Chapter Twenty-Seven #3
His hands grip her hips, pulling her onto him with the kind of force she enjoys.
He drags a rough hand across her ass, pressing his fingers into her flesh until the pressure is almost bruising.
“Yes,” she moans, settling into the rhythm of him. Settling into him.
So he does as she asked—he fucks her.
“You feel so fucking good, Jaxxy,” he praises, pulling a hand from her hip and pushing it firmly into her back, forcing her chest down to the bed and her ass even higher.
A moan tears free from her throat, unbidden and raw.
She’s enjoying herself.
She sweeps a hand between her legs, finding her clit.
She starts to move more frantically, pushing her hips back into him with a frenzied pace.
“Fuck me harder, Ronyn,” she demands, her tone absolute.
So he does.
He drives his hips forward, harder.
Again.
Again.
Jax pulls her hand from her clit, and slaps it against the bed with a frustrated grunt.
He’s failing.
He’s never left a lover displeased.
Never had any complaints he hasn’t swiftly rectified.
But this?
This was a godsdamned puzzle.
“What is it, Jaxxy?” he forces out, instilling every syllable with patience he doesn’t feel.
She pushes her chest from the bed. “You changed your rhythm. I lost it. I was close, and then I lost it.”
Anger rises sharp and hot up his spine.
“Darling, you asked me to go harder. I did. I’m trying to give you what you want. What you need,” he offers, schooling his features into what he hopes resembles understanding.
But Jax scoffs. “Well, you’re failing.”
The words are flat. Hollow. But they hit something real.
Surprise flickers in Ronyn’s chest. Not because she’s being undeservedly harsh—no, that was normal—but because she’s directing it with such ire at him. The one person who has stayed. Who has overlooked the taunts, the sarcasm, the poor treatment she throws at him.
Jax has always been playful in her taunts. Never callous. At least, not with him. But his surprise twists.
“You know, Jax, I have actually fucked before, contrary to your obvious opinion. Perhaps if I wasn’t being given such constant instruction, I might be able to actually do something you like,” he tries to snap the words, but they come out sad. Hurt.
Jax flinches. Barely, but it’s there.
“Just lie down, let me get on top,” she says, defeated.
Ronyn’s chest aches, but he can’t let this be how it goes. After a decade of darkness, Jax needs light. And he’s determined to give it to her. So he performs. Just like he always does when pain threatens connection.
“I’d argue, but this feels suspiciously like winning,” he jests, and her mouth quirks up at the corners.
Back to rule number two: Make her laugh.
He lies down, head brushing against the headboard.
“Right,” he announces. “Time to give little Tarrakai and me a show. He does like to be mounted.”
The vessel does not speak on my behalf. Tarrakai’s rich grumble floods Ronyn’s mind.
He smirks. “Tarrakai requests more mounting, actually. Quite enjoys it,” Ronyn says with a wink.
An animalistic rumble fills his mind, but Ronyn sends back a laugh—banter between friends.
Jax huffs an undeniable laugh. “You haven’t even made me come and you’re already insufferable.”
Good. She’s back.
Jax straddles him, leaning forward to align him at her entrance.
Her breasts hang forward, deep-brown eyes locked on his, raven hair falling forward and bracketing his face—the perfect view before his eyes.
She’s so fucking beautiful.
Not just the stunning form of the woman before him—all honed curves and honeyed hips—but the woman beneath it.
He can see her.
The woman who isn’t dictated by pain.
Who doesn’t weaponize her wounds.
Who doesn’t wield words like weapons.
Who allows herself to laugh. To live.
But holy fucking Stars she makes him work for it.
Jax takes him, slowly sinking onto his cock like she’s feeling the pleasure of every inch of him.
“I lied earlier,” she whispers conspiratorially.
Ronyn lifts his brows in question.
“It’s not moderate,” she moans in a breathy pant. “It’s fucking perfect.”
Shock.
That’s what he feels. Absolute shock.
Is this the first time she’s complimented him?
Tarrakai purrs his approval through Ronyn’s mind.
The fucking ego on this dragon.
Jax’s movements interrupt his thoughts—and she grinds.
Slow, steady, rhythmic.
Her hips move like a wave: rolling forward, pulling back, her clit grinding against him, chasing more friction.
Breaths move through her in the same motion—a hypnotic wave.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Ronyn tries to move his hips to deepen her pleasure, to touch her breasts, but her hand slams into his chest, the other swatting his hand away. “Don’t,” she instructs, eyes closed in pleasure. “Don’t move. Just let me ride.”
Rejection stings like salt in a fresh cut.
Don’t move.
Don’t participate.
Her hands work her clit.
Her head falls back in pleasure, taking him deep.
She grinds against him, her breath rising and falling in the same pattern he’s seen in other lovers.
The one that signals release approaching.
He doesn’t move. Just lies there. As if he’s not part of whatever she’s experiencing.
A moan tears from her throat. Her body shudders atop him, her climax rippling through her body with a powerful surge. Her groan fills the space—all relief and ragged.
But Ronyn? He feels nothing.
No.
He feels hollow.
Empty.
So thoroughly occupied, yet so completely alone.
Jax falls to the side, skin slick with sweat, hair tangled and unruly.
She pants, chest heaving from exertion.
Heartbeats pass with the only sound that of her breathing.
Ronyn doesn’t move.
He can’t.
The room goes quiet in that strange, heavy way it does when something intense has just ended.
Not peaceful.
Not soft.
Just… still.
Ronyn doesn’t move at first.
He’s lying beside her, breathing unevenly, watching the slow way her body settles—the way she closes herself back up like a door locking from the inside.
She doesn’t look at him.
Doesn’t reach for him.
Doesn’t say anything.
Just stares at the ceiling like she did something alone.
Because she did.
A long moment passes.
Then another.
Ronyn lets out a short breath through his nose. Not a laugh or a joke. Just air leaving a body that suddenly feels… unnecessary.
“… You done?”
Jax glances at him, mildly irritated—like the question itself is inconvenient.
“I didn’t realize I owed you a report,” she says dismissively.
He nods slowly.
Once.
Looks down at his hands.
Then back at her.
His face has gone still. Not wounded exactly, just… closed.
“You hurt me, Jax. You didn’t need me.”
Not a question.
A statement.
Jax rolls onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. “You weren’t following instructions,” she says, tone edged with mockery. “I needed the release, and that was the quickest way to get there.”
That lands. He actually flinches—small, almost invisible—but she sees it. He can see it in her eyes.
And instead of softening…
She pulls out her claws, and sharpens.
Because softness is where danger lives.
“I didn’t realize we were in a fucking rush, Jax. And I didn’t realize that you were the only person that mattered.”
She rolls her eyes as if he’s being petulant.
“How am I meant to learn your body if you won’t let me? I was right there, Jax. Trying to give to you.”
Still calm.
Too calm.
“You wouldn’t even let me be part of it. I’m not an observer, I’m your fucking lover.”
Cruelty twists her face, her body hardens into an impenetrable wall.
“You weren’t doing it properly,” she says, but the words lack her usual bite. No, this time, she sounds empty.
Ronyn barks a humorless laugh. “How the fuck could I do anything properly, Jax, when you’re instructing me every other heartbeat and telling me I’m fucking useless in the moments between?”
The words lash like a whip cracking the air.
“I won’t apologize for having preferences,” she states coldly.
He groans in frustration. “Jax, I will accommodate every preference you have. I will turn myself inside out to please you, to pleasure you, to give to you. But I will not tolerate being used and treated like I’m not present while you’re fucking me!”
She sucks in a sharp breath, taken aback by his directness.
But she digs in her claws.
She doesn’t speak. Not yet.
She’s waiting to strike.
Silence fills the room again.
But now it hums.
Ronyn lets out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his jaw. When he speaks again, the humor is gone. Completely gone. And that is new.
“You don’t take anything from anyone unless you control every moment of it.”
Jax’s eyes flick up sharply.
There it is.
Contact.
“Yeah, well, you joke through everything because if nothing is serious, nothing can hurt you.”
He goes very still.
But it doesn’t hit.
“You’re wrong—I laugh because in a world that wants us dark and despondent, joy is defiance.”
He finally meets her eyes fully now.
“I’m not joking now.”
No deflection.
No charm.
No twisting hurt into humor.
Just truth.
She scoffs. “You perform, Ronyn! Nobody laughs that much unless they’re trying to outrun something,” she stabs a finger in his direction. “Not in Aevryn. Not now. Who the fuck are you to question who I’m being when you can’t even be yourself?”
The words land like a blow.
He shakes his head. “At least my performance doesn’t hurt people, Jax. Can you say the same for your act? The one where you hurt everyone so they hate you as much as you hate yourself.”
Jax’s face falls. No more scowl. No bared teeth. Just stillness.
But Ronyn isn’t done.