Page 67 of Jax
My voice caught, but I found it. “More than okay.”
That was the last bit of permission we both needed.
He unhooked the clasp with one hand, fluid and unfussy, and I shrugged the straps down my arms, the fabric falling away like a secret I no longer needed to keep.
The way he looked at me, like I was art, stole my breath.
“God, Stella,” he whispered. “You’re… stunning.”
I reached for him, fingers sliding under his shirt now, eager for skin, for contact, for the grounding heat of his body against mine.
He pulled the shirt off in one slow motion, revealing a chest and shoulders carved in quiet strength, a tattoo curling just under his collarbone, something geometric and sharp. It suited him.
I ran my hands over the planes of his chest, memorizing him by touch, the way he’d done to me. And when I leaned in to kiss the hollow between his collarbones, his breath stuttered.
“You don’t have to hold back,” I murmured against his skin.
His hands framed my face again, tilting it up so he could see me. “I’m not holding back,” he said. “I’m making this last.”
Then he kissed me again. This time with less reverence, and more need. His mouth moved over mine with purpose now, like he’d tasted permission and was starving for more.
I let him push me gently onto my back, let him climb over me, his weight careful, never crushing. One of his hands slid down my side, tracing the curve of my waist, the dip of my hip, the arch of my thigh.
My breath caught again, this time from the intimacy of it. The care.
When his fingers brushed the waistband of my leggings, he paused. “Still green?”
“Still green.”
He peeled the fabric from my legs like he was unwrapping something fragile, his mouth trailing after once more—inside my knee, the curve of my thigh, the soft swell of my hip. Everykiss felt like reverence. Every breath lit something quiet and long buried.
Without ceremony, he removed the rest of his clothes, his gaze steady, his silence intact. Then he came back to me, bracing on one arm while the other swept my hair from my face, his thumb stroking my cheek like I was something sacred.
“Are you entirely certain you want this?” he asked, his voice low and worn.
“Yes,” I said, the word catching in my throat. “Please.”
That was all the permission he needed. His mouth came down onto one nipple, drawing a breathy moan from me. He kissed his way down my body, making me writhe and twitch with each delicate touch, until his mouth found my lower lips, already slick with need. I felt more than heard a low hum of approval as he drew his tongue along my slit.
“Shit, yes please Jax. I need you. I need—ahh!” I gasped as his tongue plunged between my folds and found my clit. He lapped me up like a starving man, catapulting me towards an orgasm, but just before I came, his mouth left me. I moaned and looked down at him with dazed confusion. He gave a small smile and climbed back up my body until his cock rested against my mound.
“Trust me, wicked girl. You will cum when I allow it. Right now, I just want you tofeel.” He aligned himself at my entrance, and then gathered up both of my hands and pinned them above my head. He gazed down at me with an intensity that took my breath away.
“Feel, Stella.”
He entered me in one slow, anchoring thrust, and I broke. Not from pain, but from the unbearable gentleness of it. The sound that tore out of me wasn’t a moan. It was something rawer. Something finally seen.
He held me there, forehead pressed to mine, as if giving me one last chance to tell him no. I didn’t. I couldn’t. My legs tightened around his hips, pulling him deeper, desperate to feel all of him.
When he moved, it was with deliberate care. Slow strokes, steady and grounding, filling me in a way that felt like possession. His rhythm didn’t rush; it coaxed. It drew the ache out of me one trembling breath at a time, every roll of his hips reminding me I wasn’t bracing anymore. I was choosing.
His hands mapped me with reverence—the curve of my ribs, the arch of my thigh, the line of my jaw—like he was memorizing terrain he wanted to protect, not conquer. His lips found me in fragments: my temple, my cheek, my throat, the corner of my mouth, each kiss a vow threaded into skin.
“Jax,” I whispered, broken and certain all at once.
“I’ve got you,” he breathed, voice rough with restraint. He punctuated it with a thrust that made my body arch into his, a plea without words.
The pressure built faster than I expected, need spiraling from the steady drag of him inside me, from the way his thumb stroked over my hip in sync with every stroke. No urgency. No tearing hunger. Just the kind of inevitability that couldn’t be held back.
