6. Jax
6
JAX
M y lip curled as I plucked Waverly away from my body. “Don’t touch me,” I forced the words out behind clenched teeth, uncertain if I wanted to throw her as far away from me as I possibly could, or pull her closer and kiss her senseless.
Naturally, the oxymoron of a creature before me didn’t move.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do, Jackson Palmer.” Her pretty eyes flashed, giving away her intent and every emotion that crossed her face in an ever shifting array of news bulletins.
“Don’t I?” I smiled thinly, leaning into her space while the sea of students parted around us, leaving just enough space to breathe in her honey sweet scent to torture myself with endlessly.
I mean, why not? It wasn’t like I came here for the Allstars’ version of sport. This was so much better.
The flow of students thinned to a trickle until that ran out too, and Waverly still glared up at me.
“No.” She stamped–yeah, actually stamped–her foot.
It might have been the sweetest damn thing I’d ever seen.
I laughed at her, enjoying watching that same shade of pink suffuse her rounded cheeks that stained her skin the night I trapped her in my leather jacket.
The jacket I loved that still itched abominably like all fuck, and stank of honey and sugar and all things nice, just like her.
I wanted to shred the damn thing.
“That was…cute. Do it again,” I goaded, whipping out my phone and sticking it in her face as I pressed record.
The way she recoiled from me five steps faster than I could keep up meant I never took any video of her at all. Horror crossed her face as she shook her head.
“Stay away from me, Jax. I mean it.” She stumbled back, twisted on her heel, and took off in the direction she’d come from at a run, every curve jiggling in all the best ways.
And I couldn't even enjoy it, because I had no idea why she was running from me.
“Because you’re a grade-a asshole, that’s why.” The girl she’d been walking with–not with, exactly, but beside–tossed gold hair over her shoulder and glared at me. Her fire was there too, but it had nothing on Waverly’s.
I ignored her and stared after my bee girl, taking a step in her direction.
“Like hell.” A manicured palm slapped my chest. “Just– leave her alone, all right? Haven’t you bullied her enough?” The friend demanded.
I flicked her hands away with no small dose of contempt, and less interest. “Go watch the game, friend. Let me worry about Wavey.”
She didn’t move, and the grounds around us fell still before the crowd erupted somewhere above us as one of the teams–likely Rippton from the sheer volume–scored.
“You like her.” She looked a little shocked at her own outburst as I wheeled to face her.
I blinked at the surprise written there. “No shit.”
Apparently it was the day for revelations.
She nodded to me cautiously. “She’s been hurt. That’s why she…” The friend waved her hands over her body, indicating to the mass of layers Waverly always wore to cover up. Her eyes narrowed as she seemed to consider the information she passed to me and how much damage I might do with anything she said. “If you hurt her, I’ll take a teaspoon and show you that it’s not only special forces who know how to do massive damage with one.” She spoke slowly, enunciating every word to make sure I got the point. When I nodded, she tossed her hair over her shoulder, blonde bombshell curls bouncing about, and gave me the brightest smile ever. “Perfect. So don’t hurt her. Go for it?”
I returned her smile, not letting mine reach my eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
Accord thus reached, we turned in the opposite directions, her toward the sports stadium entrance, me in the direction Waverly took.
But try as I might, I couldn't find the girl who haunted me with the image of her trapped in my coat, restricted and wriggling and just out of my reach.
Waverly evaded me long enough for me to make it back to my attic well before the game ended and the horde of frat boys returned to home base to drink it up for the night. By then my door would be locked to prevent them tossing some poor, wayward cheergirl in on me as a thoughtless dare, and I’d be lost in my next piece of art.
Which, for the time being, involved a girl trapped in an iron maiden looking contraption, struggling to free herself, but without the piercing torture implements usually involved. Instead of blood, her body was coated in honey and where her hands were restricted above the device, bees crawled with their tiny feet over her flesh, itching her without relief as shown by her twisted features.
Tonight held a mood of its own, and I was glad Waverly was nowhere near me, or else I’d end up breaking my promise to her friend, the girl to whom I swore I wouldn’t hurt her.
Because right now, with my thoughts as dark as they were? I couldn’t promise anything of the sort.
My cock grew hard as I thought of my subject, her dark hair laden with the heavy, sticky honey and the bees walking her body as she writhed under my hand. Her features stayed pretty as they twisted in their suffering. By the time I finished with her feet, leaving her dancing on her bare, exposed toes just outside the device, my jeans were as slick as the flesh I drew, glossy with precum.
My hand drifted to my cock, rubbing myself lightly through the rough material. This girl didn’t have a chance at satisfaction, and it stood to reason that I shouldn’t, either. So I rubbed gently, edging myself until I ached and my jeans were soaked.
The damp denim confined almost as tight as the subject I drew with Waverly’s features. I flicked my fly down, scratching my cock as I freed myself, and worked myself with one hand.
Behind me, my phone vibrated, a specific pattern I wanted to forget. A ruined groan left me as I released my cock and reached back.
My father couldn’t be ignored.
But first…
Panting, I stroked the tip of my cock once and let go, but it was enough. Imagining the bees walking from her body to mine did it for me. I erupted in a ruined orgasm that burst from me, coating my seed all over my tortured girl.
But the pleasure…I never finished my orgasm, tucking myself away one handed and picked up the call, my breath irregular.
“What do you want?” I snapped, ripping the tainted paper from the easel and tossed it to the floor in a heap.
Waverly’s face crumpled as I found matches and lit the first, tossing it over the mess I created. Smoke filled my nostrils while my creation burned away and my father ranted in my ear.
“To speak to my son, of course,” my father's voice schmoozed, oily to practice. It wasn’t so smooth, crackled by years of sin and overindulgence that shattered my sense of peace I enjoyed for the past hours on my own. “What the fuck are you doing? Playing sport or some shit?”
I snorted, not bothering to correct him. “You know me so well.”
“Of course I do,” my sire said smugly, as though he’d decoded the secret of the universe.
He knows nothing.
Waverly’s eyes were the last part of her face to light up, watching me until the last.
“I don't have time for you.”
“Then why did you pick the call up?”
“Why indeed?” I asked rhetorically. “What is it you want?” I repeated my original question, knowing he only called me when he needed something.
His brief silence told me I hadn’t misread his intentions.
“How is your connection with the Lancaster boy going?” he asked as if we were on a fucking picnic.
Crush. That’s what this was about. Because i couldn’t make a friend on my fucking own. Ignoring my father’s chatter on the other end of the line I stamped out the flames as my honey girl burnt up completely before it scorched anything. I might consider Crush my friend regardless of what my father implied, but he’d have me strung up as the next party favor if I burn the place down or marked anything.
And for good reason.
“That's what you care about?” I couldn't keep the disdain out of my voice as I stamped out the last of the embers. “Are you short and need to borrow from his daddy?” No, even Fabius Palmer wouldn't stoop to borrow money from someone like the Lancasters. I tilted my head to one side. “Or maybe you need his daddy for something else.”
“I don't need anyone for anything.”
My father’s voice cracked out like a whip and hung up, leaving me standing in an ashy pile turned white and the remnants of a ruined orgasm, a twisted attempt at pleasure with a girl who wished I never existed.
“Great talking to you, Dad.”
Shouts filled the levels below in the Kingsman house. I gave up seeking solitude, knowing mine was about to get a whole lot rougher, and flick the lock on my door.
If you can't beat them, fuck with them.
Or something like that.
There was a bottle of cheap alcohol downstairs with a hangover bearing tomorrow's date and my name written all over it.
I didn’t have any other plans worthwhile if Waverly wasn’t around. Hell, if I earned a hangover bad enough, maybe I could even forget her for a few hours.
Yeah, fat chance of that happening. But I could try.