Chapter 59
Fifty-Nine
NOW | JAX
She walks around the bar like there’s nothing to be explained, not even flinching at my tone as she slides behind it and reaches for a bottle like this is just another night.
She settles onto the counter, one leg crossing slowly over the other with a glass of whiskey acting as though her day was a million times rougher than mine. She sips casually, and I can't stop thinking about the last hour I spent imagining pulling her body out of a fucking alley.
She glances up over the rim of the glass. “Don’t,” she warns.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m your responsibility,” she says calmly. “Or worse—like I’m one of those girls you think you can manage.”
I stare at her.
“Excuse me?”
Her mouth tilts faintly. “You think I haven’t noticed? Since the day we met, women throw themselves at you and you pretend you don’t see it. Vipers.”
A harsh, humorless laugh almost escapes me. “You have got to be fucking kidding me. We are not doing this tonight.”
Her brow lifts slightly. “That tone,” she says. “Lose it.”
My jaw tightens. I breathe in slowly because she has no idea of what I almost did today. No idea how close I am to coming apart standing four feet from her.
She swings her foot lightly against the cabinet like none of this matters. “So,” she says, casual again. “Did you do it?”
I start stacking chairs. “Yeah.” The word comes out rough.
Her expression shifts to concern. “Did it hurt?”
“No.” I toss the rag aside. “Healed already.”
Her eyes narrow—understanding exactly what that means.
“I could barely think today,” she says quieter now. “I just kept dancing. Didn’t want to think about it. Are you sad? Because it’s okay to be sad.” She looks down at her glass. “I think I am.”
“I’m fine.”
She pours herself another inch of whiskey.
My eyes lower to her legs again, to the bruises, to the way she sits here like danger doesn’t exist.
I turn back to closing duties, anything to keep moving, to stop thinking about how close she is, how good she smells, how my body still hasn’t calmed the fuck down, how badly I want to lose control on her.
“Can you stop doing that,” she says softly, “and come here?”
I don’t look at her. “Let me finish.”
“Jax,” she says, softer this time.
She slides off the counter and steps closer, barefoot now, hoodie slipping down one shoulder. “I know today wasn’t easy,” she says. “You didn’t have to do that alone.”
My hands stay planted on the bar, because if I turn around right now I’m not stopping at talking. And I’m not ready to trust myself around her.
“I was worried sick about you,” I grind out.
“Were you?” she asks, already teasing again as her hand slides slowly up my back.
“Yes.”
“Train was late,” she says lightly. “Someone fell, or jumped. Hard to tell anymore.”
My body tightens as I turn to look at her. “I was about five minutes away from tearing this city apart looking for you.”
She smiles and leans in, pressing a quick kiss to my mouth.
“So protective,” she teases. “I like it.”
She turns, peeling the hoodie off and letting it fall to the floor like gravity stopped applying to her entirely.
The leotard isn’t just clinging to her; it’s a goddamn declaration. Every line, every curve, is a provocation painted in black, and it’s taking every shred of my control not to peel it off her with my teeth.
My grip on the counter is a vise. “You need to start wearing pants,” I grit out.
She glances back, a flick of dark hair over her shoulder. “Or what?” She shifts her stance, angling her body. It’s an invitation to lose my mind, and fuck, I’m close.
“Or I start solving that problem myself,” I say, my voice devoid of warmth. “And you’re not gonna like how little freedom comes with that.”
She grins. “Are we talking about tying me up… or just adding a few more bruises to the collection?”
The heat hits my groin instantly, a physical slap of arousal. She’s fucking impossible tonight.
I turn away again, grabbing bottles, finishing closing duties that absolutely do not need finishing.
Anything to keep distance. Anything to keep these fucking hands away from her, to stop the urge to pull her into a chair and make her understand the severity of everything.
If she thinks I’m kidding, she hasn’t been paying attention.
The tar hums low beneath my skin—restless, awake, watching, waiting, wanting me to turn around and show her exactly who the fuck is in charge.
I cap another bottle.
Behind me, she moves to the register, pulling out the worn notebook I keep tucked beneath the drawer. The rustle of pages is unnaturally loud in the quiet.
“I dreamt of a mouth that spoke in silk,” she reads softly,
“but bit like glass.
A body colored by bruises,
and the audacity to make it art.”
My shoulders lock. “Those are private, you know,” I say, taking a slow drink just to give my hands something to do. Something that isn’t her.
“When did you write this one?” she asks, ignoring me completely.
I don’t turn. “Long time ago.”
She goes quiet. “That time… we—”
“The night on the bike,” I cut in, my voice rough.
She’s looking down at her legs. “You were so mad you left marks then, too.”
“I was pissed at myself,” I mutter. “For doing that.”
Her eyes lift slowly. “I asked for it.”
She hops up onto the counter, and sits with her knees slightly parted, the black fabric of the leotard stretching tight. It makes breathing inconvenient. It makes thinking impossible.
“Come here,” she says.
I grab another bottle instead. Wipe a spot already clean. “Let me finish closing. I’m almost done.”
She sighs then shifts again.
And fuck. A perfect fucking view of her pussy. Even wrapped in that tight black fabric, I can see everything. The outline. The swell. The obscene little curve where I know she’s slick and waiting.
She knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Just this once?” she asks lightly.
“What.”
Her gaze drifts over me.
She spreads her knees just a fraction wider.
“Use your magic,” she whispers. “Get it done, then come collect the reward for surviving such a fucked-up day.”
“Sisk—”
I bite out her name but she’s already tugging the leotard aside—fingers slipping where only mine should ever be.
She tips her head toward my hands, eyes half-lidded, glazed with lust and dare.
“Use it,” she says softly.
“It shouldn’t be used,” I grit out, the last of my resistance crumbling.
She smiles, a slow, victorious curve of her lips. “Fine,” she says. “I’ll do it myself.” Her fingers move to her clit.
Yeah, not a fucking chance.
The last thread of my self-control snaps clean in half.
I flick my fingers. The mop rips itself upright, plunging into the bucket with a violent splash.
Chairs scrape and slam themselves into stacks on the tables.
The register drawer slams shut with a metallic ding, coins rattling inside.
The lights dip low, bathing the room in a golden, intimate glow.
The entire bar bends to my will, whether I meant for it to or not.
Magic spills out of me now, fast and easy. Obedient, as if it’s been waiting for this permission.
I don’t remember deciding to move. One second I’m behind the bar. The next I’m in front of her, hands braced on either side of her thighs. The tar hums under my skin, triumphant, because this is exactly what it wants: me, losing control.
“All that training better have paid off,” I drawl. “Stretch for me. Let me see how far those legs really go.”
She barely has time to react before I drag her to the edge of the counter and bury my face between her thighs.
Her scent hitting me hard enough to knock thought clean out of my skull.
My tongue is hungry. I lick her clit hard, fast, starving for the taste of her, then pull it into my mouth, biting down just enough to make her cry out.
“Jax—yes—like that!” she cries, hips bucking.
I bite into the soft skin of her inner thigh, where it meets the muscle.
She cries out again, a sound of pure pleasure tangled with the biting edge of pain.
I don’t ease up. I slide two fingers inside her, finding her soaked and more than ready.
I curl them, hitting that spot that makes her entire body jolt, and I work her over, fucking her with my hand while my mouth devours her.
“You’re mine. Mine. You hear me?” I growl against her skin, the magic thrumming in my veins.
“These legs are mine to spread, to hold open. They part for me and only me.” My magic coils around my fingers, an invisible force that I can feel amplifying every touch inside her.
It’s not just flesh I’m stroking anymore; it’s her, and the magic, and me, all blurring into one dangerous point of pressure.
Her hands fist in my hair, dragging me closer as her body tightens, trembling violently on the edge of release.
I add a third finger, and the magic follows, a phantom fourth and fifth stretching her wider than physically possible, claiming her, feeling her walls clench around the impossible intrusion.
“Look at me,” I command, lifting my head just enough to meet her wild, dazed gaze. “I want to watch you fall apart.”
“Jax…” she whimpers, her voice breaking.
My control is fraying. The magic isn’t just a tool anymore; it’s a hunger, a primal urge to see how far she can bend, how deep I can reach.
It would be so easy to go too far. The magic inside her pulses with my words, pushing deeper, searching for a barrier, a limit.
I could try to reach her cervix… to feel that final gate clench around me.
I can feel the magic straining, wanting to elongate, to push past all reason.
“One wrong thought, one flicker of lost control, and I’d be inside you in a way no one was ever meant to be. I’d break you from the inside out just to feel it.”
The image is terrifyingly vivid, and my magic surges in response, making her cry out as the pressure intensifies.
“Tell me to stop,” I grit out, my whole body shaking with the effort of holding back the tide. “Because I don’t think I can.”
“Not until I say scotch,” she reminds me, her voice a ragged challenge between moans.