Page 110 of Jax
Another kiss. Then another. Lower. Slower. Each one deliberate, burning down my abdomen in a trail of heat and hunger and awe. She wasn’t teasing or performing. She was offering.
“Stella.” Her name caught in my throat. “You don’t have to…”
“I know.” Her voice was calm. Certain. “I want to.”
That was what undid me. The restraint I’d mastered, the balance I lived by, cracked under the weight of her choice. I shifted onto my back, barely breathing as she moved. She kissed over my hipbone, lips soft but full of intent, dragging the blanket away as she went. My cock was already hard behind the restraining layers of my clothing, but she didn’t rush. Didn’t provoke. She worshipped, her hands mapping the shape of mewith reverence; thighs, knees, hips, each touch deliberate. Her fingers trembled as she unzipped my pants and slid them down over my hips, but her mouth didn’t. She parted her lips, leaned in, and when the heat of her tongue met the head of my cock, I cursed and bit down hard enough to taste blood.
“Jesus,” I breathed, head falling back, the word torn from somewhere deeper than breath. She moaned in response, not performative, not pretty. Just a soft, sin-drunk hum, like she was tasting something decadent and forbidden. And maybe she was. Maybe I was hers to consume. Her lips moved without any choreography. Her tongue slid beneath the shaft, traced the underside, circled the head, then drew me deeper, just enough to rip a groan from my chest that didn’t belong to someone in control.
I threaded my fingers through her hair. Her mouth was on me like it meant something. Like this was a gift, not a task. And it was. Her body, her mouth, her choice. It leveled me.
“Stella,” I rasped, the name catching on the raw edges of my breath. “You don’t have to…fuck…you feel like sin.”
She smiled against my skin. I felt it, smug and slow, silk-soft and devastating. And then she took me again.
“Please,” I gasped, the word breaking in half on its way out. “Please don’t stop.”
Her fingers gripped tighter on my thighs. Her rhythm deepened. This wasn’t teasing. This was a claiming. And I let her. Because in all the years I’d tied and touched and taken control, no one had worshipped me like this. No one had made me feel known beneath the skin. Her mouth gave thanks in a dialect I hadn’t realized I’d craved, and yet I understood every word.
It didn’t take long. It couldn’t have. Not with her tongue dragging fire across every nerve, her hand wrapped at the base while I fractured one breath at a time. My body bucked as Icame, cursing through clenched teeth, undone in a way I didn’t have language for. And she didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back. She swallowed me down like she knew exactly how to wreck a man like me.
When I surfaced, her cheek rested against my hip, one arm draped over my thigh like she’d dismantled me and was content to leave the wreckage intact. Her breath was steady. Measured. Like this hadn’t broken me. But it had. I reached for her and pulled her into my arms, my grip more desperate than I wanted to admit.
“Wicked girl,” I murmured into her hair. “You ruin me.”
She smiled against my chest, soft and quiet, and I let the shape of it stay, right over my heart. She didn’t just curl up into me. She melted, slow and deliberate, like gravity had finally chosen a side. Her cheek rested above my sternum, her leg tangled with mine, one arm draped across my waist in a touch that wasn’t clingy or cautious, just certain. Her body hadn’t collapsed. It had landed.
I traced slow circles over the small of her back beneath the edge of her bra, not a map, but a memory. Her skin was damp with sweat and salt and the scent of rope. Her hair spread like a wild halo across my collarbone. She smelled like the scene we’d survived. Like mine.
“You did so fucking good,” I whispered, and the hum that followed vibrated through my chest. She was surfacing in pieces, and I didn’t ask for more than she could give. I just held her. Let her find herself within the silence. Her fingers shifted across my ribs. A quiet claim. I dipped my head, lips brushing her temple.
“I’ve never seen anyone fight gravity with that much fire,” I murmured. “And still make it look like grace.”
She inhaled, shallow and featherlight. Her fingers resumed their path across my stomach, dragging heat in their wake.
“You make it easy,” she said softly, the words raw enough to cut. A softness she wasn’t used to giving.
“Easy isn’t the point.”
It came out sharper than I meant, but I didn’t take it back. She flinched, barely, but I felt it. A subtle hitch in her breath. A shift in the weight she pressed into me. She heard it. Not just the words. The intention behind them.
She looked up, blinking slowly, eyes open but unreadable.
“No?”
“I don’t want easy from you,” I said, hand sliding along her spine. “I want real. The version of you that doesn’t coat her trauma in charm, or shrink herself to make anyone else comfortable.” My thumb skimmed the base of her neck, that spot where tension always lived. “You’ve put on a really brave face for everyone here, considering what you went through. The mask is pretty airtight most of the time. That’s not weakness; it’s survival. But it’s the loneliest kind I’ve ever known.”
She blinked again, slow and deliberate, then tucked her face into my chest like the ceiling had started asking questions. I didn’t rush her. Just let the silence open wide, tracing her spine in steady rhythm. Her body shifted gradually, not from fatigue, but from something deeper. A soft return to wanting.
“I’ve had people hold me,” she whispered. “But no one’s ever made me feelheld. Not like this.”
The words landed, quiet and lethal. My hand stilled. I closed my eyes, swallowing hard. Most people think being held is about touch. But it’s not. It’s about being seen, and not flinched away from.
“Then I suppose I’m doing something right,” I said, kissing the top of her head.
She shifted again, fingers sliding higher across my chest, curling slightly like she didn’t know if she was allowed to want this much.
“I like this,” she said, so softly it ached.
