Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 25

I move to his jaw, wipe at a smear of blood trailing down his neck. My hand lifts automatically, cupping it without thinking. It fits too well in my palm. He swallows, throat moving under my fingers, and I feel it, feel him...far too clearly.

He still doesn’t look away. Just watches me like I’m the one bleeding. Like he can see all the way in.

Say something, I think. Make a joke, insult me. Push me to the edge and make me push back. Fucking break this.

But he doesn’t. Not until I’m nearly done.

“I don’t know why I came,” he says finally, voice quieter than I’ve ever heard it. “I should go.”

That gets me. I glance at him, and I ask, “Do you want to?”

There’s a beat. He tilts his head, eyes flicking to my mouth. “I should,” he says. His hand lifts, fingers curling into my hair...not rough like usual. Gentle. Careful. Like he’s afraid I’ll spook.

“But no,” he breathes. “I don’t.”

The air shifts, something heavy pressing down on my chest. I blink, breaking eye contact, retreating behind the work. I clear my throat, grab the last strip of gauze.

“I need to put this back,” I say, gesturing to the kit and standing. I need some space, he's too much, too intense for my senses to cope with for too long.

He grabs my wrist, pulling me down next to him. I turn to him, slow and cautious.

“I don’t bite, that's your territory, ” he murmurs, voice low.

“Lies,” I say. “You’ve got a whole violent streak. You’re one fight away from actually hurting someone, or getting yourself killed. ”

That gets a slight reaction from him, but he buries it well and fast.

“Are you scared?” he asks, second time he's done so since becoming a permanent fixture in my life, tilting his head like he already knows the answer. Like he's somehow afraid of it.

I pause. “Should I be?”

His hand trails down from my wrist, brushing my chest, tracing the outline of my ink, stopping over my heart. It’s pounding, of course it is. And he smirks like he can hear it.

Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he shifts....laying back slowly. His head lands in my lap. He closes his eyes.

I freeze, hands suspended in the air because I have no idea what to do with them.

“Wake me in thirty,” he mumbles. “I’ll leave then.”

I swallow thickly, trying not to focus on the heat of him, the weight of his presence against me. His jacket falls open just a little. There’s blood on his shirt.

“ You're bleeding.” I say, my voice lower than I mean it to be.

“ It's not mine...mostly,” he says, peering down at himself before laying back down.

I glance at the now wrapped hand still pressed to his ribs. Carefully, I take it and set it aside. He doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t open his eyes.

I lift the edge of his shirt, slowly. His whole side is one deep, vicious bruise, blackened purple, angry and definitely painful.

But fuck, he’s solid underneath it all. Lean and sharp, like he was carved out of danger and bad decisions....

Not the damn point!

I reach out, trace my fingers over the swelling, feather-light. He tenses, jaw tightening, but he stays still.

My other hand finds its way to his hair, combing through it. It’s softer than I expect, a little damp with sweat. He still doesn’t move.

“Does it hurt?” I ask quietly.

There’s a pause. The heavy kind that's filled with all these things I don't know how to name.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Hurts like hell.”

But it’s not just his body he’s talking about. I know that. There’s something in the way he says it....a raw, hollowed out kind of sadness, like the pain goes deeper than flesh and bruises. I keep running my fingers through his hair, slower now, like I can soothe the parts I can’t see.

Neither of us speaks again.

********

It’s definitely been more than thirty minutes.

I don’t have my phone to prove it, and for some reason, I don’t own a goddamn wall clock either. But my internal sense of time is screaming at me. Loudly.

Still, I don’t move.

I’m rooted here like some idiot, barefoot on my floor, staring down at the problem that is Jax, passed out cold with his head in my lap like I’m his personal orthopedic pillow.

And God, even asleep....he’s still scowling. There’s this little frown line etched between his brows, like his body forgot how not to be tense. Like he’d even fight his own dreams if they came too close.

But I can’t stop staring. I should, because this is bordering on creepy now and that's his realm. But there’s something about him like this. Quiet. Breathing even. Not intensely glaring at me or talking all dirty with that ridiculously sexy voice of his. It’s... disarming. And honestly? Kinda terrifying.

He’s attractive in that ragged, dangerous kind of way. The kind that’s all sharp edges and warning labels but still makes you wanna run your fingers along the blade.

And maybe I’ve lost it, because apparently I do wanna run my fingers along him. I lift a hand..slow, tentative...and lightly trace a finger across his brow. Just once, then again.

Thick lashes. Slightly crooked nose, probably from a fight. Even now, he looks like he’s hurting. Not the dramatic kind, but the deep-in-his-bones type. I don’t know what it is that makes me notice all this shit now, but I do. Every inch.

My eyes fall to his mouth and stay there. I had trouble falling asleep because I’d been picturing things. Stupid things, intense things.

I call his name, no response.

I tell him thirty minutes are up. Still nothing. He’s knocked out cold, or really good at faking it. Either way, the smarter part of me should back off.

Instead, I lean in. Just a little.

It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid. But he’s right there, and I’m not made of stone, and something about him pulls me in like I’ve got no say in the matter. So I do it, I brush my lips against his.

Barely.

Just a whisper of a kiss. A ghost of it. And then his eyes snap open. I panic and jerk back, but too late, his hand shoots up, catching me by the back of my neck. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t smirk or make some cocky remark. He just looks at me like he sees everything. Then he pulls me back down and kisses me.

And fuck, this kiss is nothing like the others. No aggression, no heat-of-the-moment desperation. It’s soft. Careful. His lips capture mine like he’s memorizing the shape, and when he pulls back, he does it slowly, biting down on my lower lip just a little like he’s reluctant to let go.

And yeah. I’m hard.

He shifts, his head’s still in my lap, and now he definitely knows. His head turns to my erection, then flicks up to mine. I can feel the smirk before it happens.