Chapter 19 Jagger
Chapter Nineteen: Jagger
One week.
That's how long it takes for Jonah to ignore every piece of medical advice and start moving around like he wasn't shot a few days ago.
I find him in the kitchen with Elliot, the two of them bent over a cutting board, arguing about the proper way to dice an onion.
Jonah is wearing one of my sweaters, shoulder half falling off him, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He's got a smudge of flour on his cheek and he's gesturing with a knife in a way that makes my eye twitch.
"You're going to stab yourself," I say from the doorway.
"I'm making soup." He doesn't look up. "Soup requires knives. Knives require gestures."
"Knives require caution."
"Caution is boring." He finally glances at me, and his grin is sharp and bright. "Miss me?"
I've been watching him for the past ten minutes. He knows this. He's been performing for my benefit, with his exaggerated movements and dramatic sighs, because he knows it drives me insane.
"You're supposed to be resting."
"I'm standing. Very restfully. While making soup."
"That's not how rest works."
"It's how my rest works."
Elliot snorts, stepping back from the cutting board. "You two are exhausting. I'm going to find Jace and let him deal with this domestic situation."
"It's not a domestic situation—"
But Elliot is already gone, disappearing through the kitchen door with a wave over his shoulder. Jonah watches him go, then turns back to me with raised eyebrows.
"You scared off my sous chef."
"He fled voluntarily."
"Because you were lurking. You're a lurker, Jagger. A professional lurker and it’s disgusting, I fully expected you to have better stalking capabilities than that."
"I don't lurk."
"You absolutely lurk. It's your whole aesthetic. Tall, dark, handsome, lurking in doorways like a broody vampire."
I cross the kitchen in three strides and wrap my arms around him from behind. He startles, then relaxes into me, his back warm against my chest. I press my face into his neck, breathing him in.
"We're going for a walk," I say against his skin.
"Now?"
"Now."
"But the soup—"
"Will survive without you." I press a kiss to the spot below his ear. "Get your coat."
He sets down the knife, twisting in my arms to look at me. His eyes search my face, looking for something. I don't know what he finds, but it makes him smile.
"Okay," he says. "Let's go for a walk."
The snow is melting.
It's been warming for the past few days, the white drifts receding to reveal brown earth and patches of stubborn grass. Water drips from tree branches, and the air smells fresh. Clean.
We walk behind the farmhouse, following a path that winds into the forest. Jonah moves carefully, still favoring his wounded side, but his pace is steady. Stronger every day.
"You know what this reminds me of?" he says.
"What?"
"Every murder documentary I've ever watched." He gestures at the trees closing in around us. "Isolated location. Quiet forest. Handsome but mysterious companion leading the way. This is textbook serial killer behavior."
"I'm not a serial killer."
"That's exactly what a serial killer would say."
"I've killed people. That doesn't make me a serial killer."
"Semantics." He steps over a fallen branch, wincing slightly. "Where are we going, anyway?"
"Somewhere quiet."
"That's ominous, veeeeeery ominous. You're not helping your case."
"I don't have a case. I have a destination."
"Which is?"
I don't answer. Just keep walking, leading him deeper into the trees. The path opens up after a few minutes, revealing a small clearing. The snow has melted here completely, leaving soft grass and a carpet of early wildflowers. Sunlight streams through the canopy.
Jonah stops at the edge of the clearing, taking it in.
"Okay," he admits. "This is pretty. Very romantic. Slightly less murder-y than I expected."
"Your faith in me is overwhelming."
"I have a lot of faith in you. I’m also a big mouth with a penchant for pissing off his boyfriend with shitty jokes." He turns to face me, backlit by the sun. "So. We're here. In your non-murder clearing. What now?"
I close the distance between us, cup his face in my hands, and kiss him.
He makes a surprised sound against my mouth, then melts into it, his hands coming up to grip my jacket.
The kiss is slow, thorough, the kind we haven't had time for in the chaos of the past week.
I take my time, relearning the shape of his mouth, the way he tastes, the small sounds he makes when I do something he likes.
When I pull back, his eyes are hazy, his cheeks flushed.
"Not that I'm complaining," he says, slightly breathless, "but we could have done that inside. Where it's warm. And there are beds."
"I wanted you here."
"Why?"
"Because I needed to." The words come out rougher than I intend. "Because death knocked on your door and you survived, but mostly, I wanted to bring you somewhere beautiful and remind myself that you're still here."
His expression softens. "Jagger—"
"And because I wanted to do this without my brothers hearing."
I drop to my knees.
The ground is soft and damp, soaking through my pants immediately. I don't care. I'm looking up at Jonah, at the way his eyes have gone wide, at the flush spreading down his neck.
"Oh," he says. "That's—okay. That's happening."
"Unless you want me to stop."
"If you stop, I will literally never forgive you."
I smile. It's not a nice smile. It's the smile of a man who's about to take his time.
My hands find his belt. He's already half-hard, just from the kiss, just from the anticipation. I work the buckle open slowly, watching his face as I do. His breath is coming faster, his hands flexing at his sides like he doesn't know what to do with them.
"You can touch me," I chuckle. "I’m not breakable."
His hands immediately find my hair, fingers threading through the strands. The grip is tight, desperate. Good.
I pull down his zipper. Push his jeans and boxers down just far enough to free his cock. He's fully hard now, leaking precum in fat drops, and the sight of him makes my cock throb.
"You're staring," he says, voice strained.
"I'm admiring." I wrap my hand around the base, his dick twitches at the contact. "You're beautiful like this. Hard for me. Waiting for me."
"Less admiring, more sucking. Please."
"Since you asked nicely."
I lean forward and take him into my mouth.
The sound he makes is erotic. A broken moan that echoes through the clearing, scattering birds from the nearby trees. His hips jerk forward, and he pushes deeper. I have to relax my throat to accommodate him.
He's thick and hot on my tongue, the taste of him salty and familiar. It’s been so long, I struggle not to cum in my pants.
I pull back until just the head remains, tonguing his slit, lapping up the precum that keeps beading there.
His fingers tighten in my hair, and he swears, a stream of curses that would make a sailor blush.
"Fuck, Jagger, your mouth—"
Taking him deep again, I hollow my cheeks, sucking hard enough to make his knees buckle. He catches himself with a hand on my shoulder, bracing, and I feel the tremble running through his whole body.
I set a rhythm. Slow at first, then faster, varying the pressure, the depth, the angle. I relearn what makes him gasp, what makes him moan, what makes his grip on my hair turn painful. I memorize every reaction, every sound, building a map of his pleasure.
"I'm not going to last," he warns. "If you keep—fuck—if you keep doing that—"
I keep doing that.
I reach up with one hand, cup his balls, roll them gently in my palm. He cries out, hips stuttering, and I feel his cock pulse against my tongue.
"Jagger, I'm going to—"
I pull back just far enough to speak, lips brushing the head of his cock. "Do it. I want to taste you."
"God, you can't just say things like—"
I take him deep again, all the way to the base, and swallow around him.
He comes with a shout that probably alerts every animal in a five-mile radius. Hot and bitter on my tongue, pulsing down my throat. I swallow everything he gives me, working him through it, not letting up until he's whimpering from oversensitivity and pushing weakly at my shoulders.
I release him, sit back on my heels, and look up.
He's a mess. Chest heaving, eyes glazed, leaning against a tree he must have backed into at some point. His cock is softening, wet with spit and the remnants of his cum. He looks thoroughly debauched.
He looks perfect.
"You," he says, when he can speak again, "are going to kill me."
"That was the opposite of killing you."
"Same result. Death by orgasm. It'll be on my tombstone." He slides down the tree, collapsing to sit on the grass across from me. "Here lies Jonah Chen. He came so hard his soul left his body."
"Dramatic."
"Accurate." He reaches out, grabs my jacket, pulls me toward him. "Get over here."
I go, letting him pull me down until I'm half on top of him, half beside him on the damp grass. He kisses me, deep and filthy, tasting himself on my tongue.
"Your turn," he murmurs against my mouth.
"This wasn't about me."
"Everything is about you, apparently. You and your dramatic gestures and your forest clearings and your—" He reaches down, palms my cock through my pants. I'm rock hard, have been since I got on my knees. "Yeah. Your turn."
"Jonah—"
"Shut up and let me touch you."
No one can make me heel quite like he can.
He works my belt open with surprising dexterity for a man who just had his brains sucked out through his dick. Gets his hand around me, strokes slow and firm, and I groan into his neck.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Let me hear you."
The moan that escapes me would make a lesser man feel embarrassment, but all I feel is burning desire.
"I love you," he says, stroking faster. "I love you and your murder clearings and your incredible mouth and the way you look at me like I'm your beautiful pookie wookie."
"You are," I manage. "The only thing—"
"Come for me, Daddy J. Be a good little monster and come for me.”
I come.
It hits me like a train, pleasure whiting out my vision, my body seizing. I spill over his fist, onto my own stomach, making a mess of us both. He works me through it, gentler now, murmuring words I can't quite hear.
When it's over, we lie there in the grass, breathing hard, covered in sweat and cum and melting snow.
"We should probably get up," Jonah says eventually.
"Probably."
"The ground is wet."
"Very."
"We're going to catch cold."
"Likely."
Neither of us moves.
"Hey," he says, tilting his head to look at me. "I love you."
"I love you too." The words come easier now. Still foreign, but less frightening. "I'm glad you're alive."
"Me too." He grins, that shit eating grin that I've come to love. "Now help me up. I'm stuck."
I help him up. We brush grass and dirt from our clothes, make ourselves presentable enough to walk back to the farmhouse. The sun is warm on our faces, the forest quiet around us.
"Same time tomorrow?" he laughs with a wink.
"We'll see."
"I'll take that as a yes."