Page 93 of Jax

I reached up to rub my eyes clear, the wobbly vision disappearing as I looked up and saw that the expression of anger over his face had dispersed and a gentle, soft, and apologetic smile curved the corners of his lips.

“You can call me a dick, or an ass, or a man-whore,” he continued, shaking his head at me. “Because I am them. I’ll admit it. But one thing I’m not is a liar. And when I said I like you and I want this to work, I meant it.”

“You do?” I whispered, my head trying to break free of all the emotions swimming inside of my mind.

Jax leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to both of my wet cheeks before leaning up again to look down at me, this time without the smile. He was serious. “I do.”

“I’m sorry.” I took a deep, shaky breath and let it out in a slow sigh, my hands coming up to cover my face that I could feel was hot with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to doubt you, or anything like that. I just… I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s okay,” Jax chuckled, his grip unwinding from around my knees and dropping down to one side. “I’m actually relieved.”

“Relieved?” I choked, surprised. I propped myself up onto one side to look at the man flopped on the bed next to me. “Why?”

“I thought you weren’t jealous about mewhatsoever.” He smirked. “But now I see that’s not true.”

I couldn’t help it.

I smacked him.

“Ouch,” Jax whined. “What was that for?”

“You’re making fun of my fragile ego, you ass,” I growled, sitting up. “Besides, what else am I supposed to think when you go from model-hot blonde chicks with big ass tits to, well, this.” I gestured down to myself in my oversized cotton pajamas, and wild brown hair scattered around my shoulders like a rat’s nest. “I’m not exactly Miss America, you know?”

I jumped up from the bed at my confession, determined to let the remark pass, because even I knew how self-deprecating and weak it sounded. I wanted to wash my face and go to sleep for real this time. I was exhausted after that emotional rollercoaster.

I didn’t make it far though.

For the third time today, I felt hands come around my side, and it was barely a second before my head smacked against the back of the mattress, knocking the wind out of my chest. “Fuck,” I gasped. “Stop that!”

“You’ve run away from me once, Ronnie Marsh,” Jax purred. “I’m not letting you run away again.”

“Funny,” I quipped. “I distinctly remember you being the one that ran away from me, remember?”

“Your memory must be fuzzy.” Jax stood tall and towering above my prone form on the bed, his hands going down to the floor to pick something up.

I watched like a transfixed fly at those electric lights as his hands rose back above the bed and belt in hand.

“W-what are you doing?” I stuttered, my eyes unable to decide if they wanted look at his face or his hands.

“You wanted to know why I didn’t tie you up, right?”

I gulped. “Yes?”

He held the belt at the buckle, the metal swinging off his finger as he lifted it high into the air. The other end of the leather just grazed the bed sheets between my thighs as he dangled it above me.

My mouth felt dry in anticipation or nervousness, I didn’t know. I jerked at the soft graze of it against my thigh and felt my breath jump from my lips.

Jax smiled.

I held my breath as it slid just above the cotton pajamas, the thin material not protecting me in the slightest from its tingling touch. It traveled across my hip, and even though it barely touched me, I felt pinned to the bed, a heavy, overwhelming weight holding me against the sheets.

When it reached the valley of my breasts, I became all too aware of the exposed skin of my collarbone and breastbone. My breath quickened as it brushed the edge of the material, the anticipation of its feeling on my skin killing me slowly.

“Jax,” I whimpered, unsure whether I wanted him to stop or keep going.

It didn’t matter in the end.

The buckle clattered next to my face, jerking me from my hold on the bed.

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