Chapter 26
Rampage
Lolli-Gag
Jagger doesn’t hide quietly. He tries, but it only makes it worse.
“Rampage,” I whisper, and his head snaps toward me.
I giggle as he stands near the door with his shoulders pulled tight.
His fists flex at his sides with every breath coming rough through his nose, like a raging bull. I giggle again.
“What is so funny, Little Riot?” he asks, and I step closer to him.
“Anyone ever tell you… you’re like a bull in a china shop?”
“Nooo…just you.” He chuckles, seeming to calm down a bit.
“Rampage. That’s what I’m going to call you,” I say, and he raises a brow, but I ignore him.
The room he shoved us in is small. Shelves crowd the walls.
Old sheets, cleaning bottles, and boxes with labels half peeled off.
A broken mop bucket sits in the corner, which is the reason why the air smells like bleach and dust. Hillsboro’s favorite perfume.
I sit on an overturned crate, knees pulled up, watching him watch the door.
He hasn’t let go of my hand since he found me.
Even now, his fingers keep brushing mine like he’s grounding himself with the heat of my skin.
I’m not complaining though. It just means he’s still here.
He’s real and breathing. I should make a joke and laugh, or maybe I should scold Jethro for humming so loudly in my head like a broken fucking wire.
But all I can do is stare at Jagger’s naked back and think about the way he broke through that door for me.
The way he said “always” like it cost him something.
It did. It was a promise he didn’t know he made.
“You’re bleeding,” I whisper, but he doesn’t turn.
“Not mine,” he says, and I smile.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I ask.
“No… but—did it?”
“A little.” I giggle, and his shoulder shifts like he laughed but no sound came out.
The hallway outside erupts with distant shouting. Boots pounding and doors locking. The voice on the loud speaker telling everyone to remain calm, like that’s a fucking thing that survives in this place. Jagger’s hand tightens around the weapon he took off a guard.
“Stay behind me if they come in,” he tells me, and I tilt my head.
“You keep saying that.” I giggle.
“Because you keep not listening.”
“I listen,” I huff, and he finally turns to look at me. The look is hot enough to steal the air out of my lungs.
“No, Riot. You hear. Different thing.”
Riot, there it is. His name for me. Rough in his mouth—made of smoke and broken glass.
“You mad at me, Big Bad?” I ask as my fingers curl against my knee. His eyes drop to my mouth, and I lick my lips.
“I’m mad at everything,” he says, and I tilt my head.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” he admits, turning fully now. The room gets smaller, or maybe he gets bigger, but he crosses the space between us in two steps, then stops like he’s forcing himself not to come closer.
My insides ache. Not from fear or pain… something worse—want.
I look up at him through messy hair and smeared paint.
“You’re staring,” I whisper, and his jaw flexes.
“You look wrong,” he says, and my chest tightens. I hate that his words hurt but they do.
“I know,” I answer, then look down, but his fingers find my chin and force my face up.
“No, I didn't mean it like that,” he whispers, and I blink as he crouches in front of me slowly. His hands hover over my knees, like he’s waiting for permission.
“You can touch me,” I say, and his eyes lift to mine. Something moves across his face. Want. Anger. Relief. All of it ugly and beautiful. His hands settle on my knees. Warm. Heavy and real. My breathing catches, and Jethro goes very still.
“Careful,” he mumbles, but I ignore him. Jagger’s thumb moves once, inching up my thigh.
“You were gone,” he says, his voice low. Not accusing—hurt. “They took you, and I couldn’t—” He chokes like the words are caught in his throat like barbed wire. I lean forward, lift my hand, and gently caress his face.
“They took you, too,” I whisper, and his eyes darken.
“Not the same.”
“No?”
“No!” His hands tighten, not enough to hurt, but enough to tell me he wants to break something. Not me—the world.
Dragging my fingers down his face, he freezes like no one has ever done that before without expecting blood in return.
“You came back,” I whisper, and his eyes close for half a second. When they open, something in them is worse than rage—need.
“I heard you scream,” he says, and my throat tightens.
“I was scared,” I confess. The words taste rotten coming out. His hands slide to my waist, and I shiver.
“I know.”
“I hate that,” I say, and he nods. “You weren’t supposed to know.” And his eyes widen.
“Too bad,” he growls, and I laugh. He moves closer, settling in between my legs, his warm body crowding my space, then presses his forehead against mine. The air changes, and the alarms fade. The whole institution folds itself into the space between his mouth and mine. “You’re shaking,” he says.
“So are you,” I counter.
“I’m pissed.”
“I’m not.”
“Liar,” he accuses like it’s a dare. So, I take it and kiss him first. It's not soft. It’s teeth, breath, and hands gripping too hard then gentling the last second.
It's his body pressing into mine like he needs proof I'm not another hallucination. It’s me grabbing him and pulling him closer because, if this is a dream, I want to ruin myself in it before I wake up.
He groans against my lips and it goes straight through me. His hands cup the back of my neck, and I laugh into the kiss, causing him to pull back enough to glare at me.
“You’re loud even when you’re quiet, Rampage,” I tell him as his thumb drags along my jaw, making me moan.
“Good,” he breathes, and his mouth finds mine again, only harder this time. The crate creaks beneath me as one of his hands grips the shelf beside my head, rattling the old bottles. The other pulls at my pants. Yes. Fuck yes. He rips them down, then cups my pussy with his large hand.
“Are you wet for me, Little Riot?” he asks, and I whimper against his mouth as his fingers peel my lips apart. My body shivers when his thumb flicks my clit, so I drag my nails down his chest and into his pants, gripping his cock. “Fuck, baby. I want to be inside you,” he growls, making me giggle.
“I want to feel you stretch me, Rampage,” I tell him as he sinks a finger inside me, making me gasp.
His other hand wraps around my throat as his lips once again find mine, sucking my tongue into his mouth.
I tighten my hold around his cock, pumping him faster, causing his body to riddle with goosebumps.
He groans when my thumb swipes across his tip, spreading his precum.
My pants fall further down my legs, and I kick them to the side. He releases my throat only to use both hands to slap my thighs and lift me, pressing me against the shelves.
“God damn, Little Riot. I need to fuck this tight cunt now!” he groans as I rub the tip of his dick against my entrance.
“Then do it!” I command as he bites his bottom lip, never taking his eyes off me, then he slams into me, causing my head to smash against the shelf above me.
Objects fall around us, but he still never takes his eyes off of me.
My nails sink into his arms as I roll my hips, meeting him thrust for thrust.
“So fucking tight, Lolli—fuck!” he groans, and I giggle.
“You feel so good, Jagger. So fucking good,” I tell him, and he snaps his hips, pounding into me harder and harder. “Oh god. Fuck!” I yell, but he smashes a hand over my mouth.
“Shh, you have to be quiet,” he growls as he pulls all the way out, only to slowly sink back in. My eyes roll, and he growls again.
“Look at me,” he commands as my eyes snap back to his.
I roll my hips and my body trembles. His fingers reach between us and he pinches my clit, causing me to see stars.
I tighten around him, holding him inside me.
“Fuck! Cum for me!” he commands as he pinches my clit again then slaps it, and I cum so fucking hard around him, my entire body convulses and I scream into his hand.
“Shit, fuck! I’m cumming,” he roars, then I feel his cock twitch, filling my cunt with his seed.
His movements slow as we pant, trying to catch our breath.
He kisses my lips softly and I moan, but then the door opens, and Jagger turns, pulling himself out of me quicker than expected. A shadow slips inside quietly. Vinny.
Jagger’s whole body changes as he reaches down for my pants, handing them to me.
“Wrong room,” he growls as Vinny closes the door behind him.
I put my pants on, watching the scene unfold.
Vinny’s eyes flick towards me, then to Jagger, then back to me.
He notices everything. The way my fingers clutch at Jagger’s side, and the way Jagger looks like he’s ready to tear his spine out through his throat.
“We need to move,” he says, and Jagger lets out a humorless laugh.
“Do we?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Funny… looks like you came alone,” Jagger accuses, but Vinny’s gaze doesn’t shift.
“I did,” he says, and Jagger steps forward.
“Why?” he asks as the air tightens. I step away from the crate, but Jagger’s arm immediately moves back, keeping me behind him. Why do I like this? Vinny looks at me, not at Jagger.
“Room seven,” he states, and my stomach twists.
“What’s in room seven?” I ask, and he pauses. That’s how I know I won’t like it.
“Answers.”
We all stare at each other for a long moment. I don’t know what room seven is, and I'm terrified to find out what those answers are.