Chapter Six Jonah
After his shower, he comes back and small talk turns into drinks. Drinks turn into Jagger pulling a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet I hadn't found yet, pouring two glasses without asking if I want one, and nodding toward the balcony doors.
"Fresh air," he says. "You've been inside for days."
"Worried about my vitamin D levels? That's almost sweet."
He rolls his eyes. “It’s nighttime, dumbass.” Then opens the doors and steps out into the cold.
The balcony is small but private, wrapped in glass panels that block the wind while still letting you see the city sprawled out below.
The lights of a thousand buildings glitter against the dark, and the sky above is that strange orange-gray that cities get when there's too much light pollution to see stars.
I follow him out, whiskey in hand, and lean against the railing. The cold bites at my cheeks, my fingers, the tips of my ears. It feels good. Really, really fucking good. After three years of climate-controlled detention, I'd forgotten what weather felt like.
Jagger stands beside me. He’s warm, the heat seeping from his body into the skin where we touch. He's not wearing a jacket, just that black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and I watch goosebumps rise along his forearms.
"You're cold," I say.
"I'm fine."
"You're shivering."
"I said I'm fine." He takes a drink, throat working as he swallows. The column of his neck is pale in the dim light, and I track the movement of his Adam's apple with more interest than is probably healthy.
We stand in silence for a while. The whiskey is good, smooth and warm going down, and it loosens the knots in my shoulders. Below us, cars move through the streets like blood cells through veins. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails.
"This is weird," I say eventually.
"What is?"
"This." I gesture between us with my glass.
"I should hate you. In fact, I should grab a knife and drive it through your neck while you sleep, and yet I can’t bring myself to do it.
But this is all weird. Standing on your balcony, drinking your whiskey, having something that almost resembles a normal evening.
Twenty-four hours ago you had your hand down my pants.
Three years ago you scrambled my brain. And now we're just.. . hanging out."
"We're not hanging out."
"Then what are we doing?"
He turns to look at me. In the low light, his gray eyes look almost silver, and there's a darkness there. It’s hungry and hesitant at the same time.
"I don't know," he admits.
"That's becoming your catchphrase."
"You're becoming a problem."
"I've been a problem since day one. You're just now noticing?"
He sets his glass on the railing and turns to face me fully. His body blocks the light from the apartment, casting his face in shadow. I can't see his expression, but I can feel the tension radiating off him.
"You should be afraid of me," he says.
"I am afraid of you."
"You don't act like it."
"Because being afraid doesn't mean I'm going to cower." I set my own glass down, meeting his shadow-dark gaze. "You want me to flinch every time you look at me? To beg and grovel and act like the broken thing you tried to make me? Sorry to disappoint, but that's not who I am."
"Who are you, then?"
"I'm still figuring that out." I take a step closer, close enough that I can see the pulse jumping at his throat.
"But I know one thing. I'm not going to let you pretend this morning didn't happen.
I'm not going to let you retreat into your cold little shell and act like you didn't fall apart when you touched me. "
His hands curl into fists at his sides. "I told you, that was a mistake."
"So you say, and yet I don’t believe you. You keep looking at me like you want to make the same mistake again."
"That’s not true."
"Tell me I'm wrong." Another step. We're inches apart now, close enough that his breath fans on my face.
"Tell me you don't want this, and I'll back off.
I'll go to my room, go to sleep, and tomorrow we can pretend to be professional about the whole 'investigating your secret evil organization' thing. "
He doesn't say anything.
"That's what I thought."
I reach up and grab the front of his shirt. Pull him down to me.
The kiss is nothing like this morning. This morning was desperation, explosion, a dam breaking under too much pressure. This is deliberate. Slow. I lick into his mouth and taste whiskey and dinner.
For a moment, he lets me lead. His hands hover at his sides, his body rigid, like he's fighting himself with every breath.
Then he stops fighting.
His hands come up and grab my wrists, hard enough to bruise.
He spins me around and shoves me against the glass panel, my chest hitting the cold surface with enough force to knock the air from my lungs.
Before I can react, he's pressed against my back, his body a wall of heat and muscle pinning me in place.
"You want this?" His voice is low, rough, right against my ear. "You want me to stop pretending?"
My cock is already hard, trapped between my stomach and the freezing glass. "Yes."
"You want me to show you what I really am?"
"Yes."
His teeth find the back of my neck and bite down.
Not gentle. Not playful. Hard enough that I cry out, hard enough that I'll have marks tomorrow.
Hard enough that I can feel blood dripping down my skin before he sucks it into his mouth.
His hips grind against my ass, and I can feel how hard he is through layers of fabric.
"Inside," he growls. "Now."
He doesn't wait for me to comply. Just grabs my arm and hauls me through the balcony doors, across the living room, down the hall. I stumble trying to keep up with his pace, and he doesn't slow down, just tightens his grip until I'm gasping.
We end up in his bedroom. I've never been in here before. It's sparse, like everything else in the apartment. A bed with dark sheets. A dresser. Nothing on the walls.
He throws me onto the bed.
I land on my back, bouncing once, and before I can sit up he's on top of me. His weight pins me to the mattress, his knees on either side of my hips, his hands pressing my wrists into the pillow above my head.
"Last chance," he says. His face is inches from mine, and his eyes are wild, pupils blown so wide I can barely see the gray. "Tell me to stop and I will."
"If you stop now, I'll never forgive you. Consider this your penance."
His mouth crashes into mine.
This kiss is brutal. All teeth and tongue and fury, like he's trying to devour me. I kiss back just as hard, biting his lip, tasting copper when the skin splits. He groans into my mouth and grinds his hips down, his cock dragging against mine through too many layers of clothing.
"Too many clothes," I gasp.
He doesn't respond with words. Just sits back on his heels, grabs the collar of my shirt, and rips.
The fabric tears like paper. Buttons scatter across the bed, pinging off the headboard, and then his hands are on my bare chest, palms hot against my skin. He drags his nails down my torso, leaving red lines in their wake, and I arch into the pain like I'm starving for it.
"Fuck," I breathe. "Do that again."
He does. Harder this time. I feel skin break, feel the sting of shallow scratches, and my cock throbs so hard I see stars.
"You like pain." It's not a question.
"I like feeling something."
His expression flickers. Vulnerability underneath the hunger. Then it's gone, replaced by that cold intensity, and he's yanking at my pants, pulling them down my legs along with my boxers until I'm naked beneath him.
He looks at me. Really looks, his gaze traveling over every inch of exposed skin. I should feel vulnerable. Exposed. Instead I feel powerful, watching the way his breathing goes ragged, watching his cock strain against his pants.
"Your turn," I say.
"No." He grabs my hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "You don't give orders."
"Maybe you need to be a bit more dominant, Daddy J."
The smile he gives me is terrifying. Beautiful.
He flips me over like I weigh nothing, pressing my face into the pillow, one hand on the back of my neck holding me down. I hear his belt unbuckle, hear the rustle of fabric, and then I feel him. Hot and hard and thick against my ass.
"I don't have—" I start.
"I got it." His voice is strained. "Don't move."
I hear him reach, hear a drawer open and close, and then cold liquid drips between my cheeks. I jolt at the sensation, and his hand tightens on my neck. The rip of a wrapper as he slides a condom on.
"I said don't move."
"Fuck you."
"Wrong way around." His finger circles my hole, spreading the lube, and I bite the pillow to keep from moaning. "Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?"
"Constantly. It's part of my charm."
He pushes one finger inside me without warning.
I gasp, body clenching around the intrusion. It's been years since anyone touched me like this. Years since I let anyone close enough to try. The burn is immediate, intense, and I push back against it like a glutton.
"More."
"Greedy." But he gives me another finger, stretching me open, scissoring until the burn fades into something deeper. Something that makes my toes curl and my cock leak onto the sheets beneath me.
He crooks his fingers, finds that spot inside me, and presses. My body jerks, a sound tearing out of my throat that doesn't sound human.
"There it is," he murmurs. "Found you."
He works that spot mercilessly, rubbing and pressing until I'm writhing beneath him, my cock dripping a puddle onto the sheets, my hands clawing at the pillows. Every time I get close to the edge, he backs off. Lets me come down. Then does it again.
"Fuck." His name comes out like a prayer. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me. Please, I want—" I break off into a moan as he adds a third finger, the stretch bordering on painful, exactly what I need. "I need you inside me."
"I am inside you."
"You know what I mean, you fucking—"