Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 196

“We spent a few summers there when we were kids,” I add. “At my grandfather’s place in the countryside.”

“So,” Jax says after a moment, “.....does that mean you speak French?”

I laugh under my breath. “I understand a decent amount. And I can order at a restaurant without embarrassing myself. But fluent?” I shake my head. “Let’s just say I’d survive, but I wouldn’t impress anyone.”

He smiles faintly, that small twitch at the corner of his mouth that always feels like a reward. And I think about how I could live a thousand nights like this....no noise, no chaos, just him beside me, laughing at a rat cooking soup.

He leans in and says, voice low, “Tell me something. In French.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “Not a chance. You’d have to pay for that.”

His eyes darken a shade, the kind of look that makes my pulse do stupid things. “Pay, huh?”

Before I can answer, he’s already moving.....mouth grazing down the side of my neck, slow enough to make me tense, careful enough to make me ache. His breath hits the shell of my ear when he stops.

“Last I checked,” he murmurs, “...you’re the one who owes me.”

I turn my head slightly, trying to steady my voice. “Owe you for what?”

His fingers find my jaw, forcing me to look at him. His smirk is all sin when he says, almost a growl, “For the way you’ve been edging me lately. Getting me all excited then leaving me wound up and hard every damn time.”

I play dumb, because it’s easier than admitting how close I am to giving in.

“Really?” I say, feigning innocence. “Don’t recall ever doing that.”

His gaze sharpens, dark and heavy, and it pins me where I'm lying. “That so?”

The air shifts. He doesn’t have to move a muscle....it’s all in the look, the kind that hits low, right where I’m weakest. My pulse jumps and my chest tightens with that sharp, electric mix of want and nerves.

He holds my stare for a beat too long, then nods once. “Okay,” he says, quiet but like a promise.

His hand comes up, fingers firm under my chin as he angles my face back toward the screen. His breath grazes my ear when he adds,

“Guess I’ll just have to show you how liars get treated....later.”

The words slide through me like a slow burn. My throat goes dry. My skin prickles, my body reacts before my brain does.

I’ve been doing it on purpose.

Pushing him, testing him, keeping him just on edge long enough to make him crack. I needed him to......it was the only way to make him face what he’d been avoiding. And it worked, sort of. He broke, yeah, but I’ve been breaking right alongside him ever since.

Because the truth is, I miss him. The way we fit, the way everything else falls away when we touch. I’ve been pretending control feels good, that I can outlast the ache I started. But I’m lying to both of us, and now that ache feels like it’s burning through my bones.

His hand drifts across my chest...lazy, but not really. There’s nothing lazy about Jax when he wants something. Every touch feels measured, like he’s reminding me just how easy it is for him to get under my skin. His thumb drifts over my nipple, a small, fleeting touch....barely a drag, but it sparks through me like it’s something more. A sound slips out before I can stop it, low and needy. One fucking touch and I’m unravelling.

I glance back, breath tight, and he’s still watching the screen....focused, indifferent except for the slight curve at the corner of his mouth that says he’s anything but. His other hand moves too, tracing idle shapes near my waist. It’s not accidental. It’s that kind of teasing that isn’t about touch at all, it’s about control.

His fingers skate lower, the tips brushing the waistband of my pajama pants, back and forth, back and forth.... a slow, taunting rhythm that screams intent. Not random, not absent-minded. This is a quiet, relentless kind of payback.

I try to focus on the movie. But the dialogue blurs, the colors bleed across the screen, all I can register is the heat radiating off him behind me. My cock is already hard, and it’s getting harder to pretend otherwise when he’s close enough that every breath he exhales ghosts against my neck.

Then his hand slides down, cups me over the thin fabric of my pants, and I suck in a sharp breath. My hips twitch forward before I can stop them. The contact is light, teasing and barely there, but it hits like a live wire. I grab his thighs on instinct, fingers digging in, a useless attempt at control.

“Someone’s a little worked up,” he taunts, voice low, amusement curling around every word. “Glad I’m not the only one who’s been suffering.”

He strokes me once...slow and obscene through the cotton, and then lets go. Just like that. My body jerks with the loss, breath breaking on his name.

“Jax....”

“Yeah?” he answers casually, like he doesn’t have my pulse in a chokehold.

His eyes are still on the screen like I’m nothing more than background noise. But I can feel the tension vibrating between us, the restraint, the promise of what happens when one of us finally snaps.

He reaches for the remote and for a second I think he’s finally giving in....pausing the movie, about to turn me over and end this slow torture. But he doesn’t. He just checks how much time’s left, sets the remote back down like I’m not about to come apart right here.

Then he says, voice low and dark, “Sixteen minutes. That’s how long you’ve got before I remind you what happens when you act like a cocky little tease.”

My pulse spikes so fast it’s dizzying. I don’t even have time to swallow before he leans in, teeth catching the top of my ear and biting hard enough to sting, sharp enough to make me flinch and hiss through my teeth.

He chuckles against my skin, hot breath dragging down my neck. “Until then,” he murmurs, voice rough with intent, “I’ll let you see how it feels to get played with till you’re begging for it.”

It’s a promise and a threat, and fuck if I don’t already know I’ll break long before the sixteen minutes are up.

I feel him move, and then his hand dips under the waistband of my pants. The second his fingers wrap around my cock, a sound rips out of me, low and broken, nothing I can disguise.

He doesn’t say a word. Just pulls me free of the thin fabric, my cock heavy and flushed in his hand, the contrast of his skin against mine making my breath catch. He strokes once and it’s torture, exquisite and slow, every nerve firing like I’ve been waiting for this forever.

My grip on his thighs tightens, knuckles white, a silent plea and a warning all at once. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t speed up. He just keeps touching me like he wants to drag this out until I’m shaking.

Every breath feels too shallow. Every sound he drags out of me feels like surrender. And I can’t decide if I hate him for it or if I’ve never needed him more.