Page 88 of Jax
I gasped, sharp and startled, already halfway ruined from the weight of his voice and the unbearable stillness. I tried to grind against him, shameless and wild now, but he held steady. That control wasn’t stillness. It was dominance honed to silence.
“I can feel how much you want it,” he whispered, pressing a kiss just beneath my ear. “But I want to hear it.”
Then he stepped back. Not far. Just enough to let the absence sting. His mouth drifted lower, grazing my throat, his lips finding the curve of my neck with a kiss that burned. Then came the lick—slow, deliberate—and the bite that followed made my knees collapse.
A sound tore from me, ragged and real.
One hand slipped beneath the band of my bra, his finger hooking inside—not tugging, not testing. Just there. Waiting.
His gaze held mine as if nothing else existed. “Say it. Tell me you want this.”
“I want it,” I rasped, the words scraped raw by how deeply I meant them.
His eyes flared darker.
“Tell me you want to be mine tonight, even knowing you can leave anytime.”
There was no pressure. No weight. Just a door wide open, and the promise that staying would never mean forgetting I could choose.
“I want you,” I said, louder now. “I want all of it.”
His breath hitched, barely, but it was enough. Enough to know he wasn’t unaffected. Enough to feed the fire that hadbeen burning in my belly since the moment he first looked at me like I was a puzzle he ached to solve.
“Please,” I added, voice frayed at the edges. “Touch me.Show me.”
He didn’t answer. Not with words.
His mouth crashed into mine, all heat and hunger and ruin. His hands slid up my sides, gripping my waist as he pulled me in like he needed to consume every breath I had. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was desperate and perfect and filthy, and I kissed him back with the kind of hunger that could set a world on fire.
My hands, still bound in paper and tape, pressed to his chest, useless but burning. I didn’t want to break them. I wanted to feel every second of this exactly as he gave it. He tasted like want, like heat, like something holy wrapped in hunger.
When he pulled back, I was panting. Drenched. Floating.
“You’re fucking breathtaking when you beg,” he growled, his thumb slipping under the waistband of my panties, barely grazing skin. Then he dropped to his knees, and this time, he didn’t ask.
He didn’t tear. Didn’t rush. He moved like patience was a blade, and I was something worth carving. His hands slid up my thighs, slow and steady, anchoring me to the moment before pausing just beneath the hem of my panties. The air thickened. My skin vibrated with anticipation. When he curled his fingers at my waistband and peeled the fabric down, it didn’t feel like being stripped. It felt like being unwrapped. Reverently exposed. His breath landed against bare skin in a hush that stole my breath in return.
Jax looked up, eyes catching the dim light like something feral but focused. “You’re soaked,” he murmured, not like a tease or a taunt, but like a discovery, a reward. “You want this more than you want to breathe.”
I couldn’t speak. My throat was locked tight, every nerve ending trained on his fingers, his mouth, the pressure building under my ribs.
He pressed a kiss just above the paper still hugging my waist. “Do you know what this does to me?” he asked against my skin, voice thick, breaking now with want. “Knowing you could stop me. Knowing youwon’t.”
His mouth moved down in slow, devastating increments. Open kisses along my stomach. A drag of his teeth over my hip. A lick just beside where I needed it most. He exhaled, and my whole body shivered as his breath ghosted across my slick heat.
“You want to be wrecked, don’t you?” he murmured. “But only if it’s on your terms.”
His tongue flicked against the crease of my thigh, and my legs almost fully buckled. His hands came up to brace me—not holding me down, not restraining, justsupporting, like he knew my body would betray me before my mind ever would.
“You want to fall apart,” he said, kissing my skin like it was sacred, “but you want tochoosethe moment. The man. The hands that break you open.”
My hands fisted in the paper at my wrists, trembling, but I didn’t tear them. Didn’t flinch. The control was mine, but he was holding the match, and I was made of gasoline.
“Tell me what you feel,” he whispered, voice brushing heat against skin. “Tell me what it means to stay.”
I opened my mouth, but no words came at first, just breath, just need, curling up from my core. Finally, I found it. “It makes me ache.”
His groan vibrated through my thighs. “Good girl.” And then finally, he moved.
