids, raw and demanding, searing a bright red imprint even through the thin skin. I squeezed my eyes tighter, a fresh wave of pain blooming behind them.
Then came the weight.
Something heavy and cold pressed into the very center of my sternum. Each breath I drew caused it to shift, a jagged, metallic anchor on my bare chest. The chain threaded through it, a cool slither of silver, tickled the sensitive skin of my neck.
I cracked one eye open.
The championship ring. It lay there, a massive knot of diamonds and silver, a solid, undeniable presence.
Its encrusted surface reflected the harsh morning light into my face.
The chain was a tangled mess, woven into the pristine white sheets.
A tremor ran through me as I tried to push myself up, but a heavy arm, solid and unyielding, tightened around my waist. It cinched me to the mattress, a human tether.
"Don't move," a low voice rumbled, the sound vibrating directly against my ear. "You're letting the heat out."
Jax.
His body was a solid wall of warmth against my back, spooning me close. His legs were a warm, heavy tangle with mine, his breath a soft current ghosting over the nape of my neck.
My muscles locked. The ingrained response of the past months flared, a cold coil tightening in my stomach. Rule Number One: Availability. Don't move until he says so. My breath hitched, held captive in my chest, waiting.
But the air in the room didn't hum with the usual frantic tension. No sharp edges, no buzzing energy. It hung still, quiet, almost soft. The usual demanding pulse of the season had vanished, replaced by a deep, resonant calm.
"Jax," I croaked, the sound rough and grating, as if my vocal cords had been scraped raw. My throat burned. The echoes of last night's screams—from the game, from the bed—still clung to its ragged edges. "It's bright."
"Yeah," he murmured, his nose burrowing into my hair, his lips brushing my scalp. "Sun's up. World's still turning. Unfortunately."
He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. The movement tugged the sheet down, peeling it away from my chest. A chill, brisk from the air conditioning, kissed my exposed skin.
He looked down at me.
His hair was a wild, dark tangle, sticking up in tufts, some strands plastered to his forehead with sweat.
Sleep lines, deep and insistent, creased one cheek.
His eyes were heavy-lidded, lazy blue slits, unfocused in the morning light.
They lacked the usual sharp intensity, the calculating glint.
He didn't carry the coiled tension of a predator, the predatory gleam that had haunted my nights and dragged me into closets and shower stalls.
Instead, a softness had settled around his features, a slackness in his jaw, as if a great, relentless weight had finally lifted.
He looked like a man who had climbed the highest peak, planted his flag, and was now simply resting on the summit.
He reached out, his fingers brushing the championship ring on my chest. He traced the cool, jagged edge of the diamond setting, his touch light.
"Heavy?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
"A little," I managed, my own voice still raspy.
"Good. Keeps you grounded."
His hand drifted lower, down my stomach. My skin felt sticky, tacky, a thin film of dried champagne clinging to every pore. The sheets around us were a disaster zone: dark wine stains blotched the white fabric, mingled with faint, darker smears that spoke of other fluids, other passions.
"We're gross," I noted, a faint grimace touching my lips.
Jax smirked, a slow, lazy curve. "Speak for yourself. I smell like a champion."
He leaned down, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my shoulder. It wasn't a bite, didn't leave a stinging mark. It was simply a kiss, warm and unexpected.
"Hungry?" he asked.
"Starving." My stomach gave a loud, protesting growl, confirming the truth.
"Room service," he decided, a new energy stirring in his voice. "I'm ordering everything. Pancakes. Eggs. Steak. We're not leaving this room until checkout."
He rolled away from me, the sheet falling completely, exposing his back to the morning light. My gaze snagged on the sight. It was a canvas of crimson: long, angry scratch marks, like clawed trails, ran from the broad expanse of his shoulders down to his hips.
My breath caught. I did that. A flush, hot and quick, bloomed across my cheeks. I remembered the frenzied clawing, the desperate grip on his skin, as he drove into me, claiming me piece by piece.
Jax ordered enough food to feed the entire offensive line, his voice rumbling instructions into the phone. He hung up, then turned back, his eyes catching me staring at his back.
He flexed, the muscles rippling under the fresh, red welts.
"You marked me," he said, his voice devoid of anger. A hint of something else, a possessive satisfaction, curved his lips.
"I didn't mean to," I whispered, though the words felt like a lie on my tongue.
"Liar. You loved it."
He sat up on the edge of the bed, his spine cracking with a loud pop as he stretched. Then he stood, his naked body unselfconscious, unapologetic in the bright, unforgiving daylight. He moved with an easy power, his gaze steady.
"Shower," he announced. "Before the food gets here. I want to wash the champagne off you."
I sat up, the thick ring clinking against my collarbone. "I can shower myself, Jax."
He stopped. His head tilted, then he turned, slowly, deliberately. The lazy, softened look dissolved from his face, replaced by a familiar hard line. His eyes, no longer hazy with sleep, sharpened, focusing on me with an intense, unwavering blue. The Captain had returned.
"Did I say you could?"
My heart did that traitorous little stutter-step, a cold squeeze of anticipation in my chest. "No."
"Exactly. Get up."
I obeyed. My muscles protested, a pleasant, deep ache settling in my hips and thighs. I stretched subtly, a slow, internal sigh of satisfaction, then swung my legs over the side of the bed. I followed him into the bathroom.
It was massive. Marble gleamed everywhere, reflecting the light. The walk-in shower was a cavernous space, easily large enough for six people.
Jax reached in, twisting the handle. Water gushed, steaming. He tested the temperature with his hand, adjusting it until the spray was hot, enveloping, but not scalding.
He stepped in, the water immediately sheeting over his body. He held out his hand.
I took it. His fingers were warm, firm around mine.
He pulled me under the spray.
The hot water hit my skin, a cleansing torrent washing away the sticky residue of last night's celebration. Jax reached for a bar of soap, unwrapping it, then lathered his large hands until they were slick with creamy white foam.
He began to wash me.
It was methodical, deliberate, stripped of urgency.
He scrubbed my chest, his palms firm against my skin, then moved to my arms, his touch thorough.
He turned me gently, washing my back, digging his fingers into my scalp as he massaged shampoo into my hair.
It wasn't about pleasure, not yet. It was about care, a meticulous attention to detail, an unexpected intimacy that resonated deeper than any fleeting passion. This was the other side of the coin, the aspect he’d only hinted at on the bus – not just taking, but keeping. Maintaining.
"Turn," he said, his voice low against the rushing water.
I turned my back to him, letting him guide me.
He moved to my legs, his hands firm as he worked the soap over my calves and thighs. Then, his touch softened, almost tender, as he washed my ass, cleaning the area he had claimed so thoroughly hours before.
"Sore?" he asked, his voice a low rumble just above the sound of the water.
"A little," I admitted, a shiver running through me.
"I'll go easy today," he said. The words lingered, thick and wet, clinging to the humid air like sweat.
He stepped closer, pressing his chest against my back. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me captive under the hot spray, his chin resting on my wet shoulder.
"No more blackmail," he said suddenly, the words quiet yet echoing off the polished tile.
My body stiffened. Every muscle in my back went rigid. "What?"
"The video. The threats. The 'deal.' It's done."
He rested his chin more firmly on my wet shoulder, his breath warm against my ear.
"I don't need leverage anymore," he said. "Do I?"
I turned slowly in his arms, facing him. Water streamed down our faces, blurring the edges of the marble bathroom.
"No," I whispered, the word barely audible. "You don't."
"Good. Because I deleted the backups too. There's nothing left."
His eyes, no longer lazy, searched mine, demanding an answer, a confirmation. They drilled into me, seeking the truth.
"So this..." He gestured with a slight tilt of his head between us. "This isn't a transaction anymore. You're not paying rent. You're not saving your scholarship."
"I know."
"So why are you here?" The question hung heavy in the air, a silent test. I felt the weight of it, the demand for a true, unfettered response. My breath caught in my chest.
"Because I want to be," I said, the words coming out stronger than I expected. "Because I love you."
Jax let out a long, slow breath, a sound that seemed to empty the last vestiges of tension from his body. His shoulders, which I hadn't realized were so rigid, visibly dropped, his features softening, smoothing out.
"I love you too," he said, his voice rough with emotion.