Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 15

First time I tried pussy, I knew it wasn't for me. No offense to Maya, who was fucking drop-dead gorgeous...smart, hilarious, legs that went on forever, and smelt like strawberries and sweat-soaked lust. Not her fault. She was great, but I hated every fumbling, frustrating second of it.

It was me. I knew before I even touched her that it wasn’t gonna work. I kept hoping something would click, that maybe if I tried hard enough, I could be the guy she deserved. But I didn’t get hard. Not for her. Not for her hands or her mouth or the way she whispered my name like it meant something.

Meanwhile, Luke from the coffee shop would wink at me while making my latte and I’d have to sit with my legs crossed for ten minutes. That should’ve been my first fucking clue. Probably where my coffee addiction started. I went in twice a day. Sometimes three. Just for a glimpse of him with his rolled-up sleeves and that damn smirk.

Eventually he asked me out. Of course I said yes. I was eighteen, freshly out, riding that brave little rainbow high and still clueless about how sex actually worked when it wasn't heteronormative missionary bullshit. Luke was patient. Real sweet. Waited two months till I said I was ready.

And yeah....I liked it. A lot. Like, brain short-circuits, knees go weak, 'see God in the ceiling tiles' level of liking it. Thought I was in love by the end of the night. Turns out he wasn’t into commitment. Just liked playing host to wide-eyed queers in need of a good awakening.

Next time I let myself catch feelings was a year later, in Florida. I was nineteen, staying with my grandparents for the summer. Met Tom at the mini-mart while buying a beer and a box of condoms I didn't end up needing...for a week, anyway.

Tom had the kind of arms you want wrapped around your throat. Total menace. One night we finally did it, he bent me over his shitty futon, and I swear to God, I saw the inside of the fucking galaxy.

I moaned once...just once...and immediately thought 'oh fuck, I love him.'

Terrible pattern. Apparently, if someone fucks me right, my brain decides I've met my soulmate.

Then one night, I walked into a gay club for the first time. It reeked of bad decisions and too much cologne. The kind of place where the bass vibrated in your spine and everyone was either high, horny, or heartbroken. I’d just gotten dumped by the third and last guy to ever fuck me. And we weren’t even together. Never were. Just another bastard who liked the way I felt wrapped around him but couldn’t look me in the eye after.

I fit right in.

Then I saw this guy.

Tall. Wide eyes like he couldn’t believe I was real. He looked at me like he was starving and I was already halfway down his throat. Like he needed a hit of whatever I was made of...like he’d beg for it if he had to. He didn’t ask my name. I didn’t ask his.

Ten minutes later, we were in his car, backseat already a mess of sweat and limbs. He pulled a condom from the glovebox like it was a routine. Maybe it was for him.

But not for me.

Because this time, I was the one doing the bending...shoving in, not taking it.

He stripped fast....eager....and I watched him. Pushed him down, got between his legs, and he was already moaning like he’d waited for this his whole damn life.

I’d never done it before. Never been the one on top, never been the one calling the shots. But fuck, it felt right. Like my body had just been waiting for this switch to flip. I slid in like I was made for it, and yeah, I was new, but I was a fast learner. Real fast.

I pushed in slow, one hand gripping his thigh, the other braced by his head, and the look on his face...eyes blown, mouth parted, wrecked and wanting, burned itself into my memory. He cursed. I groaned. It was messy and desperate and fucking perfect.

He clutched at me like he’d fall apart if I stopped. So I didn’t.

I set the pace. I chased the sounds he made. I memorized every twitch, every hitch of his breath. And by the time I was close, he was begging.

And yeah, I finished with his legs over my shoulders, sweat slicking my back, my teeth pressed hard into his neck just to leave a mark. I didn’t pull out until I had to.

We didn’t cuddle. We didn’t talk. He dropped me off two blocks away from my place and I walked home grinning like the fucking devil.

Because I finally understood the power in taking, or giving... depending on how you look at it. And I fucking loved it.

So I learned. If I wanted to have sex without catching feelings like it’s an airborne disease, I had to be the one doing the fucking. No soul-crushing attachment. No mistaking lust for fate. I get off, they get off, they leave before dawn. Simple.

I never had the urge to bottom again after that night. Not once. It was like something clicked in me...this is who I am, this is how I want it. I built my whole rhythm around that truth. Casual, clean, detached. I fucked, I left, I stayed sane. No strings, no messy feelings, no confusion about who was in charge.

Then in walks Jax.

Out of nowhere. Like a goddamn storm with a smirk. And suddenly my perfect little system, the one that had kept me untouched and unfazed for years, starts to crack.

Because this guy doesn’t follow rules. He doesn’t let me lead. He looks at me like he sees everything I don’t want anyone to see. He touches me and I lose every bit of composure I’ve worked so hard to maintain. He talks, and my brain short circuits. And it’s really fucking bad.

Because for the first time since I walked into that club all those years ago, I’ve met someone I absolutely cannot control myself around.

And it’s starting to freak me the fuck out.