“Jax—”
“Yeah,” he says, already moving, already there.
He strips off my shirt, then his. Skin on skin, the friction dragging a gasp from my throat. His hands are everywhere—rough palms skating over my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts, fingers digging into my hips. He doesn’t hesitate. That feral certainty snaps the last of my control.
“Jax,” I breathe. It’s a plea, a prayer, a surrender.
His fingers curl into the waistband of my jeans, tugging them down along with my panties in one smooth pull. I lift my hips for him before I can think better of it, and the ease of it sends heat rushing into my face.
I’m not supposed to be this easy to read.
I’ve spent months embedded with his team, learning how to hold my own in locker rooms and press scrums, on buses thick with sweat and adrenaline, in hotel lobbies after ugly losses. Before that, I learned it from my father — base to base, school to school, always the new girl, always the one who knew better than to flinch first.
Keep your chin up. Keep your voice steady. Never let them see what gets to you.
But he sees anyway.
He settles between my thighs with that same infuriating patience he has in goal, broad and calm and impossible to move. Like he can wait me out all night if he has to. Like every little reaction I try to hide is already his.
He doesn’t rush.
His gaze drags over me, dark and intent, and I feel myself go still beneath it. Not scared. Never that. Just exposed in a way I don’t know how to defend against.
My fingers curl into the sheets. My knees twitch like I might close them, but his hands settle on my thighs, warm and steady.
Not forcing.
Just holding.
His mouth curves, barely, like he can feel the fight in me and likes it.
“Look at you,” he growls. “All that fight, and you’re still so damn beautiful.”
And because he says it like he means it — like he sees past the sharp tongue, the press badge, the armor I’ve spent years perfecting — my breath catches.
For once, I don’t have a comeback.
He lowers his head, his breath ghosting over my clit before his tongue laps at me. I cry out, my back arching. He eats me like he hasn’t eaten in weeks, like I’m the only thing that can satisfy him. His tongue is relentless, flattening against my slit, circling my stiff clit, then dipping inside to fuck me with his tongue.
My hands fly to his hair, tangling in the short strands, holding him against me. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. All my thoughts dissolve under the onslaught of sensation. There’s only his mouth, his hands, the heat building low in my belly, threatening to break me apart.
He teases my entrance before sliding one finger inside, then another, easing me open as he curls them upward, searching until he finds the spot that makes my whole body jolt.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against my thigh. “Take it.”
“God, yes,” I moan, the sound slipping out of me before I can stop it.
Heat floods my face at how loud I am, how desperate I sound, but I can’t bring myself to care. I don’t want him to stop.
He sucks my clit, hard, pumping his fingers till the orgasm tears through me. My body locking up, thighs clamping around his head as I gush, soaking him. He doesn’t pull away. He rides it out, licking me through the aftershocks until I’m a trembling mess, boneless against the sheets.
Before I can recover, he’s moving up my body, kissing a wet path up my stomach, between my breasts. He settles over me, braced on one arm, his eyes locked on mine.
No question.
No escape hatch.
Only him, looking at me like he’s done pretending this is anything less than what it is.