18. Jax #2
"Three years." She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me closer. "Now shut up and fuck me."
I push inside in one brutal thrust, burying myself completely. The tight heat of her makes me see stars, and I have to stop, have to catch my breath, have to—
"Fuck!" I come immediately, days of buildup ending in seconds. My whole body convulses, muscles locked tight as pleasure tears me apart from the inside.
"Did you just—"
"Still hard." I start moving again, still desperate, my cock still twitching with aftershocks. "Can't stop. Not stopping."
"Good." She digs her nails into my back, breaking skin. "Because once isn't going to fix this."
She's right. If anything, being inside her tight heat only makes the hunger worse. I drive into her harder, the headboard cracking against the wall with each thrust.
"Harder," she demands. "I'm not fragile."
"No," I agree, shifting my angle and driving deeper until she cries out. "You're a fucking goddess, and I'm going to worship you properly."
I pull out despite her desperate whimper, flipping her onto her hands and knees.
"What are you—?"
"Taking you the way you deserve." I position myself behind her, running my hands over the perfect curve of her ass before gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. "The way we both need."
When I slide back inside from this angle, we both groan. The new position lets me go deeper, and her pussy clenches around me like she's trying to pull me deeper still.
"Yes," she moans, pushing back to take more of me. "Fuck, yes, just like that."
I set a punishing rhythm, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. Her hands fist in the sheets, knuckles white as her back arches in a perfect bow. When I fist my hand in her dark hair, pulling her head back, she clenches around me so tight I see stars.
"You like that?" I pull harder, making her gasp and arch impossibly further. "Like it when I take control?"
"You know I do."
I reach around to find her clit, circling the swollen bud with steady pressure. She detonates around me, her pussy gripping my cock like a vice as she screams my name. The sensation triggers my second orgasm, but my cock stays iron-hard inside her.
"Jesus, Jax, how are you still—"
"Nineteen days," I growl, pulling out to flip her onto her back again, watching my cum leak from her swollen pussy. "Nineteen days of dreaming about this. About you. This is what desperation looks like."
I hook her legs over my shoulders and slide back inside. the new angle letting me hit that spot that makes her eyes roll back and her mouth fall open in a silent scream.
"Going to ruin you," I promise, setting a brutal pace that has her bouncing on the mattress. "Going to fuck you until walking is impossible. Until you feel me for days."
"Already there," she gasps, and I realize she's coming again, a rolling orgasm that has her thrashing beneath me.
We lose track of time, of everything except the desperate need to consume each other.
Time becomes meaningless as we move through position after position—her riding me while I bite her throat, me taking her against the wall while she wraps her legs around my waist, both of us desperate and insatiable.
When I finally collapse beside her—fifth orgasm, maybe sixth, I've lost count—we're both shaking.
"Jesus," I finally manage. "That was—"
"Intense." Her voice cracks, hoarse from screaming. She tries to sit up but immediately falls back, legs trembling violently. The mask she's trying to rebuild keeps slipping—pupils still blown, pulse visible at her throat, my cum leaking out of her.
"About your capabilities." She traces my chest, aiming for clinical, but her hand shakes so badly she has to stop. When she shifts slightly, a whimper escapes. "Good to know what you're capable of."
"Mira—"
"Cole and Remy will be wondering what we're up to." She tries to sit up again and gasps—everything hurts in the best way. Her thighs shake uncontrollably. "We should probably—"
"Yeah?" I watch her struggle to reach her shirt, arms barely cooperating.
There's something different in my expression now—not desperate anymore.
Strategic. Calculating. "I doubt they're wondering about anything.
It's not like you were quiet. And good luck explaining why you can't walk straight. Or hiding those."
My fingers trace over the bite marks blooming dark on her throat, the bruises already forming on her hips, the scratches she left on me that she'll have to see across the table.
She finally manages to grab her shirt, but putting it on is another challenge entirely. Every movement makes her wince. The fabric catches on the scratches I left on her back.
"This doesn't change—"
"Everything?" I stretch, completely comfortable now while she struggles. "Sure, Mira. Whatever you need to tell yourself."
I stand, pulling on my boxers with easy movements, then turn back to watch her still struggling to pull her shirt on and step into her pants.
"But tomorrow morning, when you can barely stand? When everyone sees my marks all over you? When your body reaches for mine without your permission?" I lean down, voice dropping to that dangerous register she just discovered. "We'll see how well those walls hold up."
The shift in me should concern her. The desperation replaced with absolute certainty.
I watch her clench her thighs together though, already wanting more.
"Get some rest," I tell her, voice deceptively gentle as she finally makes it to the door. "You'll need it for tomorrow's briefing."
"I can handle a briefing."
"Sure, you can." I smile, knowing exactly how her body will betray her with every movement. "See you at breakfast, Mira."
The way she pauses at the door tells me she knows exactly what kind of performance she'll have to give tomorrow. Pretending she can walk normally. Pretending those marks don't exist. Pretending this didn't change everything.
Good luck with that.