Chapter 15 Miranda
MIRANDA
The vibration against my ribs is seismic.
Jax has his face buried in the soft flesh of my stomach, his breath hot and wet through the thin cotton of my tank top. He isn't moving. He’s just breathing, dragging air into his lungs like he’s drowning and I’m the only oxygen left in the room.
“Mo coeur, you are killing me.”
The French is rough, guttural, vibrating straight through my abdominal wall. It’s a plea. It’s a warning.
Logic dictates I should push him away. He is a predator. He is wet, dirty, and radiating a level of aggression that should trigger every survival instinct I have. My brain is screaming danger, high voltage, system overload.
But my hands don't listen to the schematics.
My fingers uncurl from the sheet. They lift, trembling, and weave into the thick, wet darkness of his hair.
It’s heavy. Coarse. I scrape my nails lightly against his scalp.
The reaction is instantaneous.
Jax goes rigid. A sound tears out of his throat—not quite a growl, but a low, broken noise of surrender.
He lifts his head.
His eyes are wild. The amber is gone, swallowed by a pupil so dilated it looks like a black hole. There is no humanity left in that gaze. There is only hunger. Stark, starving, violent hunger.
"Don't," he rasps, his voice wrecked. "Miranda. Don't touch me."
"You're in my bed," I whisper. My voice sounds thin, unrecognizable. "You're soaking wet. You're ruining the sheets."
"I'm gonna ruin a lot more than the sheets if you don't stop ogling like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you want to be eaten."
I trace the line of his jaw, feeling the rough stubble scratch my fingertips. "Maybe I’m tired of running the calculations, Jax. Maybe I just want us to break."
He snaps.
The restraint cable snaps.
He lunges up, covering my body with his. His mouth crashes onto mine.
There is no finesse. No gentle testing of the waters. His lips are hard, bruising, demanding entry. I open for him—I don't have a choice; the force of it demands compliance—and his tongue sweeps into my mouth.
It tastes of rain. Of nature. Of the metallic tang of adrenaline.
He kisses me like he’s angry at my mouth for existing. He bites my lower lip, sharp enough to sting, then soothes it with a heavy sweep of his tongue. I gasp, arching my back off the mattress, seeking more friction.
He is heavy. A solid wall of muscle and heat crushing me into the bedding. The dampness of his clothes seeps into mine, cold water meeting fever-hot skin. The thermal shock is dizzying.
"Jax," I moan into his mouth.
"Mine," he growls against my lips. "You smell like mine."
He grinds his hips down.
My breath hitches in a choked sob.
Through the wet denim of his jeans, I feel him. He is hard—unforgivingly rigid—but the size... the dimensions don't make sense. It’s thick, heavy, pressing against my pelvis with a density that defies standard anatomy. It feels dangerous. It feels like it could split me open.
And god, I want it.
The friction sends a jolt of electricity straight to my core. My hips snap up, meeting his thrust.
He breaks the kiss, gasping for air, his forehead resting against mine. We are both panting, exchanging carbon dioxide in the dark.
"You're wet," he says, his hand sliding down my flank, gripping my hip bone hard enough to bruise. "From the rain."
"Among other things," I admit, the sarcasm stripped away, leaving only raw need.
He pulls back, looking at me. He looks at the wet tank top clinging to my skin, becoming translucent. He looks at the mud on his own chest.
"Bathroom," he says.
Before I can process the command, he moves. He slides his arms under me—one under my knees, one under my back—and lifts me. I’m a ragdoll in his grip. He carries me effortlessly, like weight is just a suggestion he chooses to ignore.
He kicks the bathroom door open.
The room is small, tiled in chipped white ceramic. He sets me down on the closed toilet lid but doesn't step back. He reaches into the shower stall and cranks the handle.
The pipes groan, then hiss as hot water sprays against the fiberglass. Steam begins to rise immediately, curling around us, adding moisture to air that is already saturated.
Jax turns to me. He doesn't speak. He grabs the hem of his wet jeans and shoves them down. He kicks them off. He is wearing boxer briefs that are straining to contain him. He shoves those down too.
I stare.
I analyze gears for a living. I understand fit and function.
He is magnificent. And terrifying. Thick thighs corded with muscle, a stomach ridged with tension, and... that.
He catches me staring. He doesn't cover himself. He steps closer, between my spread knees.
"Eyes up," he says, grabbing the hem of my tank top. "Unless you want to finish this right here on the porcelain."
"I..." My voice fails.
He pulls the shirt over my head and tosses it into the corner. My bra follows. Then the panties.
I sit there, naked, exposed under the harsh bathroom light. I should feel self-conscious. I have scars on my knees from childhood falls. I have the birthmark. I’m too pale.
Jax looks at me like I’ve become the holy grail.
His eyes track over every inch of skin, mapping me. He reaches out, tracing the curve of my breast with a rough, calloused finger. His touch is a brand.
"Beautiful," he murmurs.
He pulls me up.
He guides me into the spray.
The water is scalding hot. It hits my skin, shocking the nerves, washing away the cold rain and the mud. Jax steps in behind me. The stall is cramped. His chest presses against my back, a wall of heat enveloping me.
He grabs the bar of soap. He lathers his hands, creating a thick, white foam.
"Lean back," he orders, his voice a rumble in my ear.
I lean against him.
His soapy hands slide over my stomach, moving in slow, deliberate circles. He washes away the sweat, the fear. His fingers dip lower, brushing the top of my thighs, teasing the edge of my heat.
I whimper, my head falling back against his shoulder.
"Relax," he whispers. "I got you."
He moves his hands up to my breasts. He cups them, the soap making his palms slick. He teases the nipples with his thumbs until they are hard peaks, sensitive enough that the contact sends spikes of pleasure down my spine.
He turns me around.
Water sluices down his face, matting his dark hair to his forehead. He looks primal in the steam, water beading on the scar tissue of his neck.
He grabs the shampoo bottle. He pours a dollop into his palm.
"Close your eyes."
I obey.
His fingers work into my scalp. It’s intimate. Unbearably intimate. He massages the tension points at my skull, his nails scraping lightly against the skin. The suds run down my neck, over my shoulders.
I reach out. I need to touch him.
My hands find his chest. I soap him up, my fingers sliding over the hard pectorals, the ridges of his abs. I trace the jagged scar on his side—is it a bullet wound?
I follow the line of hair down his stomach.
My hands move lower.
I brush against him. He is steel wrapped in velvet skin. He jumps, his breath hissing through his teeth.
"Miranda," he warns.
I drop to my knees.
The water beats down on my back. I am eye-level with his cock now. The scent of him here is heavy—musk and soap and arousal.
I wrap my hand around him.
His cock is heavy. Hot. The veins pulse under my palm.
I lean forward. I want to taste him. I want to know the texture of him. I part my lips, the steam filling my lungs.
Jax makes a sound like a dying engine.
His hands tangle in my wet hair.
I think he’s going to thrust into my mouth. I want him to push me down.
Instead, he pulls.
"Up," he chokes out.
He hauls me to my feet. Water splashes everywhere. He presses me back against the shower wall, the cool fiberglass biting into my shoulder blades.
He pins my wrists next to my head. He is breathing hard, his chest heaving, his eyes searching mine with a desperate intensity.
"Jax?" I pant, confused. "Why did you stop?"
He leans in, pressing his forehead against mine. Water drips from his nose onto my lips.
"Because I'm hanging by a thread," he rasps. "And if your mouth touches me... I lose the last bit of control I have."
He looks deep into my eyes, the violet meeting the amber. The steam swirls around us, closing us in.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice becoming a whisper that sounds like a vow. "Because if we do this... if I fuck you... there’s no going back. No undoing it. You’re mine. Forever."