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34

JAXON

T he dim light of her bedroom casts everything in a golden glow, turning her skin to honey and her eyes to liquid amber.

"I know you do," she whispers, her touch trailing down to my jaw, fingertips grazing the stubble there with a tenderness that makes my breath catch.

Her confidence in me, in this, is staggering.

I want her to feel everything, to experience this without hesitation or concern.

So, instead, I show her.

But first?—

“Condom?” I ask, a sheepish smile tugging on my lips.

I definitely didn’t come prepared for tonight to go this way.

“They’re in the nightstand, but…” Her eyes meet mine, and the slight bit of hesitation crosses her features.

“I want to feel you. Just you.”

My grip on the sheets tightens.

This woman is going to ruin me before I’m even inside her.

“I’m on birth control and I’ve been tested.”

“Me, too. I haven’t been with anyone. Ever.” The pulse at the base of her throat flutters beneath my lips.

“It’s always been you.”

I trail my lips down her neck, remembering the way she shivered when I kissed that spot below her ear in the shower.

Her reaction now is just as powerful—a soft gasp, her body arching into mine like a bow drawn taut.

I smile against her skin, memorizing every sound, every movement, every place that makes her breath catch.

"Jax," she breathes, her hands sliding down my back, pulling me closer, fingers pressing into muscle.

The urgency in her voice sends heat spiraling through me, settling low in my stomach.

My name on her lips sounds different now—breathier, needier, like a plea and a promise wrapped into one.

The sheets beneath us are cool against heated skin, the contrast only heightening every sensation.

I can feel her heartbeat everywhere we touch, or maybe it's mine—at this point, they seem to have synchronized, beating in perfect tandem. The scent of her surrounds me—that subtle lavender and something uniquely her, intoxicating in its familiarity.

I take my time exploring her, learning the language of her body—what makes her sigh, what makes her moan, what makes her grip the sheets with white knuckles. I may be inexperienced, but I'm a quick learner, and Madison is an open book under my touch.

Every reaction guides me, teaching me what she likes, what she needs.

“Tell me what you like, what you want me to do,” I tell her.

“I want to make this good for you.”

The soft curve of her waist fits perfectly in my palm, like it was made for my hand.

I trace the line of her collarbone with my lips, feeling her shiver beneath me.

The contrast of our skin in the dim light—her golden warmth against my darker tone—creates a mosaic of shadows and light that fascinates me.

I want to memorize every inch of her, map her body with my hands and mouth until I know her better than I know myself.

Her hands aren't idle either. She touches me with a confidence that makes my head spin, her fingers tracing paths of fire across my skin. She knows exactly what she's doing, each touch deliberate, practiced.

When her hand wraps around me, I have to grit my teeth to maintain control, the sensation almost too much to bear.

"Mads," I warn, my voice tight, strained with the effort of holding back.

She smirks up at me, a challenge in her eyes, her hair spread across the pillow like a dark halo.

"Yes?"

I capture her wrist, pinning it gently beside her head, the delicate bones beneath my fingers reminding me to be careful, to be gentle despite the fire raging in my blood.

"It’s my turn," I murmur against her lips, the words more breath than sound.

The flash of surprise in her eyes gives way to something darker, hungrier.

She bites her lip, nodding, and the simple gesture of surrender nearly undoes me.

I release her wrist, trailing my hand down her body, watching her reactions carefully: the way her breath hitches when I ghost over sensitive spots, the way her skin breaks out in goosebumps despite the warmth of the room.

When I reach between her thighs, her breath catches, eyes fluttering closed, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

"Look at me," I say softly, waiting until those hazel eyes meet mine before I continue.

I need to see her, need to watch as pleasure washes over her face, need to know it's me making her feel this way.

The vulnerability in her gaze nearly undoes me.

I keep our eye contact as my hand presses against her harder, my palm putting pressure on her clit while my middle finger swipes through her wetness. I groan at the feeling as I tease her entrance. I push my finger in just barely, and she bucks her hips, silently asking for more.

My insecurity about making this good for her has me asking, “Does that feel good, Mads?”

She sucks her bottom lip in between her teeth, moving her hips slightly. “More.”

I give her more, pushing my entire finger into her wet heat. She clamps down on me, and my dick jumps slightly. My groan mingles with her moan and I watch her face as I work her body with my hand. She latches onto my arm with a loud gasp after I curl my finger just slightly, and she seems to really like that, so I do it again. I add another finger to the mix, continuously pumping in and out.

I watch her come apart under my touch, her body trembling, my name falling from her lips. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen—the way her breath catches, the way her back arches, the way her fingers clutch at my shoulders. Her nails scratch the skin, like I'm the only thing anchoring her to this world.

I commit every detail to memory, determined to remember this moment for the rest of my life.

When she comes down, her cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded, she pulls me in for a kiss that's all heat and need. "I need you inside me," she whispers against my mouth, the words vibrating against my lips. "Now."

The certainty in her voice is my undoing. I settle between her thighs, our bodies aligning perfectly, and when I finally push into her, the sensation is so overwhelming, I have to pause, forehead pressed to hers, breathing ragged. It's too much—the heat, the tightness, the knowledge that this is Madison, that we're finally here after years of wanting. I know if I’m not careful, I’ll lose my mind within only a couple of seconds, and I refuse to do that to her.

"You okay?" she asks, her hand cupping my face, thumb brushing over my cheekbone with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the intensity of the moment.

I nod, not trusting my voice. I'm more than okay—I'm drowning in her, in us, in this moment I've dreamed about for so long.

The reality of it surpasses every fantasy, every midnight thought, every stolen daydream.

I pull back slightly before pushing into her again, and we both groan at the sensation.

The way she grips my cock has stars flickering behind my eyes I didn’t realize I closed.

I open them to look at her, to catch her every reaction, hoping this is as good for her as it is for me.

Her eyes are hooded, lips parted with soft gasps as I find a steady rhythm.

We move together with a synchronicity that surprises me, like our bodies were made for each other, like we've been doing this forever instead of for the first time. The pleasure builds slowly, intensely, waves of sensation carrying us higher. Each movement is deliberate, measured, a conversation without words—her hands on my back, my lips at her neck, our bodies speaking a language all their own.

She lets out a sharp gasp as I adjust the angle of my hips slightly. “Right there. Please, don’t stop.”

I do as she says, not changing a single thing, watching her face as she climbs toward the peak again, her expression a mixture of concentration and wonder. The trust in her eyes, the way she lets herself be completely vulnerable with me—it's humbling, staggering.

“You going to come for me again, baby?”

She nods with a sharp cry, her pussy tightening around my cock as she’s pulled over the edge, her nails digging into my shoulders.

I follow right after, unable to hold back any longer.

The most intense orgasm of my life consumes me, and I let go, my cock pulsing as I fill her.

I swear, my vision blacks as I ride out the sensations wracking my body.

Holy shit.

As I come back to reality, the world narrows to just her—the feel of her in my arms, of her breath against my neck, the warmth of her body against mine.

Everything else fades away into insignificance.

There is only this, only us, suspended in a perfect moment of connection that transcends the physical.

Afterward, we lie tangled together, her head on my chest, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on her bare shoulder.

A comfortable silence settles over us, broken only by the sound of our breathing gradually returning to normal.

Her skin glows in the dim light, flushed and warm beneath my fingertips.

I can't stop touching her, can't believe I'm allowed to do this now—to hold her, to trace patterns on her skin, to feel the steady rise and fall of her breath against me.

"That was..." she starts, then pauses, like she can't find the right words.

Her finger draws abstract shapes on my chest, following the contours of muscle with a thoughtfulness that suggests she's mapping me, learning me through touch.

I tilt my head to look at her. "Yeah?"

A soft smile plays at her lips, those lips I now know the taste of, the feel of. "Different."

Something in my chest tightens, a momentary flash of uncertainty. "Different good or different bad?"

She pushes up on her elbow, looking down at me with those eyes that seem to see right through me, past all my defenses. The sheet pools around her waist, and the sight of her—hair mussed, skin glowing, eyes soft with satisfaction—steals my breath.

"Different good," she says softly, a hint of wonder in her voice. "Really good."

Better than good, if the flush still coloring her cheeks is any indication.

"What are you smirking about?" she asks, narrowing her eyes playfully, her finger poking my chest.

I brush a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingertips linger against the soft skin of her cheek. "Just happy."

Her expression softens, vulnerability flashing across her face for just a moment, quick as lightning but just as striking. For a moment, I think she might say something more, something that would match the emotion I can see swimming in her eyes, but then she lays her head back on my chest, her fingers drawing invisible patterns on my skin.

"Stay with me tonight?" she asks quietly, the vulnerability in her voice hitting me right in the chest. Madison Blake doesn't ask people to stay.

She has always been the one to leave first, to maintain distance, to keep walls up high.

This simple question, these four words, contain multitudes .

I tighten my arm around her, pulling her closer, loving the way she fits against me, like she was made to be there.

"Try and make me leave."

She huffs a laugh against my skin, the sound warming me from the inside out, spreading through my chest like honey.

We fall into silence again, but it's comfortable, easy, the kind of silence that exists between people who don't need words to communicate.

I'm almost asleep when she speaks again, her voice so quiet, I almost miss it, a whisper that might have been lost had I not been so attuned to her.

"Thank you."

I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair. "For what?"

She's quiet for so long, I think she might not answer.

Her fingers continue their lazy exploration of my chest, tracing patterns that leave trails of warmth in their wake.

"For seeing me. The real me."

"Always have, Mads," I murmur into her hair, the words a promise, a vow.

"Always will."

She nestles closer, her body relaxing completely against mine, tension melting away until she's boneless in my arms. I hold her a little tighter, a silent promise in the pressure of my arms, in the kiss I press to her temple, in the way my hand splays protectively across her back.

As she drifts off to sleep, her breathing evens out, her body growing heavier against mine. I stay awake a little longer, savoring the weight of her against me, the soft sound of her breathing, the way she fits perfectly in my arms. It’s like she was made to be there, like this is exactly where we're both supposed to be.

And maybe it is. Maybe all those years of waiting, of watching, of wanting—maybe they were just leading us here, to this moment.

To each other.

I don't know what happens next. I don't know if she'll wake up tomorrow with her guard back up, regretting this, pulling away. But right now, with her in my arms, I can't bring myself to care about tomorrow.

Right now is enough.

She is enough.

More than enough. She's everything.