Chapter Six Jonah #2
He shoves his fingers deep and I lose the ability to form words.
"What was that?" His voice is raspy. "I didn't quite catch it."
"Asshole," I manage. "You're an asshole."
"And you're going to take my cock like a good boy, aren't you?"
The words hit me somewhere primal. My hole clenches around his fingers, my cock twitching against my stomach.
"Yes," I whisper.
"Yes what?"
"Yes, I'll take it. I'll take whatever you give me. Just please, Jagger, please—"
My breath catches as he almost makes me cum.
"I'm not going to break," I tell him when I can breathe again. "Stop treating me like I'm fragile."
"You are fragile." A fourth finger joins the others, and I keen into the pillow. "You're the most fragile thing I've ever touched. And I'm going to wreck you anyway."
"Then do it. Break me."
His fingers withdraw. I hear him slick himself up, feel the blunt head of his cock press against my hole. He's bigger than his fingers. Much bigger.
"Deep breath," he says, and then he's pushing inside.
The stretch is overwhelming. I bite the pillow hard enough to taste feathers, my hands fisting in the sheets, my body trembling as he feeds me inch after inch. It hurts. It hurts so fucking good.
He bottoms out with a groan, his hips flush against my ass, and for a moment neither of us moves. I can feel him everywhere. Inside me, around me, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his breath hot against the back of my neck.
"Fucking hell, you’re tight," he says, and his voice cracks on the word.
"If you don't start moving, I'm going to kill you."
He laughs. Actually laughs, low and surprised, and then he pulls back and slams home.
I scream.
Not from pain. From the feeling of fullness, of being claimed, of his cock hitting something deep inside me that sends lightning up my spine. He sets a brutal pace, hips snapping against my ass, one hand still pinning my neck while the other grips my hip hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises.
"This what you wanted?" he growls. "Wanted me to use you? To fuck you like you're nothing?"
"Yes." The word comes out broken. "Yes, fuck, yes—"
He pulls out, flips me onto my back, and shoves back inside before I can catch my breath. This angle is different. Deeper. I wrap my legs around his waist and dig my heels into his ass, urging him faster.
His hand wraps around my throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. A reminder of who's in control.
"Look at me, little cock slut," he orders.
I open my eyes. I hadn't realized I'd closed them.
He's beautiful like this. Dominant. Animalistic, but in a way that doesn’t involve torture.
The monster he is being poured into the snapping of his hips against mine.
His hair is a mess, his lips swollen, sweat dripping down his temples.
The cold mask is gone completely, and what's left is raw and desperate and hungry.
"You're my cock slut," he says. "Say it."
"Yours."
"Again."
"I'm your little whore." The words come out like a sob. "Jagger, please, I'm yours, I'm—"
His hand tightens on my throat just enough to make my vision blur, and he fucks into me harder, the headboard slamming against the wall with every thrust. My cock is trapped between us, getting friction from his stomach, and I'm so close I can taste it.
"Come," he orders. "Now."
My body obeys before my brain catches up.
The orgasm rips through me, whiting out my vision, and I'm cumming all over both of us, clenching around his cock so hard that he groans and follows me over the edge. I feel him pulse inside me, pissed I can’t feel his cum because of the condom, but knowing my ass made this brute lose control sets off another wave of pleasure that leaves me shaking.
He collapses on top of me. His weight is crushing, his cock still buried in my ass, his breath ragged against my shoulder. I can feel his heart pounding against my back, feel the tremors running through his body. He's shaking. The cold, controlled Architect is shaking like he's falling apart.
I reach blindly, find his hand, and lace our fingers together.
Neither of us speaks.
His softening cock slips out of me eventually, and he pulls off the condom and throws it on the floor.
The sensation is filthy, possessive, exactly what I never knew I needed.
I've been fucked before, but never like this.
Never like I mattered. Never like the person inside me was trying to crawl into my skin and live there.
He rolls off me and onto his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his stomach muscles twitching with aftershocks.
"That was..." I trail off, not sure how to finish.
"A mistake?"
I laugh. I can't help it. "If that's what your mistakes feel like, please keep making them."
He doesn't respond. Doesn't move.
I turn my head to look at him. In the low light, I can see the tension in his jaw, the rigid line of his shoulders. He's retreating already. Building the walls back up.
I reach over and pull his arm away from his face.
"Don't," I say.
"Don't what?"
"Don't disappear on me. Not after that."
His eyes meet mine. Gray and silver and full of fear.
"I don't know how to be... whatever you need me to be."
"I don't need you to be anything." I shift closer, ignoring the ache in my body, the cum drying on my skin. "I just need you to stay. Even if it’s just for now."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then his arm comes around me, pulling me against his chest. His heart is pounding, rabbit-fast, and I press my ear against it and listen.
"This is dangerous," he murmurs into my hair.
"I know."
"We shouldn't."
"Probably not."
"You're going to ruin me."
I smile against his skin. "That's the plan."
I wake up alone.
For a moment, I don't know where I am. The sheets are softer than the ones in my guest room, the mattress too comfortable, the room too dark. Then memory crashes back in fragments: his hands on my throat, his cock inside me, the way he said "mine" like it was the only word that mattered.
I'm sitting up before I fully wake, looking around, my heart pounding against my ribs.
The bedroom is empty. Light filters through curtains I don't remember being closed. The space beside me is cold, which means he's been gone for a while.
I push down the panic. He lives here. He probably just went to make coffee or check his precious security feeds or do whatever emotionally constipated geniuses do at the crack of dawn. This doesn't mean he's regretting it. Doesn't mean he's going to pretend it never happened.
Even if that's exactly what I'd expect him to do.
My body aches when I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
The good kind of ache. The kind that settles into your bones and reminds you with every movement that something real happened here.
I feel hollowed out and filled up at the same time, like he rearranged something inside me that needed rearranging.
I look down at myself and assess the damage: bruises on my hips in the shape of fingers, scratches down my chest that sting when I breathe too deep, a bite mark on my shoulder that's already turning purple, crusted with dried blood.
My ass throbs, used and sore, and when I shift my weight I can feel where he was.
Where he still is, in some way. Marked on me. In me.
I should probably be concerned about how much I like seeing them.
Someone left clothes on the chair by the door. Clean sweatpants, a soft t-shirt, even a pair of socks. The gesture is so unexpectedly thoughtful that I stand there staring at them for a full minute before putting them on.
The apartment smells like coffee when I step into the hall. I follow the scent to the kitchen and find Jagger at the counter, two mugs already poured, staring at his phone with an expression I can't read.
"Morning," I say.
He looks up. His eyes travel over me, lingering on the visible edge of the bite mark above my collar.
"How do you feel?" he asks.
"Like I got fucked within an inch of my life by a repressed assassin with control issues." I grab one of the mugs. "So pretty good, all things considered."
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close.
"There's food in the fridge if you're hungry."
"Are we going to talk about last night?"
"I was hoping to avoid it."
"Shocking." I lean against the counter, sipping coffee, watching him. He's already dressed. Black pants, black shirt, sleeves rolled up. His hair is damp from a shower. He looks put together, controlled, every inch the cold strategist.
But I know what he looks like when he falls apart now. I know the sounds he makes when he comes. That knowledge feels like a secret weapon, something I can carry with me even when he's pretending to be made of ice.
"We said we'd go through the files today," I remind him. "The Kreiss stuff."
"I remember."
"So let's do that. We can work, we can investigate, we can pretend to be professional." I set down my mug and cross to him, stopping close enough to touch but not touching. "And then tonight, if you want, we can be unprofessional again."
His breath catches. Just barely. Just enough for me to notice.
"This is a terrible idea," he says.
"You mentioned that. Several times." I reach up and straighten his collar, letting my fingers brush the skin of his neck. "And yet."
"And yet," he repeats.
I smile. "See? We're making progress."
He catches my wrist before I can pull away. Holds it there, my hand against his chest, his pulse steady beneath my palm.
"If this goes wrong," he says quietly, "people will get hurt."
"People are already getting hurt. That's kind of the whole thing with your evil shadow organization." I turn my hand over, lace my fingers with his. "At least this way, we get to feel something good while we're trying to stop it."
He stares at our joined hands like he's never seen anything like it before.
Maybe he hasn't.
"Okay," he says finally.
"Okay?"
"Okay." He lifts his gaze to mine. "Let's go look at those files."
I grin. "Is Daddy J taking orders from me now?"
"Oh shut up."
But he doesn't let go of my hand.