25. Mira
twenty-five
Mira
F ifty-three minutes. I counted every one before giving up and coming early.
The SOMA streets blur past as I drive too fast toward his converted warehouse. My thighs keep pressing together, underwear already soaked through.
Fuck. Can't even make it an hour.
His building looms ahead—all exposed brick and steel that somehow suits him perfectly. The garage bay is already opening. Of course he's been watching for me.
I park beside his ridiculous collection of perfectly maintained vehicles. The freight elevator hums to life before I even reach it.
Tracking my every move. Probably has been since I left.
The elevator rises, and his scent is everywhere—motor oil and clean sweat soaked into the metal walls. My pussy clenches before I can stop it.
Already wet. Already wanting. Have been since the briefing ended.
The doors open directly into his space. Industrial beams, exposed brick, everything tactical and organized.
"Mira." He emerges from the kitchen area, hair still damp from a shower, wearing dark jeans that hang low enough to show those cut lines that lead straight down. No shirt. Every lean muscle earned through years of hard work on display. "I wasn't sure you'd actually come."
Come. Poor choice of words when I've been imagining his face between my legs for the past hour.
"We need to debrief."
"Bullshit." He moves closer but stops just outside my reach, hands twitching at his sides.
"You're here because of what happened today.
When I—fuck, when I actually did it right for once and you looked at me like.
.." He runs a hand through his damp hair, making it stick up worse.
"Like maybe I wasn't completely useless for the first time in my pathetic life, which is saying something because I screw up literally everything I touch, including—"
"You weren't useless." I set my tactical bag by the door with deliberate precision. "Your performance exceeded baseline parameters."
"Baseline parameters." His laugh comes out shaky, fingers starting that nervous drumming against his thigh.
"Is that what we're calling it when you made me feel like I could conquer the fucking world?
Because that sounds like corporate speak for 'not terrible' and I was hoping for something a little more—"
"Your coordination was adequate."
"Adequate." He stops moving, something shifting in his expression. "Right. Adequate. Like a performance review."
That stung. Good.
"Get in the bedroom." I move toward the stairs. "Need to remind you who's in charge."
Professional boundaries. Right. That's why you went bare under tactical pants.
"Wait, Mira—" He follows anyway, because that's what he does. Follows, protects, devotes himself completely. "We should talk about tomorrow's mission and how the tactical coordination might affect—"
"No talking."
We reach his bedroom and I spin to face him. His pupils are already blown wide, chest rising and falling faster. The nervous energy cranks higher, hands opening and closing at his sides like he can't decide what to do with them.
"Strip."
His hands shake as they go to his belt. "I need to—Christ, when you look at me like that I can't even think straight, and thinking straight is pretty much the only thing I'm supposed to be good at besides driving, so if you could maybe not stare at me like you want to eat me alive while I'm trying to—"
"I said strip, not ramble."
The belt comes free and his jeans drop. No underwear. His cock springs free, already hard and making my mouth water.
I want to taste him. Want to swallow him down until he begs.
"All that nervous energy." I circle him slowly, predator stalking prey. "All that desperate need for approval. You'd do anything I told you right now, wouldn't you?"
"Yes." No hesitation. "Fuck, yes. Whatever you want."
Whatever you want. Dangerous words.
I push him backward onto the bed. He goes willingly—he could stop me, we both know it, but he's choosing to let me lead. Those blue-green eyes track my every movement as I pull my shirt over my head. My bra follows, and his cock twitches towards his stomach, a bead of precum forming at the tip.
"Don't move." I step out of my pants, revealing that I'm completely bare underneath. His whole body jerks, a strangled sound escaping his throat. "Hands above your head."
"Fuck, Mira, you're not wearing—you came here with no fucking panties on, which means you planned this, which means—"
"I said don't talk."
He obeys immediately, arms stretching above him on the dark sheets. The position makes his abs tighten, shows off every line of muscle. My pussy throbs, slickness already coating my inner thighs.
This is what control looks like. Him choosing to submit. Me choosing to take.
I crawl onto the bed, straddling his thighs. His cock brushes against my stomach, leaving a slick trail that makes me shiver.
"Please—"
My hand wraps around the base of his cock, squeezing just hard enough to make him buck. The thick length throbs in my grip, more precum beading at the tip.
"What did I say about talking?"
His head falls back against the pillow, throat exposed, the frantic flutter visible beneath his skin. "Sorry, I just—when you touch me I can't—your hand on my cock makes my brain completely stop working—"
I stroke him once, slow and deliberate, watching his face contort. My thumb swipes over the head, spreading the slickness. "Can't what?"
"Can't think. Can't breathe. Can't do anything but want to fuck you until you scream my name so loud the neighbors call the police."
The crude confession makes heat flood through me, more arousal gathering between my legs.
Don't show weakness. Maintain control.
I release his cock and lean forward, letting my breasts brush along his cock and up to his chest. My nipples are so hard they ache, and the friction against his skin makes me bite back a moan.
"You're so desperate for me." I bite his earlobe hard enough to hurt, tasting salt and something that's purely him. "So eager to please. Like you were made for it."
"Only for you." His voice cracks. "Fuck, only ever for you. I jerk off thinking about you. Three times yesterday. Came so hard saying your name I nearly passed out."
The confession destroys something in my chest. My hips roll involuntarily, my soaked pussy sliding against his cock, coating him with my arousal.
Don't react. Don't let him see how that affects you.
But my body betrays me, grinding against him. He groans and his hips thrust up slightly.
"I said don't fucking move."
"Can't help it." His voice sounds wrecked already. "You're dripping on me. I can smell how ready you are. Want to taste your pussy until you forget your own name."
I grab his hair and pull his head back, exposing more of that tempting throat. "You don't get to taste. You get what I give you."
Lie. Want his tongue inside me until I forget everything.
I position myself over him, letting just the head of his cock press against my entrance. We both gasp at the contact.
"Please." The word tears out of him. "Mira, please, I need to be inside you. Need to feel how tight your pussy is around my cock."
"Beg better."
"Fuck—please, I'm going crazy. Haven't been able to think about anything but your cunt since last time. How hot you get. How you squeezed my cock when you came. How you taste when I make you scream."
My control cracks. I sink down in one brutal movement, taking him to the hilt.
"FUCK!" We both scream it.
He's so deep I can feel him everywhere. The stretch burns perfect, my pussy clenching around him involuntarily.
Don't lose control. Set the pace that will make him suffer.
I start to move, rising up excruciatingly slow until just the tip remains, then slamming back down hard. Each movement creates those slick sounds that fill the room, my arousal coating him completely.
"Fuck." His hands fly toward my hips.
"I said don't move!" But my voice breaks because he's hitting that spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
His hands freeze mid-air, trembling with the effort to obey. "Mira, you feel—your pussy is so fucking tight—"
"Shut up." But I'm riding him harder now, chasing something. My breasts bounce with each movement, and sweat starts to bead between them despite the cool air.
This is control. I'm in control.
Except I'm not. My rhythm is getting desperate, my hips grinding in circles when I take him deep, trying to get more friction on my clit.
"Your face." His voice drops to that dangerous register I've heard maybe three times before. "You're not controlling anything right now. You're just fucking me because you need it."
"Shut—" The word breaks into a moan as he thrusts up to meet me.
"You're soaking my cock." Another thrust, deliberate and hard. "Can hear it every time you take me deep."
He's right. The slick sounds of our coupling fill the room. My thighs are drenched, his cock glistening with my arousal.
Don't let him take control. You're in charge. You're—
"You came here with no panties." His hands suddenly grab my hips—not asking permission, just taking. The grip is bruising, possessive. "Planned this. Wanted this."
"Let go—"
"No." He sits up in one fluid movement, changing the angle so he's even deeper inside me. One arm wraps around my waist while the other hand threads through my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat. "My turn."
The shift is immediate and devastating. Eager-to-please Jax disappears completely, replaced by someone who moves with savage confidence. He could have done this anytime. He's stronger, bigger. He was letting me dominate.
Before I can protest, he flips us. The movement is fluid, controlled—all that mercenary training on display. My back hits the mattress and suddenly I'm pinned under two hundred pounds of muscle who's done playing submissive.