"No eloping," Max whispers. "We have the venue. We have the chocolate cake. We have the pineapple pizza."
"We do," I agree.
"I don't want to wait," Max says, his voice dropping. "I want to be your husband. I want the legal binding. I want the contract. But right now... Jackson, the noise. It’s very loud. My head is... static."
"I know," I soothe him, running my hands down his back. "I’ve got you."
"I need you to take the lead," Max says, clutching my shirt. "I need... I need to stop making decisions. I need to stop calculating. Ground me, Jax. Please."
I understand. This is our dynamic. Max runs the world outside these walls—he manages the hospital, the Foundation, the family drama. But in here? In the dark? He needs to surrender. He needs me to take the wheel so he can finally stop driving.
"Okay," I whisper, my voice dropping an octave. "I’ve got you. No decisions. Just us."
I kiss him. It’s not a gentle, comforting kiss. I take his mouth, hard, claiming him, tasting the desperation on his tongue. He makes a low sound in his throat and melts against me, his hands gripping my shoulders like I’m the only thing keeping him upright.
I break the kiss and grab his hand, pulling him toward the bedroom. He follows blindly, stumbling a little, his eyes blown wide and dark.
In the bedroom, I don't turn on the lights. The city glow is enough. I push him back until his legs hit the mattress, and I press him down. Max collapses onto the bed, looking up at me with a mix of exhaustion and raw want.
"Stay there," I command softly.
I crawl over him, straddling his hips. I reach down and undo his bow tie, tossing it onto the floor. I unbutton his shirt, my fingers moving efficiently, exposing the pale skin of his chest.I lean down and press a kiss to his sternum, right over his beating heart.
"You’re safe here," I murmur against his skin. "You don't have to be the genius here. You don't have to be the York. You’re just mine."
Max shudders, his head falling back against the pillows. "Yours," he whispers. "Make it quiet, Jax."
I strip him out of his clothes, tossing the expensive suit aside like it’s nothing. When he’s bare, I take a moment just to look at him. He’s beautiful—lean muscle and sharp angles, usually so composed, but now flushed and open, waiting for me.
I strip off my own clothes, kicking my boxers away. I grab the lube from the nightstand—Max always ensures it’s stocked, organized, and within reach—and coat my fingers.
"Relax," I whisper, sliding a hand between his thighs.
Max gasps, his hips bucking instinctively. I shush him, kissing him deeply to stifle the sound, my tongue tangling with his as I begin to prep him. He’s tight, wound up from the stress, but he trusts me. He lets me work him open, his breath coming in short, sharp pants against my mouth.
"Jax," he moans, his hands scrabbling at my back, nails digging in. "Please. Now. I need?—"
"I know what you need," I growl.
I position myself between his legs, lifting his hips. I line up and push into him, slow and steady. Max cries out, his head throwing back, his back arching off the mattress. I hold him there, letting him adjust, letting him feel the fullness of me.
"Look at me," I order.
Max opens his eyes. They are glassy, wrecked, and completely focused on me.
"I’m right here," I say, starting to move. "I’m not going anywhere."
I set a hard, punishing rhythm, driving into him with everything I have. Max meets me snap for snap, his legs wrappingaround my waist, pulling me deeper. It’s messy and desperate. It’s the kind of sex that exorcises ghosts.
Every thrust shakes the "Ice King" persona loose. He’s not calculating angles or probabilities now. He’s just feeling. He’s moaning my name, broken and needy, his hands roaming over my sweat-slicked skin.
"That’s it," I praise him, leaning down to bite the sensitive cord of his neck. "Let go, Max. Give it to me."
"Jax,please," he begs, his voice high and tight. "I’m close. I’m?—"
"Go," I tell him, picking up the pace, hitting that spot inside him that I know makes his brain shut off completely. "Let go."
He shatters. It’s visceral. He cries out, his body seizing up, clamping down around me so hard it nearly sends me over the edge right then and there. I ride out his orgasm, feeling him unravel beneath me, and then I let myself go, pouring everything I have into him with a few final, deep thrusts.
