Chapter 3 Jinx
Chapter Three: Jinx
I don't know what I'm doing.
That's a lie. I know exactly what I'm doing. I'm walking into Asher Madden's bedroom at half past midnight because I'm tired of fighting the only battle I've ever lost.
He's lying on the bed when I enter, shirtless, arms folded behind his head.
The moonlight through the window cuts across his chest, highlighting every scar, every tattoo, every inch of muscle that he's earned through years of violence.
His eyes find mine in the darkness. He doesn't smile.
Doesn't gloat. Just watches me close the door behind me and turn the lock.
"You came."
"Don't make it weird."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
I stand by the door, suddenly uncertain. I've killed men in rooms like this. I've done things that would make most people sick. But standing here, looking at him, I feel more exposed than I ever have with a weapon in my hand.
"You gonna stay over there all night?" he asks.
"Maybe."
"Jinx." He sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed. "You walked in here. That was the hard part. The rest is easy."
"Nothing about this is easy."
"No." He stands, crosses to me in three strides. "But it's simple. You want me. I want you. Everything else is just bullshit."
He's close now. Close enough that I can smell that same scent that's been driving me crazy since he showed up. Up close, I can see the marks I left on his throat earlier. Purple bruises in the shape of my fingers. He caught me looking.
"Like what you see?"
"Shut up."
"I think they look good. Might tattoo them on later. Put ‘Courtesy of Jinx’ across my chest."
“Fucking hell, do you ever shut the fuck up?” I grab the back of his neck and crush my mouth against his.
The kiss is brutal. All teeth and tongue, no finesse, no tenderness.
He bites my lower lip hard enough to draw blood and I growl into his mouth, grabbing the back of his head, pulling him closer.
His hands grab my hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and he hauls me against him until we're pressed together from chest to thigh.
He's hard. His cock straining against his pants, thick and insistent against my crotch. I'm just as hard, have been since I made the decision to come here, and the friction when he grinds against me makes me lose control.
"Shirt off," he orders against my mouth.
"Don't tell me what to do."
"Then I'll do it myself."
He grabs the hem of my shirt and yanks it over my head. I let him, which is a concession I'll examine later, and then his hands are on my bare chest, tracing the scars and tattoos, thumbs brushing over my nipples hard enough to make me hiss.
"Fuck," I breathe.
"That's the plan."
I shove him backward. He hits the bed, bounces once, and I'm on him before he can recover. I pin his wrists above his head with one hand and straddle his hips, looking down at him.
"Here's how this works," I say. "I don't do gentle. I don't do sweet. You want soft and romantic, find someone else."
"Do I look like I want soft and romantic?"
"You look like you want to get fucked."
His eyes darken. "So fuck me."
I release his wrists and sit back, hands going to his belt. He lifts his hips, helping me drag his pants down, and then he's naked beneath me. His cock springs free, thick and flushed, curving up toward his stomach. A bead of precum glistens at the tip.
I wrap my hand around him and stroke once, rough, watching his face contort.
"Jesus Christ, fuck."
"That's not my name."
"It's the only name I've got." He thrusts into my grip, chasing friction. "You gonna keep teasing or are you gonna do something about it?"
I release him and climb off the bed. His eyes track me as I strip off my pants, kicking them aside. My cock juts out in front of me, hard and aching, and I see his gaze drop to it. See him lick his lips.
"Like what you see?" I throw his words back at him.
"Get over here and I'll show you how much."
I grab him by the ankle and yank him to the edge of the bed. He grunts at the rough treatment but doesn't resist. I push his thighs apart, step between them, and lean down to bite his neck hard enough to leave a mark.
He groans and arches into me. His hands come up to rake down my back, nails digging into my skin. The pain is sharp and perfect, exactly what I need.
"Harder," I growl against his throat.
He obliges, scratching deep enough to draw blood. The wet heat of it trails down my spine and it only makes me harder, makes me want to tear him apart and put him back together again.
I grab his jaw and force his head back, exposing his throat. "Lube."
"Nightstand. Top drawer."
I reach over and yank the drawer open, find a half-empty bottle. Excitement courses through me. Neither of us are gentle men, and this isn't going to be a gentle fuck.
I slick my fingers and reach between his legs without preamble. His hole is tight, clenching around the tip of my finger as I push inside. He hisses, body tensing, then forces himself to relax.
"More."
"Greedy."
"I know what I want."
I give him a second finger, scissoring them, working him open. He's tight and hot around me, muscles gripping my fingers like he's trying to pull them deeper. I crook them, searching, and find the spot that makes his body jerk.
"Fuck." His hand flies to his cock, starts stroking.
I slap it away. "No. You come when I say you come."
His eyes flash with defiance. "You don't control me."
"Right now I do." I add a third finger, stretching him, watching his face twist between pain and pleasure. "You wanted this. You laid yourself out for me. That means you're mine until I'm done with you."
"Is that so?"
"My rules."
"This is my house."
"And this is my cock." I pull my fingers out and grip myself, running the slick head of my cock along his crack. "You want it or not?"
His answer is to wrap his legs around my waist and pull me closer. The head of my cock catches on his rim, and we both freeze.
"Do it," he says. "Stop fucking around and do it."
I push inside.
The sound he makes is worth every second of this torture. A broken groan that starts in his chest and rips out of his throat, raw and uncontrolled. His body opens for me, tight heat enveloping my cock inch by inch, and I have to stop halfway just to breathe.
He's perfect. Tight and hot and gripping me like he never wants to let go. I look down at where we're joined, watch my cock disappear inside him, and the sight makes my balls draw up tight.
"Move," he grits out. "Jinx, fucking move."
I pull back and slam home.
The bed frame cracks against the wall. He shouts, hands flying to my shoulders, nails digging in. I set a brutal pace, fucking him hard and fast, chasing the release that's been building.
He takes it. Takes everything I give him and demands more, hips rising to meet my thrusts, legs locked around my waist. His cock is trapped between our bellies, leaking steadily, and every thrust drags it against my abs.
"Harder," he pants. "Come on, you can do better than that."
I grab his chin and squeeze. "Shut the fuck up."
"Make me."
I crush my mouth against his, swallowing his next taunt. The kiss is messy, all clashing teeth and desperate tongues. He bites my lip again and I taste blood, copper and hot, and it only drives me higher.
I change the angle, hooking one of his legs over my shoulder, and fuck into him deeper. He groans, the sound vibrating against my mouth, and his cock jerks between us.
"Don't you dare," I warn him. "Don't you fucking dare come yet."
"Then stop hitting my prostate, asshole."
I grin against his mouth. "Where's the fun in that?"
I reach between us and wrap my hand around his cock. He's thick in my palm, slick with precum, pulsing with need. I stroke him in time with my thrusts, rough and fast, and watch his control shatter.
"Jinx." His voice breaks. "Jinx, I'm gonna—"
"Not yet."
"I can't—"
"You can and you will." I tighten my grip on the base of his cock, staving off his orgasm. "You're going to wait for me. I’m gonna cum deep in your ass and you’re gonna take every fucking drop like the cum dump you are."
His eyes fly open, meet mine. The desperation there is beautiful. The trust, even more so.
"Please," he whispers.
The word undoes me.
I've never heard him beg. Never heard him ask for anything. He's all demands and commands, as dominant as I am, as unwilling to yield. But right now, in this moment, he's giving me trust. Vulnerability.
Things I don't deserve.
I release his cock and cup his face instead. Run my thumb along his cheekbone, admiring how beautiful he is, just for a second.
Then I start moving again, deep and steady, building us both toward the edge. He clings to me, arms around my neck, face buried in my shoulder. I can feel him trembling, feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in his body.
"Now," I tell him. "Come for me now."
He does.
His whole body seizes, ass clenching around my cock like a vice. His cock pulses between us, spilling hot and wet across our stomachs, and the sounds coming out of him are incoherent, animal, perfect.
The pressure triggers my own release. I bury myself deep and come, vision whiting out, the orgasm tearing through me like a natural disaster. I fill him with it, pulse after pulse, until there's nothing left.
My legs tremble as I struggle to hold myself up. Sweaty, sticky, gasping for breath. His legs slide off my shoulders, falling limp to the mattress. My cock softens inside him, but neither of us moves to separate.
Silence.
Just our breathing, harsh and uneven, slowly returning to normal.
"Well," he says finally. "That happened."
"Fuck, why do you always have to open your mouth?"
"I'm just saying—"
"I know what you're saying. Shut up anyway."
His chest rumbles with a laugh and I collapse on top of him. The vibration travels through his body and into mine, and I realize I'm still inside him, still connected in the most intimate way possible.
I should pull out. Should roll off him, get dressed, go back to my room and pretend this never happened. That's what I should do.
Instead, I press my forehead against his chin and close my eyes.
"Shower," I murmur.
"Hmm?"
"We need a shower. We're disgusting."
"Speak for yourself."
"You're covered in cum."
"And whose fault is that?"
I pull out, both of us wincing at the sensation, and stand on unsteady legs. He looks wrecked. Fucked out and satisfied, bite marks scattered across his throat and chest, scratches raking down his sides. My marks. My claim.
The possessiveness of that thought should scare me. It doesn't.
"Come on." I hold out my hand. "Shower. Now."
He takes my hand and lets me pull him up.
The bathroom is small and cramped, barely enough room for one person, let alone two men our size. We end up pressed together under the spray, elbows knocking against tile, shoulders jostling for space.
"This is ridiculous," Asher mutters.
Ignoring him, I reach around him for the soap and my arm brushes his chest. He sucks in a breath. We're both oversensitive, skin raw from the fucking, and every touch feels amplified.
"Here." I squirt soap into my palm and start washing his back without really thinking about it. The scratches I left are raised and red, and he hisses when I run my fingers over them.
"You did a number on me."
"You asked for it."
"I did." He turns his head, looking at me over his shoulder. "I liked it."
I don't know what to say to that. So I don't say anything. Just keep washing him, methodical, impersonal. Like this is normal. Like I wash the men I fuck all the time.
I don't. I've never done this before. Never stayed after, never shared a shower, never touched someone with anything other than violence or lust.
This feels different. It feels like tenderness, and I don't know what to do with that.
When his back is clean, he turns and takes the soap from my hand. "My turn."
I let him. Stand still while he washes my chest, my arms, my stomach. His hands are rough with calluses, but his touch is careful, especially where he scratched me raw.
"You have more scars than I do," he observes.
"The Silent was thorough in their torture methods."
"The pits weren't gentle either."
"No." I look at him, water streaming down both our faces. "They weren't."
We stand there, just looking at each other. Two men built for violence, stripped bare in more ways than one. His eyes are dark and steady, and I see the question in them.
What happens now?
I don't have an answer. So I give him the only thing I can.
I lean in and kiss him.
It's different from the kisses before. This is reverence. My hand comes up to cup his jaw, thumb stroking along his cheekbone, and I feel him melt into me. Just for a second. Just long enough to make my chest ache.
When I pull back, his eyes are closed. Water runs down his face like tears.
"Jinx—"
"This changes nothing." Panic rises in my chest at the way he says my name. "What happened tonight. It changes nothing."
His eyes open. The softness is gone, replaced by walls slamming back into place.
"Yeah." He steps back, putting distance between us. "I figured."
I turn off the water and step out of the shower. Grab a towel and toss him one. We dry off in silence, the easy intimacy of before replaced by awkward tension.
This is what I wanted. This is what I told myself I needed. Keep the walls up. Don't let him in. One night to get it out of our systems, and then we go back to being soldiers with a mission.
So why does it feel like I just fucked up the only good thing to happen to me in years?
I pull on my pants and head for the door. His voice stops me.
"Jinx."
I don't turn around. "What?"
"If it changes nothing, why'd you kiss me like that?"
I don't have an answer. So I leave without giving him one.
Back in my room, I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling. My lips tingle where they touched his. My skin burns where he marked me. My chest aches with want I refuse to name.
This changes nothing.
I keep telling myself that until the sun comes up.
It doesn't make it true.