We’ve done a lot together since our first time. We’ve experimented with things, but we’ve never gone that far, not fully. I know he wants it, and right now he wouldn’t even need to ask. I’m so into whatever he’s doing to me, I’d just fold and beg.
“We have no time right now, so my finger’s gonna have to do,” he says, and then he pushes. The blunt pressure is a shock, a heat that borders on pain as he works his finger inside, inch by slow inch. I hiss, and he stills. “Relax,” he rasps, then I feel it—awarm wetness as he spits on my ass.But now I know, this isn’t just spit.
A deep, tingling heat spreads through me. The burn instantly vanishing, the ache melting away as the area gets impossibly slick. “I take care of what’s mine, Sisk,” he growls, rubbing it in slowly. “And your ass is all mine.” He spits again, and the slick heat lets him push deeper, my body accepting him now.
The dual sensation is overwhelming—a fullness so complete it’s almost too much. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can only feel as he finally sinks his finger in to the knuckle. My body clamps down around him, a helpless, convulsive spasm, and pleasure shatters through me.
I’m at my highest point, still trembling, but he doesn’t give me a second to calm down. He rams into me, one brutal thrust after another. Each time he buries himself to the hilt, it forces another strained cry from my throat, a fresh wave of pleasure-pain crashing through my already oversensitive body.
He’s chasing his own end now, using me, and the thought only makes me clench around him harder. I don’t know what’s better—feeling him lose control because of me, or him making me lose it myself. His whole body goes rigid. A guttural groan tears from his chest as he comes inside me.
He pulls away with a strangled breath, and the silence is broken by a loud clatter from the other room, a reminder that O is waiting. We both look toward the door, then back at each other, and start moving, grabbing our clothes.
My jeans are mostly fine, but when Jax finds his, he holds them up. The denim is shredded at the knee, dark and stiff with blood. “You can’t wear these,” I say, my voice still raspy. “They’re soaked in blood.”
He sighs. “Asked O for a pair. The old bastard’s built like a fucking tree trunk.” He glances down at his ruined jeans, then at me.
I look at him. “Well… pants ARE kinda optional.”
He gives me that look. The one that says he’s already tired of my shit.
I laugh.
“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging the bloody jeans on. “We’re too old to be sneaking around like horny teenagers again.”
I scramble for my shoes. “You have learned a thing or two since then,” I wink.
“Funny. I remember you being the one who couldn’t keep your hands to yourself back then too.”
I laugh again, tugging the large shirt into place. “I need a shower so bad.”
“No argument there.”
“Hey!” I snap, grabbing the nearest thing—a balled-up sock from the floor—and chucking it at his head.
He catches it without looking, smirking.
“You reek too, just so we’re clear,” I say.
I grab the pillow, aiming better this time, but it freezes mid-air just before smacking him in the chest. He snorts, not even bothering to look at me. “Nice try.” He tugs O’s too-small shirt over his head, the fabric stretching tight across his shoulders. “Let’s go home.”
The word surprises me.Home.He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. A part of me wants to see if Jax is even capable of snuggling, watching bad TV, and eating ice cream straight from the carton. I’m genuinely curious what his most mundane, relaxed self looks like. But then guilt crashes the party. I glance toward the door, hearing O banging on something in the other room. “We can’t just bolt,” I say. “Let’s at least get coffee with him. He’s probably lonely.”
Jax snorts. “He’d kill you for saying that.”
“Which means it’s true.”
He sighs, shoving his feet into his boots. “Fine.”
We step out into the shop a minute later, trying to look like two normal people who didn’t just almost break the bed—or each other.
O is hunched over the workbench, loupe pressed into one eye, tiny screwdriver in hand. He’s got an old watch cracked open in front of him, gears laid out on a square of velvet.
I grab a mug and lean against the counter.
“You two done hiding?” O asks.
Jax scratches the back of his neck. “We weren’t hiding.”
