25. Mira #2
"You've been in charge since day one." He pulls almost completely out, then slams back in hard enough to make me scream. The headboard slams against the brick wall. "Controlling every kiss. Every touch. Every fuck."
I try to hook his leg with mine, a move that should give me leverage, but he anticipates it. His hand grabs my thigh, pushing it up and out, opening me wider. The position lets him sink even deeper, hitting places that make thought impossible.
"Not this time." He grinds against my clit and my back arches off the bed. "This time you're going to lose control."
"Fuck you—"
"Currently happening." He sets a brutal pace, each thrust hitting that spot that makes my vision blur. "God, you're drenched for me."
Don't make noise. Don't give him the satisfaction of—
"Let me hear you." His mouth finds my neck, biting hard enough to mark. The pain shoots straight to my clit. "Stop fighting it and let me hear how good I make you feel."
"I don't—" The words dissolve into a moan as he shifts his angle.
"There we go." He does it again, and again, until I'm making sounds I've never made before. Desperate, broken sounds. "That's my girl. So fucking beautiful when you stop pretending."
My girl. The possessive term makes everything clench.
"You liked that." Not a question. His voice carries absolute certainty now. "Being mine. You squeezed my cock so hard when I said it."
No. Don't react. Don't let him see—
"Didn't—"
"Liar." He grabs my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand. The position makes me completely helpless, and arousal floods through me. "You want to be mine. Want me to fuck you like you belong to me."
"I don't belong to anyone—"
"You do though." His free hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit. "Been mine since that first night. Just too stubborn to admit it."
He circles my clit with exactly the right pressure while continuing to fuck me deep and hard. Sweat drips from his chest onto mine, our bodies sliding against each other, the room filling with the smell of sex and sweat.
Count. Count to eight. Maintain some control.
One—his cock hits deep. Two—his thumb presses harder. Three—I'm moaning. Four—my legs wrap around him without permission. Five—
"Stop counting." His voice cuts through my mental process like a blade. "I can see you doing it. Stop counting and just feel."
How does he know? How does he always know?
"I can't—"
"You can." He releases my wrists to grab my face, forcing eye contact. His pupils are blown black, face flushed with exertion and need. "Look at me while you fall apart. Let me see you lose control."
"Jax—" His name breaks in my mouth as the orgasm crashes through me without warning. No counting. No control. Just wave after wave of pleasure that makes me scream.
"That's it. Fuck, you're squeezing me so tight." He doesn't stop moving, fucking me through it, drawing it out. "Again."
"I can't—"
"You can." He hooks my legs over his shoulders, folding me nearly in half. The position lets him go impossibly deep, hitting spots that scramble every nerve ending. "You're going to come again, and this time you're going to beg for it."
"I don't beg—"
"You will." His thumb returns to my clit, rubbing tight circles while he pounds into me. The sounds filling the room are obscene now. "You're already close. I can feel it."
He's right. The second orgasm is building already, faster and harder than the first.
Don't beg. Don't give him—
"What do you need?" He slows his thrusts almost to a stop, keeping me on the precipice.. His thumb stills against my clit and his voice drops to pure command. "Tell me."
The sudden loss of friction makes me whimper. "Please."
"Please what?" He pulls back until just his tip remains inside me, denying me everything I need. "Use your words."
"Jax, I need—" My hips try to chase him, but his grip keeps me pinned.
"Need what?" Another slow, shallow thrust that gives me just enough to keep me on edge but nothing more. His thumb barely grazes my clit—not enough pressure, not enough movement. "Be specific."
He does it two more times and the tension coils tighter, my body screaming for release he won't give me.
""Like this?" He slams in deep once, grinding against that perfect spot, then goes still again.
"Yes! Fuck, yes, please don't stop—" But he does stop, leaving me trembling and desperate.
"Say my name again." His voice is pure command now. "Tell me who's making you feel this good."
"Jax." The word comes out broken. "Jax, please—"
He rewards me with one deep thrust, then stills again. "Good girl. But I want more than that." His thumb traces lazy circles around my clit without actually touching it. "I want you to beg properly."
He's destroying me piece by piece. Every time I think I'm about to come, he pulls back. Leaves me hanging on the edge until I can barely think straight.
My control is dissolving completely. The woman who negotiates million-dollar deals, who never shows weakness, is about to fall apart from pure desperation.
"I need you to make me come. Need you to fuck me until I can't think anymore. Please."
"Better." He drives deep twice, hitting that perfect spot, then goes still. "But I like you like this. All desperate and needy for me. Makes me want to keep you right here on the edge."
This is what breaking feels like. Not the sharp crack of failure, but this slow dissolution of everything I thought I was. And fuck, I love it.
"Jax, please, I'm so close—"
"I know you are." His smile is wicked against my neck. "Your pussy keeps clenching around me. Getting tighter every time I stop." He starts moving again, slow and deliberate. "Tell me you're mine."
"I'm yours." The admission tears out of me without hesitation. "I'm yours, Jax, please—"
"Say it again."
"I'm yours!" Tears of frustration leak from my eyes. "Please, I need to come, I need—"
The words pour out of me, uncontrolled. Thirteen years of training, of discipline, destroyed by his cock and his hands and his mouth on my neck.
He slams into me then, hard and fast, thumb finally giving my clit the pressure it's been screaming for.
"Come for me. Right fucking now." His pace turns almost violent, the headboard slamming against the wall with each thrust. "Going to fuck you until you can't remember your own name. Until all you know is mine."
The second orgasm destroys me. I scream his name, nails raking down his back hard enough to draw blood. My whole body convulses, clenching around him in waves.
"One more." He's relentless, thumb still working my oversensitive clit. "Give me one more."
"Can't—too much—"
"You can take it." He leans down to bite my breast, sucking my nipple into his mouth hard enough to bruise. "You're so fucking strong, Mira. So perfect. You can take everything I give you."
The combination of praise and dominance breaks something inside me. Tears escape from my eyes—not sad, just overwhelmed. My body is on fire, every inch of skin hypersensitive, sweat making us both slick.
"That's it. Let go. Let me see all of you."
The third orgasm rips through me. I sob his name, body clenching so hard around him that he groans.
"Fuck, Mira—" He drives deep one final time and comes with a roar. His cock throbs inside me, filling me with hot spurts that seem endless. "Mine. Fuck, you're mine."
We collapse together, both gasping for air. Sweat pools between us, the room reeking of sex. His weight presses me into the mattress, but I can't move anyway. My legs are shaking, my pussy still clenching with aftershocks.
Everything is soaked. The sheets beneath us are drenched. Our bodies slide against each other with every breath.
I've never been this messy. This out of control. This... wrecked.
When he finally pulls out, I whimper at the loss. His cum immediately starts leaking out of me, adding to the mess between my legs.
"Don't run." He rolls onto his side, pulling me against his chest before I can escape. "Please. Just... stay."
Stay. My body is too exhausted to move anyway. Muscles I forgot existed are screaming.
"Five minutes."
"Forever."
"Ten minutes."
"I'll take it." His arm tightens around me, and I can feel his cum still leaking out of me, marking his sheets. Marking me.
The silence stretches, our breathing slowly returning to normal. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back—shapes that might be letters, might be nothing.
"You stopped counting." His voice rumbles through his chest. "At the end. You just... let go."
I did. For the first time in thirteen years, I didn't count. Didn't analyze. Just... felt.
"But before that." His hand slides into my hair, gentle now. "You were counting in eights. Like a rhythm. Like choreography."
The observation makes my whole body tense. My feet shift against the sheets, unconsciously falling into first position—heels together, toes turned out.
"Mira?" He pulls back to look at my face. "What just happened?"
"Nothing." But my feet maintain that perfect turnout that took years to develop. "Muscle memory."
"That's ballet position." Not a question. An observation backed by recognition. "First position, right?"
I stare at him, shocked. "How do you—"
"My sister danced for twelve years." His thumb brushes my cheek with devastating gentleness. "I drove her to classes, sat through recitals. I know what dancer's feet look like."
A sister. He has a sister who danced. The information reshapes something in my understanding of him.
"You were a dancer." Again, not a question. Just quiet recognition. "Before."
Before. Such a small word to contain so much loss.
"It doesn't matter what I was before." I try to pull away but he doesn't let me go.
"It matters." His voice carries that dangerous edge—the alpha under all that eager-to-please energy. "Everything about you matters."
"Stop—"
"No." He cups my face between his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. "I see you, Mira. The real you. Not just the weapon they made, but the girl who used to dance."
Heat builds behind my eyes. Dangerous, unwanted heat that threatens to spill over.
"That girl died when she was sixteen."
"Did she?" His thumb catches the single tear that escapes. "Because I think she's right here, counting in eights and falling into first position when she feels safe."
Safe. The word hits hard. When did I start feeling safe with him?
"Stay put." He kisses my temple and slips out of bed. I watch him disappear into the bathroom, admiring the scratch marks I left down his back.
He returns with a warm washcloth, settling beside me on the mattress. "Let me take care of you."
The gentleness catches me off guard after the intensity. His touch is careful as he cleans between my thighs, wiping away the evidence of what we just did. When he's finished, he tosses the cloth aside and pulls me back against his chest.
"I should go." The words come out rough, desperate. "Mission parameters require—"
"Fuck mission parameters." He pulls me closer, and I let him. "Stay. Sleep. Let me hold you without turning it into strategy."
"I don't sleep in other people's spaces."
"You don't do a lot of things you've done with me." His lips brush my forehead. "Stay. Please."
The please breaks through my last defense. I relax against him, letting his warmth seep into places that have been cold for thirteen years.
"If you tell anyone I stayed—"
"I won't." He pulls the covers over us, cocooning us in warmth and darkness. "This is just for us."
Us. Like we're something beyond handler and asset. Like we're...
I don't have words for what we might be becoming.
His breathing starts to even out, but his arms don't loosen. Even in near-sleep, he holds me like I might disappear. Like I'm something precious that requires protecting.
My feet shift against the sheets. First position. Second. Third. Fourth. Fifth.
The positions of a girl who loved to dance, carried in muscle memory too deep for any conditioning to erase.
I wait for it to happen. The wall to rebuild. The clinical distance to return. The switch that turns me back into a weapon.
It doesn't come.
I'm lying here covered in sweat and cum and bruises, completely defenseless for the first time in thirteen years, and I can't find the part of me that knows how to be anything else.
He broke something inside me.