Jax moves. He doesn't offer me water. He steps into my personal space, invading the perimeter I usually guard with lethal precision. He smells like sweat and the rain that started falling as we left the Botanical Garden.
"Talk to me, Max," Jax says, his hand reaching out to touch my shoulder.
"No talking," I bark, my eyes finally snapping to his. "No data. No protocols. No Yorks. I need the Trauma Cowboy. Right now, Jax. I need you to break the circuit. I need to lose control, or I am going to explode."
Jax understands. He always understands. Normally, I am the one who needs the structure he provides, but tonight, the "Ice King" checks are bouncing, and I am overdrawn.
He doesn't lead me to the bed. He stays right there at the kitchen island, leaning back against the marble, his hands gripping the edge. He spreads his legs, a silent, daring invitation.
"Come get it, then," Jax challenges, his voice dropping to that rough, gravelly timbre that usually makes me check my pulse. "Shut it all off, Max."
I drop to my knees. The impact against the hardwood jars my spine, but I barely feel it. I fumble with his belt, my fingers shaking not with nerves, but with a kinetic energy that has nowhere to go. I yank his zipper down and free him, the scent of his skin instantly filling my nose—musk, antiseptic, and man.
I don't tease. I take him into my mouth, swallowing him whole. I need to silence the world, and this is the only way I know how. I bob my head, using my tongue to trace the veins, sucking hard enough to make his hips snap forward off the counter.
"Fuck... Max," Jax groans, his hands tangling in my hair, gripping tight. "Yeah. Just like that. Drown it out."
I use my teeth, just a graze, enough to make him hiss, before soothing it with the flat of my tongue. I work him with a desperate, rhythmic hunger, listening to the way his breathing fractures. He tastes like salt and life, and for a moment, the "Standard of Care" and Dr. Aris don't exist.
But it’s not enough. I need more friction. I need more mess.
I pull back, gasping for air, leaving him glistening and hard. Before he can recover, I stand up and grab his shoulder and hip. I spin him around with a force that surprises even me, slamming his chest down against the cold marble island. It’s forceful, bordering on rough, but Jax just lets out a breathless laugh of approval, melting into the submission.
"Rough day, huh?" Jax gasps, his cheek pressed to the stone.
I don't answer. I yank his pants and boxers down to his ankles, exposing him to the cool air of the kitchen. The sight of him—pale where the sun doesn't reach, waiting for me—wires straight into my brain.
I don't hesitate. I bend over him, spreading his cheeks withboth hands, and bury my face between his legs. I eat him out with a starving, eager intensity, my tongue driving deep, making him moan loudly in the empty apartment. I rim him until his legs are shaking, until he’s pushing back against my face, pleading.
"God, Max... please," he begs, his voice wrecked. "I need you inside. Now."
I pull back, my face wet, my senses reeling. I scan the counter. No lube. Just the expensive, imported olive oil Mother sent as a housewarming gift.
Perfect.
I grab the bottle, flip the spout, and pour it purely by feel. The green-gold liquid spills over his lower back and down the crack of his ass, coating my fingers as I reach for him.
"Olive oil?" Jax chokes out, shifting his hips as the cool liquid touches him.
"Viscosity is adequate," I grit out, using the slickness to slide two fingers inside him. He’s tight, hot, and ready. I work him open, adding a third finger, listening to the wet, slick sounds of the oil and flesh meeting. It’s messy. It’s unsterile. It’s chaotic.
I unbuckle my own pants, freeing myself, and press my front against his back. I’m shaking.
Jax looks back over his shoulder. His eyes are blown wide, dark with lust and a fierce, protective demand.
"Do it, Max," he commands, arching his back. "Take all that noise in your head and bury it in me."
I grip his hips, my fingers sliding on the oil before finding purchase on his skin. I line up and push into him, a long, smooth glide that feels like coming home.
"Jesus!" Jax cries out, his head falling forward onto his arms.
I don't hold back. I begin to move, snapping my hips against his with a bruising rhythm. The smell of the fruity oil mixes with our sweat and the lingering scent of floral perfume I’m trying to sweat out of my pores. I fuck him with everything I have, every thrust a rejection of the mask I’ve worn for thirty years.
"Yes," Jax hisses, pushing back to meet me, taking every inch deep inside. "Right there. Give it to me. Harder, Max."
I am lost in the sensation—the heat of him, the slide of the oil, the sound of skin slapping against skin. I am not the Ice King. I am just a man, drowning in the one person who makes sense.
The tension coils in my belly, tight and painful. I drive into him faster, harder, until the world narrows down to just this friction.
