22. Mira #2
"Let them." His mouth finds the bruise on my throat from last night, sucking hard enough to darken it. "Let them see how much you need me."
Footsteps on the boardwalk above. Close. Multiple voices—teenagers from the sound of it, laughing about something involving vodka and someone's ex.
"Jax—"
"Shh." He spins me suddenly, pressing me face-first into the wooden beam. "Hands on the wood."
The position is devastating. Bent forward, ass out, completely vulnerable. My knife is in my thigh holster, unreachable at this angle. The small gun in my ankle boot, impossible to access. If someone attacks right now, I'm helpless.
The realization should terrify me, but I'm so wet it's soaking through my panties, dripping down my thighs.
"Fuck, you're shaking." His hand slides up my dress, finding the evidence of how affected I am. "Jesus Christ, Mira. You're drenched."
New voices overhead. Adults, debating whether to check under the pier for "inappropriate activity."
My entire body clenches with fear and arousal so twisted together I can't separate them. This is what I've become—someone who gets wet from vulnerability.
"I can't defend myself like this." The words tear out in a frantic whisper. "If they find us—I can't reach my weapons—I don't have papers—I can't—"
"I've got you." His hand wraps around my throat from behind, not squeezing, just holding. Claiming. Protecting. "Trust me to keep you safe."
Trust. When I have no legal identity. When being arrested means disappearing into a system that would realize I don't exist. When I'm bent over with his hand around my throat and completely at his mercy.
"Okay." The word escapes before I can stop it.
"Okay what?" He pushes my panties aside, his fingers sliding through my wetness. "Tell me what you need."
"You." The admission burns. "Inside me. Now. Before they—"
Footsteps on the stairs. Someone's definitely coming down to the beach level.
"Fuck, we should—" I start to pull away.
"No." His hand tightens slightly on my throat, keeping me in place. "You don't get to run. Not this time."
I hear his zipper, feel him pressing at my entrance. The footsteps grow closer. A flashlight beam sweeps across the sand twenty feet away.
"Someone's coming," I whisper, panic and arousal making my voice crack.
"Then you better be quiet." He slides inside me in one brutal thrust, and I have to bite my hand hard enough to draw blood to muffle my scream. "That's it. Take all of me while they're right over there."
He starts moving, each thrust pushing me harder into the beam. The rough wood scrapes my palms, my dress riding up completely. His hand on my throat keeps me exactly where he wants me—helpless, exposed, his.
The flashlight beam sweeps closer. I can hear radio chatter now—security guard, checking for vagrants and public indecency. If he turns this direction, if he sees us—
"Fuck." The word tears from me as my body clenches around him involuntarily. "The guard—"
"I know." Jax's voice is pure satisfaction in my ear. "You're squeezing my cock every time that light gets closer."
I can't answer. Can barely breathe between his hand on my throat and the terror of discovery. The guard is maybe thirty feet away, the beam of light cutting through the shadows in front of him, searching.
"If he sees you like this—bent over, taking me—" His voice goes dark, possessive. "I'd have to kill him. Anyone who sees you like this dies."
The crude protectiveness shouldn't affect me, but my body responds involuntarily, tightening around him. I remain silent.
"Hey!" A voice calls from the boardwalk. "Think I saw someone down by the south end!"
The guard's footsteps pause, then head away from us. But Jax doesn't stop. If anything, he fucks me harder, his free hand reaching around to find my clit.
"That's it," he growls. "Come for me. Right now, while they could still catch us."
His fingers circle my clit with perfect pressure, his cock hitting that spot inside that makes me see stars, his hand on my throat just tight enough to make everything intense.
"Mine." The word is a command in my ear. "Say it."
The orgasm crashes through me as the word tears from my throat. "Yours."
I come so hard my knees buckle, only his grip keeping me upright. My pussy clenches around him in waves, pulling him deeper. He follows seconds later, groaning into my neck as he fills me, his cock pulsing inside me.
For a moment, we stay frozen together, both panting in the darkness. Then reality crashes back like the waves against the pier.
"Fuck." I straighten on unsteady legs, his cum running down my thighs. "I didn't mean—I'm not yours—that was just—"
"Liar." He turns me to face him, and his expression is pure possession. "You've been mine since that first night in the garage. Since you analyzed my entire operation while eye-fucking me."
Voices above us again. Multiple people now, laughing about something. A bottle breaks. Too close.
"We need to go." I try to smooth my ruined dress, acutely aware that I look thoroughly fucked. Because I have been. "Now."
"Yeah." But he doesn't move, just watches me with those dangerous eyes.
Footsteps on the stairs again. Multiple sets. The sound of a radio crackling.
"Shit." Jax grabs my hand. "Run."
We sprint across the sand, laughing like maniacs as flashlight beams sweep behind us. My heels sink into the beach, his dress shoes sliding on the loose slope. We're a disaster— clothes ruined, hair wrecked, that post-fuck glow that everyone will see.
We burst onto the boardwalk just as security rounds the corner behind us. Jax pulls me into the crowd of teenagers, both of us breathless and giddy with adrenaline.
"Act normal," he whispers in my ear, even though nothing about us looks normal.
"I don't know how to act normal." The admission makes me laugh harder, slightly hysterical.
"Me neither." He pulls me closer, and his body's responding again. "Fuck, we need to get back to the car."
We weave through the crowd, still holding hands. People definitely stare—at our ruined gala clothes, our tangled hair, the way we can't stop touching each other, the obvious just-fucked energy radiating off us.
The Audi chirps as he unlocks it. We fall into our seats, both catching our breath. The windows immediately start fogging from our body heat, the confined space making everything more intense.
"We look like we fucked under a pier," I say, catching our reflection in the rearview mirror. Wrecked. My lipstick smeared across his mouth, his fingerprints bruising on my throat.
"We did fuck under a pier." He reaches over, thumb tracing the marks he left. "Right after I had to watch you in that dress all night, pretending I didn't know exactly what you taste like."
"The team's going to have questions about why we disappeared—"
"Let them." His voice goes possessive. "Let them see you're mine."
"I'm not—" The protest dies as he leans across the console, kissing me slow and claiming.
When we separate, I'm shaking again. Not from fear this time. From what I said when I came. From what it means.
"You said it." His voice is soft but certain. "When you came, you said you're mine."
The admission hangs between us like a loaded weapon. I should deny it, blame the adrenaline, the fear, the moment.
"I need the tiger." The words emerge frantic, deflecting.
"What?"
"From the trunk. I need—" I don't know how to explain that I need something to hold onto that isn't him. Something safer than the feeling clawing at my chest.
He pops the trunk without question, retrieving the ridiculous tiger from between the unicorn's broken legs. When he hands it to me, his fingers brush mine.
"Where to?" He starts the engine, voice carefully neutral.
"I need to check the financial reports. Cross-reference the shell companies. We only have thirty-six hours before—"
"Mira." Just my name, but it stops me. "You can't run from this."
I clutch the tiger tighter, staring out the windshield at the parking lot. The neon lights blur together.
Watch me.