Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 16

With Layla’s arm still healing, the rest of us are running ourselves ragged. Zig, Addy, me....we’re basically doing twice the work, cramming in clients like masochists with bills to pay. Most of Layla’s regulars got shuffled around, and some, like the guy I’m tattooing right now, absolutely refused to be rescheduled.

Apparently, he’s got some high school reunion coming up and decided a full goddamn sleeve was the ultimate “fuck you” to his past. His exact words were “Ultimate glow-up, bro.” I almost blacked out from secondhand embarrassment.

It’s already past ten, the shop’s dead quiet except for the hum of machines and my own thoughts threatening to self-destruct. Zig clocked out an hour ago, dropped a “Don’t forget to lock up” on his way out like I’m not a fully functioning adult. Joke’s on him.....I’m barely functioning.

When I finally finish the last line, my arms feel like they’ve been worked over with a meat tenderizer. I sit back, cracking my knuckles, mentally checking out. But this guy....he’s still here. Flexing in front of the mirror like he’s about to enter a competition. Dude takes another ten minutes just admiring himself while I sit there trying not to groan out loud.

By the time he leaves, I’m thinking about one thing... a hot, burning shower and face-planting into my bed until my spine resets. I’m halfway through cleaning up, almost free, when the door creaks open behind me.

I turn, already halfway to telling whoever it is to come back tomorrow, we’re closed. But then I see him.

Jax.

I stare at him like he’s something stuck to the bottom of my boot.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Because of course. My day started with this guy, and apparently, he’s decided to bookend it too.

He strolls in all casual, with that lazy sort of flair that's naturally a part of him, gaze sweeping the room but not saying a word. I wipe down the last tray, not even bothering to hide the exhaustion dripping off me.

“What do you do for work, exactly?” I ask, leaning back against the counter, narrowing my eyes. “You seem to have an unlimited amount of free time. Is stalking me your full-time job now?”

He lifts a brow, all lazy charm and bad intentions. “That sounded suspiciously like interest. You wanna come see me work, Xander? I promise, it’s quite a riveting experience.”

My name in his mouth makes my skin prickle. I grab my backpack. I’m tired. I’m achy. My brain isn’t firing right. Being in the same room with Jax right now is like standing on the edge of a wildfire, every second threatens to burn you, but you’re frozen, drawn to the heat anyway.

“Not interested,” I say, slinging the bag over my shoulder.

“You never replied to my lunch invite,” he says, voice a little quieter.

I pause, then slowly turn. Right. The lunch invite. The one I assumed was a joke. An irritating, out-of-nowhere joke.

I eye him carefully. “That your new strategy? Wine and dine me so you can slide your way into my pants?”

He smirks, steps closer. “Maybe I just think you’d be more fun when you’re not so tense.”

Another step. Way too close now. I can smell him perfectly, spice, smoke....danger.

“Jax,” I warn, voice low, sharp.

He reaches for my shoulder, doesn’t ask. Just presses his thumb into the sore muscle, kneads slow circles. My breath stutters in my chest.

“What the hell are you doing?” I manage, but it’s already slipping, my resolve, my ability to function like a rational human being.

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps massaging....firm, sure pressure. Right where I hurt most.

Holy fuck.

I close my eyes against it, curse under my breath. It’s almost obscene how good it feels. My whole body wants to lean into it, wants more.

“You’re really not good for me,” I suddenly murmur. It’s not a confession. It’s a fact. I open my eyes, meet his. They’re dark. Curious. I should step away. I should push him off. I should say something.

Instead, I stand there, muscles loosening under his touch, jaw clenched so tight it aches for a different reason now.

He smirks again, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

His voice is right by my ear. “You said fucking you was off the table,” he murmurs. “But you didn’t say anything about everything else.”

Before I can respond, his hands move, slow and sure, gliding down my back like he owns it. And whatever the hell he’s doing to my spine should be illegal. My muscles go lax against my will, and I catch myself arching into it like I have zero self-respect.

Fuck.

Where did he learn to do that? His hands are firm, precise....he presses just hard enough to pull a groan from my throat, and I hate that it sounds like that. Like it meant something. My cock twitches, eager little traitor that it is. I shut my eyes, grit my teeth. It doesn’t help. All I can smell is him, clean sweat, trouble wrapped in sex.

My backpack hits the floor with a thud.

He guides me back, backs me up until I’m seated on the edge of the desk. The same one I was cleaning two minutes ago. Guess now I get to be the mess.

Jax leans in and sucks on my earlobe, and I swear to God, it sends pheromone signals straight to my fucking brain. My thighs tense, fingers curl around the edge of the desk like I’m holding on for dear life.

I tilt my head slightly, give him just a little more access, because apparently I’ve lost control of my limbs too.

“I do have a job,” he mutters, I can barely hear the words . “But thanks to you, I can hardly focus.”

“Sounds like a you problem,” I say, biting back a moan as his mouth trails lower, teeth grazing skin.

He presses in closer. His erection is obvious, thick and hard, and it’s not helping. I'm already on fire. Then his hands move again. He undoes the top button of my jeans with maddening ease. The zipper follows, slow, drawn out like he wants me to squirm.

I do.

His hand slides in, wraps around my aching cock, and I mutter a curse, nearly losing it. His voice is low, amused and dark. “I clearly don’t need lunch to get in your pants.”

“Fuck,” I hiss, head dropping back.

His grip is perfect. Warm. Firm. Confident. I hate how fast I react to it, how fucking easy it is for him to turn my brain to soup. I grab at his wrist on instinct, but I don’t stop him. Not really. My body’s betraying me in real time, hips twitching into his palm, breath shuddering.