Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 8

I blink. “What?”

“You heard me.” His lips curve. He’s too calm. Too in control. “I’ve got nowhere to be. You can take your time.”

There’s heat in my chest. In my throat. “You’re a fucking trip, you know that?”

He shrugs. “It’s just a kiss. Maybe I’ll even decide to let you be afterwards. Who knows?”

I narrow my eyes. “I don’t buy that for a second.”

“That’s your call,” he says, stepping a little closer. “But you’ll have to decide if you’re really willing to pass up a deal like that.”

Then I see it.

That fucking T-shirt.

Black. Tight. His first time in short sleeves around me and he picks that. I didn’t know my brain could stop functioning like this. The fabric clings to every inch of his body...his chest, his broad shoulders, those biceps. Veins snake down his forearms, flexing with the slight twitch of his fingers. He’s built like a goddamn sin. Sculpted. Solid. I’m not in control of anything right now, least of all myself.

He's tatted, intricate bold strokes that make my fingers itch. I want to trace every damn line with my tongue. I want to find out where they lead, how far they go, and what it feels like when he shivers under my mouth.

This is so fucking bad.

He’s bad.

He’s reckless and cocky and a walking red flag wrapped in sex appeal I can’t outrun.

And fuck, I want him.

I make the mistake of looking at his mouth. There's still a cut on his lower lip...my doing.

“That cut’s still healing,” I say, my voice low, rough.

Jax licks the lip slowly. “I kinda like the sting,” he murmurs. “Might even jerk off right here after you leave. Just like I did last night, thinking about you.”

My stomach plummets. My cock is throbbing. Visions of him doing just that, fisting his cock, head thrown back, wreck me. I don’t even feel my feet move until we’re standing inches apart.

He smells like goddamn danger. He’s about a couple inches taller than me, and I'm 6 ft. Intimidating. Gorgeous in that broken, wrong way that makes you want to jump off a cliff just to see if he follows.

“One kiss,” I say, swallowing. “And we’re done.”

He nods once. “That's the deal.”

It’s a lie. We both know it. But I need this.

I fucking need this.

I press my lips to his. Gentle. Careful. Mindful of the cut.

But Jax? He’s none of those things.

He grabs my jaw, deepens it, tongue sliding against mine with a filthy groan that sends a pulse straight to my dick. His body pushes into mine, hard and sure, until my back hits the shelf.

It’s messy. Desperate. Addictive.

I’m kissing him like I’ve wanted to do it forever and both love and hate that it’s finally happening. My hands roam his chest, his ribs, gripping him like I want to memorize the shape of him. And God, he’s fucking solid. All heat and muscle under my palms.

I move lower. I want to feel him, really feel him.

My fingers slip past his waistband.....

He breaks the kiss, shoves me back.

Breathing hard. Lips swollen. Eyes like fire.

“Easy there, Xander.”

I stagger, panting, confused, aching.

He smirks. “You didn’t even bite me this time,” he says, voice drenched in satisfaction. “We’re making progress.”

Then he turns and walks out, like he didn’t just ruin my entire day with one kiss and a few damn words.

And I’m left standing there.

Hard, buzzing....and completely fucked.

********

My piece earlier ended up winning. The prize ? A VIP pass to Ritual. A club that smells like sex, spilled secrets, and expensive mistakes. Rooftop bar, velvet lounges, free drinks, the whole nine yards.

I hadn’t planned on using it right away. Wanted to sleep off the buzz, the win, the unspoken ache still gnawing at me. But Layla and Addy had other plans, and when those two team up, I’m not exactly known for my backbone.

It's louder than I expected.

Not just the bass, or the low thrum of voices and clinking glasses, though there’s plenty of that, it’s the hum of heat under my skin that’s making everything feel too close. That, and the fact that we’re crammed into this plush, dimly lit private room like somebody thought velvet couches and too much alcohol would smooth over tension you could slice through with a palette knife.

Jax is seated close to Layla. Not touching, but close enough to guard her with his body. His shoulders are wound tight. His leg’s bouncing. And every time I glance over, he’s already looking at me.

I sink back into my seat and try to pretend like I’m not unraveling. Shawn’s next to me, closer than he needs to be. His hand drags along my thigh, subtle at first. Testing. Then firmer, more deliberate. We've done this before, a few times, but right now? It’s static. Like pressing lips to skin that won’t warm.

He leans in, mouth brushing the shell of my ear. “Bet you’re dying to get me alone,” he murmurs, voice low, slick. “I’ll let you do whatever you want tonight, Xan. Been thinking about it all day.”

I should be into it. His breath is warm, his hand’s moving, his body already angled like we’re halfway out the door. But my eyes flick to Jax again. He’s staring. Not casual, not curious. Like he’ll burn the whole damn place down if I move an inch closer to Shawn.

I shift, pretending to grab my drink, just to break the current. My fingers tremble around the glass, slick with condensation. The whiskey’s too sweet. Too smooth. I want something that bites back.

He doesn’t blink when Shawn leans in to kiss my neck. Just watches. Jaw tight.

Addy shows up, barely glancing at anyone before tugging Layla’s arm. Tells her she needs a wing woman.

Layla's on a call, but she ends up standing to leave. They’re both tipsy, Layla’s wobbling just slightly in her heels, but I’ve seen her worse. I don’t say anything. Just sip my drink and watch as Addy drags her out like it’s some kind of mission.

Jax stands. Immediately. Like she’s wearing a leash only he can see.

It’s annoying. He doesn’t even think about it. Just follows her like a damn bodyguard. Or a guard dog. Or something in between. It shouldn't bother me. I have no reason for it to.

But it fucking does.

He reaches the door, his hand on it, and I expect him to disappear the same way he’s been doing all day, hovering at a distance but never really gone. Instead, he pauses.

Doesn't open it. Doesn’t follow them.

He turns around slowly, like there’s a weight dragging at his shoulders, and when his eyes lock on mine.....

I feel it in my gut before he even opens his mouth.

This isn’t going to be good.