Teeth.
His teeth kept intentionally scraping against me, biting and nipping me, and he kept pulling my clit into his mouth with a deep moan. The same way he’d kissed me earlier was exactly how he was fucking me. Deep, hard, needy, absolutely passionate, and it left me teetering on the edge of a hard orgasm.
He pulled away, a pleased smile curving his lips as he buried his finger inside me. “And the way this feels, so flawed and corrupt; I just want to be real; I just need this to hurt.”
Holy shit! He was singing the lyrics to his song while he was between my legs. His tongue brushed against me again, and he continued to sing, his words vibrating against my flesh.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I scooted away and reached down, shoving his boxers off. “Shit.” The word escaped my mouth before I realized it. I was really about to have sex with a guy I had no business with, with a guy I liked more than I should, with a guy unlike any other man I had ever known. A man that would fight for me, one that respected me…and one that was addicted to drugs.
I had to stop my thoughts. I didn’t want to go there—not then. I pushed Jag back. He laughed as he fell into the mattress. That moment became so real, so raw, so us.
Crawling toward him, I grabbed his thick dick in my hand, pulling it to my mouth and tracing my tongue up its length before swallowing it back.
His taste made everything inside of me tense up in a very delicious, very dirty way. I ran my tongue along the crest of his head, savoring the silky texture, the well-defined ridge that I couldn’t help but imagine deep inside me. He made my mind twist into some perverted heap, and I loved it.
His eyes hooded, and his mouth slightly parted when he tossed his head back and mumbled, “Fuck.”
Without warning, Jag grabbed me and jerked me up from the bed and to his face. With my hand still gripping his dick, I panted, “What?”
He said nothing.
He forced me onto my hands and knees, staring up at me from his lowered head, and said, “Stay. Just. Like. That.”
He turned around and laid down, grabbing onto my hips as he slid underneath me. His hands splayed out on my ass and pulled me apart. I heard a deep groan and I knew he was staring at me, looking at how wet he’d made me, and the thought of that did nothing but deepen my arousal.
He groaned again and then his tongue traced from front to back. I drew in a deep breath, steadying myself. My knees threatened to buckle from the pleasure.
What he was doing to me made it impossible for me to focus on pleasing him. I was about to give up and just enjoy the way his tongue felt all over me, when he stopped and slid out from underneath me. Grabbing me, he spun me around and slammed me down on top of him.
That was just plain torture. My bare pussy was sitting on his hard dick. I was so tempted to push him into me, but I didn’t want to be the one to take it there. For some reason I wanted him to get to the point he could no longer stand it and would just fuck me.
I slid up his dick and when I got to the tip, I arched my back so that it would almost sink into me.
Jag reached under his mattress and pulled a condom out.
He keeps them tucked away under his mattress? What a…stop, Roxy, stop!
I needed to shove the notion that he had been an absolute whore before he met me out of my head. I told myself to be thankful that he at least had condoms which made me realize how fucked up this all was. Before that thought had completely vanished from my mind, he’d ripped the foil, rolled the condom down his dick, and then taken me by the shoulders and slammed me down on his bed so hard it knocked the breath from me.
My breath became ragged, labored. I stared up at him, and he glared down at me like a predator claiming its prey.
I’d lost. I was his, and he was about to claim me.
Jag yanked my leg and forced it up as he lowered his body over mine. There was no slow introduction, no—he rammed into me. I felt the sting as my skin ripped from his size and I winced, sucking in a breath, and tensing up.
“Too much?” Jag asked, halfway concerned, halfway amused.
I breathed deeply to relax my muscles, and then he pushed into me again, just as forceful. I turned my head to the side, my eyes squeezing shut and my fists balling up the silk sheets. It hurt, but damn, did it feel good.
He pushed in a little more and I felt my body give into him; he filled me, and in that moment he tensed. Sucking in a breath, he hissed, “Shit. Fuck.” And stared at me.
That almost did it. He was inside me. He had all of me, and I had all of him.
Skin to skin. Panting from pleasure. Our bodies connected and needy for each other. For a split second he stilled, looked at me with such profound intimacy, his dark eyes locked intensely on mine, that it was almost an out-of-body experience. This was different—for both of us, and he’d just made that obvious.
Jag’s fingers dug into my hips. Each thrust was harder than the last, and with each movement he rolled his hips so that his closely shaven pubes brushed against my clit. Fuck if he wasn’t right when he said he was a sex god. Damn!
My entire body pushed back toward the edge of the bed each time he slammed into me. Unexpectedly, I felt his mouth on my breast, sucking my nipple in before his teeth clamped down on it. The sharp stitch of pain caught me by surprise, and I flinched briefly before giving in to how undeniably pleasing his roughness was. My muscles jerked. “Fuck, Jagger. That—”
He devoured my mouth, swallowing the words I’d yet to say. His tongue fought mine for control, his teeth biting and tugging at my lips. His body pressed heavily over mine, pinning me down beneath him as he fucked me.
Fucked, because that is exactly what this was. It was hard and raw and wrong in all the right ways. It was just painful enough to be so damn pleasurable that I feared I would never be able to enjoy sex again.
He was right. He is ruining me.
But then, between hard thrusts and teeth-gritting pushes, he would slow and still briefly, just to look at me, and those moments transformed into something deeper than fucking, deeper than sex. It was us righting all the wrong we’d experienced. It was us agreeing that we belonged together and that nothing else mattered because we had finally found someone that understood the wrongest, most fucked-up parts of us.
He pounded into me, his mouth nearly missing mine as he kissed me once more. “I just want to…” he sucked in a desperate breath. He buried himself as deep as he could inside me. A twinge of pain radiated through me as he hit a part of me no one had ever touched.
“I could fucking do this all damn day.” He drew in another deep breath. “Fuck you. God,” he groaned. “I could fuck you for-fucking-ever.”
Those words tore into me, heating me, driving me slightly mad in the most beautiful way.
Jag grabbed my shoulders, bearing down on me and tearing through parts of me I didn’t know a man could go through. Another growl melted through his clenched jaw, and his pace grew hard and heavy. My body was being forced across the mattress. He was fucking me right off the bed, and the next thing I knew, we were both falling to the floor.
I was breathless, gasping, panting, and sweating. He climbed back over me, tearing relentlessly into me once again. My hands instinctually grabbed onto his ass. His muscles were firm underneath my grip and the harder he fucked me, the deeper my nails dug into his flesh.
“Oh—fuck! Oh, fu—” My breath caught, disrupting my sentence with a deep, pleasure-possessed groan.
My muscles tightened to the point of burning, then released, the blood coursing back through my veins with a forceful heat. My ability to think vanished and I became nothing more than a sexual being, grinding against him to amplify the feeling of him inside me, against me.
I lost all control. I no longer cared how desperate I seemed. I was desperate. My back pulled in, arching against my will. I no longer controlled my body. He did.
“Shit. Fuck. Oh, damn—oh, shit…” The words incoherently seeped from my lips as I clung onto his ass to keep
me somewhat grounded in reality. My body grew involuntarily rigid, forcing him to slightly slow his rhythm down, but it didn’t stop him. All it did was force a very sexy, very deep moan from his throat.
My heart pounded erratically. Every last inch of my skin was over-sensitized, and for a second I thought I may completely lose it if he didn’t stop.
I had to get away from him. Self-preservation.
But as soon as I tried to escape him, he grabbed me, forcing himself deeper inside me, his balls smacking against my ass with a clap.
“Oh, hell no. I’m not finished.” His fingers burrowed into my hips, his dick pressing harder into me, and all I could do was breath and moan.
“I…I can’t…take it,” I managed to plead. But, by now, it felt good. “You…” My train of thought was swallowed by him ripping through me.
Having a man fuck you that way, no matter how hard-up you are or how feminist you are, you succumb, you give in, and you love having that man dominate your body and do with it as he pleases. And when you feel like that, you know the sex is damn good, because it has ripped away everything society has instilled in you.
“That good, princess?” Each word came out as a groan.
I whimpered, actually whimpered, at how good it felt.
A few more hard, determined thrusts and Jag froze, burying himself as deep in me as humanly possible, maybe even an inch or so deeper than that, and he collapsed on top of me. His skin was soaked with sweat and his chest heaved against mine. Our damp skin slipping and sliding against each other solidified just how ungodly this had all been.
After holding me for a few moments so we could catch our breath, he rose to get me some water.
Within twenty minutes he was back inside me, tearing me apart, marking me, destroying everything inside of me in the most perfect way.
Being with him cleansed me.
*****
. I laid on his chest, tracing my finger along his numerous tattoos, focusing on a tribal phoenix that curled its way up his ribcage. Looking up at him, his hair soaked in sweat, I had a moment of horror flicker through me. This really was Jag Steele. I was fucking a famous rocker, how the hell could this keep up?
It was like he could read my thoughts because out of the silence, he asked, “What? You want to know what we are now?”
Yes. I do. I’m scared. Terrified, actually because I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you, and I shouldn’t be. There are parts of you I can’t handle…I don’t want to handle, and I’ve ignored those because I want to believe you’re the one for me.
“Let me put it this way,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about the whole monogamous relationship thing people do, and I think it may innately be part of who I am after all, at least with you.”
What? With me?
“I think that’s what I want with you. No. I know that’s what I want with you.”
Everything else faded into the background. This had suddenly become too real. I’d expected him to leave tomorrow, and that would be it. Of course, I’d fantasized that it would be something that would last, but I’d never really expected it to.
Not really.
Suddenly, everything was caving in. I was attached to him. He was attached to me.
I stared down at him. My eyes had narrowed and my brow scrunched, certain I had misunderstood what he’d just said. “You what? Are you kidding me?”
I saw his eyes cloud with disappointment, and then I felt like an utter bitch.
“Wrong thing to say? Damn, I thought…”
Shit. That just hurt him.
“No. No. It wasn’t the wrong thing to say. I’m—I’m shocked. Flattered. Stunned.”
“I don’t know why.” He sat up slightly, looking agitated. “I’ve been trying to claim you as mine for the past fucking week. You’ve just been in denial.”
And there laid the problem: I was in denial. I needed to be in denial because as long as I thought he had feelings for me, I was protected. Knowing that he did, realizing that I was someone to him…that was too much. I could get hurt. Seriously hurt. And I wasn’t prepared for that revelation.
“Jag, this is so not me. This is so…so not me. I shouldn’t get in situations like this, with guys like you.”
He huffed. I knew he didn’t like me saying “guys like you”, but it was the truth. I had no business with a guy like him.
Scratching my fingers through my hair, I shook my head. “I like you, Jag. I tried not to. Every damn day I’ve tried to talk myself out of answering your calls, out of going out with you, but I just can’t.”
His fingers trailed over my arm. “And that’s a problem why?”
I liked the way he felt too much. He made me comfortable, and that was dangerous. I grasped for an excuse about why I shouldn’t be lying naked in his bed, completely spent from amazing, earth-shattering, soul-deepening sex. I needed a wall—no a fortress—to block him out.
“I can’t take any more hurt in my life. I’m full. There’s no more room for it. I told you I was broken. Parts of you remind me of some of the worst parts of my life. You can understand that, I know you can, and that’s why I avoid guys like you like a flesh-eating virus.”
What the hell did I just say to him?
His face went limp with hurt.
“The worst parts of your life?” He shook his head, then raised his voice as he repeated it. “I remind you of that? Really? That’s fucked up, Roxy!”
Did I say that to him? Did I really say he reminded me of the worst parts of my life? Fuck!
I couldn’t take it. This was too real. This was too dangerous. I snatched my underwear up from the floor and gracelessly stepped into them, tripping when I pulled them up. “I…can’t be close with anybody. It’s better that way. I can’t control what others do,” I swallowed, “but I sure as hell can control myself.”
Except with you.
“What are you doing?” He sounded annoyed, aggravated.
“I—I just—I should go.”
I searched for my dress underneath the disheveled comforter piled on the floor.
The bed creaked as Jag abruptly leapt up. He leaned over and yanked up my dress from the floor. “No, princess. You don’t need to go anywhere. You can’t just fuck me and leave me. Not allowed.”
He sounded so calm. I knew he knew I didn’t mean it. He knew I was avoiding him, looking for a way to protect myself.
“Jag, I just—” Sighing, I whispered helplessly, “Guys like you…”
That pissed him off.
He went on a tirade about how he’d taken me shopping and splurged on me, how he’d waited to fuck me because he needed it to mean something. He sounded wounded, scared, uncertain, and angry. So angry that I had filed him in that category: “guys like you.” Because I knew as well as he did that he didn’t fit that category.
When he fell silent for a moment, I snapped, “Two weeks? That’s waiting? Holy fuck! That’s not—”
His jaw clenched and both brows arched. “When you’re used to five minutes tops, yeah, I would say two fucking weeks is waiting!”
God, he was pissed. I’d hurt him…this had to end before anything else happened, because I knew it could go nowhere from here but toward disaster.
“No. No!” My voice grew louder, more serious. I shook my head. “It’s not the sex thing. Not that, Jag, it’s the drugs. I can’t take the drugs. It’s too much of a reminder of Sean. And I just can’t let myself get any closer to you because I—I just can’t go through that again. I can’t get close to something I could—I will—lose.”
I stood there and questioned if I was doing the right thing. It didn’t feel like I was, but over the course of the past two weeks I had lost all ability to logically reason through anything having to do with Jag. The voice in the back of my warped head kept screeching “addict,” and I shook my head, then said, “With drugs, it’s not a question of if it’ll happen, but when. I know that. I fucking know that, and I can’t let myself get any closer to you knowi
ng…I can’t take another call like that. I just can’t!”
Thinking about it, just thinking about losing him to an overdose made me feel sick. It made my stomach churn and sweat break out all over me. Glancing down at my hands, I realized I was physically shaking from the thought of it. I’d mentioned to him how much I hated addiction, I’d asked him not to do it, but I’d been too scared to tell him to stop, that it would be a deal breaker in the end. But until now, I hadn’t felt I had the right to tell him.
He couldn’t even look at me when he mumbled, uncertain, “I don’t need the drugs.”
I watched his eyes scrunch up with thought. His face went blank as he realized he really did need them; I watched as he wracked his brain for an excuse that would convince us both that he didn’t need the drugs, that he wasn’t really an addict.
Nodding, he said, “I mean, well, maybe just when I’m on tour because I can’t fucking sleep and, you know, I just need it to keep me going—keep me going for the fans and all. I don’t need it. It’s just for fun. I’m not an addict. I’ve been through rehab, I got this shit under control. I swear.” Jag looked up at me, doubt clouding his eyes as he argued his last point. “It’s just part of the job. I—I can’t handle the stress without them. It’s not any different than taking anxiety meds. Really, it’s…”
If he couldn’t admit it to himself, if he couldn’t see that his life revolved around his next high, then I couldn’t help him.
“Give me my dress. Please. This was a mistake. You—” You made me feel, you made me want you, and I’m pissed about that. “You were a mistake. I’m sorry.”
Shock rippled across his face, too quickly replaced by anger. He balled my dress up, crushing the expensive, designer fabric in his fist before chucking it at me. “Fine,” he mumbled, leaning on his dresser, staring at his reflection and ignoring me.
I slipped on my clothes and rummaged through the sheets that had pooled on the floor, looking for my purse.
I glanced up at him one last time, wondering if I’d been too rash in deciding this needed to end here, because much to my surprise, Jag seemed really hurt. Not just his pride, my words had hurt him, and I felt like shit for that.
Roxy (Pandemic Sorrow #3) Page 12