Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 45

When he groans against my mouth, deep and low, it shoots straight through me, and I hate how good it feels. Hate how much I want it.

I can’t help it, I grab him by his neck dragging him closer until my chest is flush against his. His body is solid heat, his scent...soap and something darker, crowds my senses until there’s no air left that isn’t him.

The counter digs into my back as he pushes me against it, but I barely register the discomfort because his thigh slides between mine, pressing exactly where I don’t want him to notice. My hips betray me anyway, a small roll forward, and his low, satisfied groan shoots straight through me.

“God, you taste even better than I remember,” he murmurs against my mouth, teeth catching my bottom lip before sucking it in. My pulse is in my ears, my neck, everywhere, especially when he drags his lips down to my jaw. His breath is hot, uneven, as his mouth finds the line of my throat.

He doesn’t just kiss there...he claims it. Slow, deliberate nips that make my knees weak, his tongue smoothing over the sting before he does it again. One of his hands leaves my waist to explore my chest. Calloused fingers sliding up my ribs like he’s mapping me out. My stomach tightens.

I know I should stop this. I know where it’s going. But when his other hand cups the back of my neck, tilting my head to give him better access, all I can do is breathe harder and hold on.

He pushes his thigh higher between mine, grinding just enough to make my breath hitch, and his fingers...Jesus...are dipping under the waistband of my boxers. He finds me hard and aching, pulsing with need.

A need for him.

My hips twitch forward and he hums in approval.

“That’s it,” he mutters against my skin, voice low and filthy. “Let me remind you what you keep running from. Keep moving on me like that and I’ll take you right here, sink you onto me till you can’t think straight, till all you know is my name in your mouth”

And for a terrifying second, I’m going to let him. I’m right there, teetering on the edge of something I won’t come back from.

But then, like a punch through the fog, that voice in my head breaks through.

Don’t. Not again.

I catch his wrist, firm. “Jax—”

He stills, lips brushing my throat. “What?”

“We can’t.” My voice is raw, and it kills me to say it. I push at his chest....not hard, but enough, and he takes a slow step back. The heat between us feels like it’s been ripped away.

His eyes are blown wide, darker than I’ve ever seen, and his chest rises and falls like he’s just run a marathon. He stares at me for a beat, then smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Fine,” he says, his tone rough. But his gaze drags over me one last time, slow, lingering. “Though we both know you really wanted me to keep going.”

I lean hard on the counter, trying to get my breathing under control. “Fuck you, Jax.”

He grins, that wicked, dangerous grin. “Anytime Xander. Just say the word.”

Back in the bedroom, he bends down and scoops my clothes off the floor. “I’ll throw these in the wash,” he says. Then he stops at his wardrobe, pulls out a pair of grey sweatpants, and holds them out.

I reach for them. He pulls his hand back.

His eyes drop to my boxers. “Those too.”

I arch a brow, ready to refuse and probably argue again...but I realize he's worn me out already. So instead I say, “Turn around.”

That wicked smirk of his curls slow. “Don’t get shy on me now. We've already slept together.”

I sigh because this is exactly how he operates...pushes and teases until you cave. “Not happening until you hand them over.”

He chuckles and tosses them to me. I strip the boxers, step into the sweatpants. His eyes are glued to me, no shame about it. “You should learn about subtlety,” I tell him, tugging the drawstring tight. “You’re practically gawking.”

“I'll keep that in mind for the next time you're stripping for me.” He turns, grabs another pair of sweatpants and puts them on. When I ask for a shirt, he pretends he hasn't heard me. Just exits the room...I grab my phone from the bedside table and follow him out.

The place is huge, a lot bigger than mine, but it feels cold. Empty. Bare walls, no photos, nothing personal. Like he just… exists here.

We stop at a laundry room. He tosses my clothes into the machine and turns it on, then heads toward the open living space. My attention doesn’t catch until we reach the kitchen, it's nice. Too nice. Sleek, perfect lines, stainless steel, every surface shining like it’s never been touched.

“Wow,” I say, sliding onto one of the pristine counter stools when he gestures. “They really went all out in here. Looks like something from a magazine.”

He gives me this subtle little smile, i see traces of pride. “Appreciate that. Especially since it was all my doing.”

I snort. “ Yeah right .”

He shrugs, already moving around the space. He grabs a blender, filling it with what looks like water, lemon juice...a few other ingredients and some weird powder. “You like Korean?”

“Korean what?”

“Food.”

“I’m not sure. But you don’t have to order anything, coffee will do.”

“Who said anything about ordering?”

He drops a couple of ice cubes into the glass before handing it to me. It’s some pale, cloudy concoction, smells sharp enough to strip paint.

I narrow my eyes at it. “What the hell is this?”

“Hangover tonic. Drink.”

I lift the glass and take a cautious sip, bracing for something bitter and offensive. It isn’t. It’s smooth, a little smoky, goes down easy. I narrow my eyes at it like it’s hiding something, then glance at my phone.

Countless missed calls from Adam.

My gut twists. “Adam blew up my phone last night.… maybe something happened to Layla,” I say, not liking the way it sounds even as it leaves my mouth.

Jax doesn’t even look up from where he’s standing by the fridge. “Relax,” he says, like the word’s supposed to do something. He pulls open the big stainless steel doors and stands there like a man surveying his kingdom. “Lover’s quarrel. She ran off. He panicked but eventually found her.”

He starts pulling stuff out. Not random junk...containers, neatly packed leftovers, fresh produce, a jar of something that looks homemade. He lines them up on the counter like we’re about to shoot a cooking show.

The fridge is stocked. Not just beer and condiments, but actual food. I’m staring before I even realize it, my gaze drifting to the side where a tall spice rack sits loaded with tiny glass jars, all labeled. And judging by how worn the labels are, they get used.

My lips part. “You… cook?” The disbelief in my voice is almost offensive, but I can’t help it.