Page 47 of Painkiller (Sin Records #3)

“ J agger,” his name whispers past my lips, pleading for him to open his eyes.

Agony rips through my chest at the pain and acceptance in the pale green eyes, hating with every fiber of my being that he’s so wrecked, not knowing why, apart from a few things I have pieced together.

It’s impossible to look at without feeling every bleeding cut yourself.

I drop my eyes, tracing the ink that covers his body. So much physical pain he’s endured to shut out the mental anguish. The intricate artwork is a testament to his hurt, with skulls screaming out in misery, demons taunting his heartbreak.

He fuels his torment with anger and hides it behind smiles. Nothing about him is as it seems. Yet, everything is right there, his heart on his sleeve, if only someone would look. If someone would take it.

His jaw ticks, and I can see every part of the wall that’s crumbled at my feet being reconstructed, piece by piece.

He’s complex, complicated, and everything I don’t need in my life. I’m not what he needs, either. We’ve been through a lot in our short lives, me fighting to make the best of mine while he refuses to deal with his. It’s not fair and is a recipe for a fucked up relationship built on trauma.

Then there are the people in our lives who might be hurt.

People we care about. He’s made it clear, he will do anything to protect Casey, and my relationship with Phoebe is hanging on by tattered threads and a prayer.

I could lose my sister forever if I were with Jagger, and if things fell apart between us, I would’ve destroyed any chance at reconciling with her.

My thumb brushes across his bottom lip. His fingers dig into my hips, a possessive move that he doesn’t push further.

He won’t force me to stay. Without words, I know he’s put himself out there, admitted to giving me more in a few days than he’s ever given any woman, but he doesn’t want someone out of gratitude or guilt.

Will never beg anyone to see him, to love him.

“Then keep me,” I whisper, lifting my gaze.

Our eyes collide. The air becomes heavy with unspoken emotions. Our breathing comes in uneven spurts. His heart pounds a rhythm against my hand, matching my own.

His lips crash into mine, fierce yet soft, as if he’s afraid I’ll take it back. I won’t.

Too much. Too fast. Too soon.

Casey. Phoebe.

Baggage. Trauma.

Complicated.

They all fade away until all that’s left is us.

I’m lifted, carried in strong arms from the bath. His steps don’t falter as he takes long, determined strides from the en suite to the bedroom. My legs stay wrapped around his hips as he lowers us to the bed. His lips burn a path across my jaw to my neck.

My head tips back, offering more access to the sensitive flesh. “We’re getting the bed wet,” I murmur.

The short scruff of his jaw scrapes deliciously against my collarbone as he nips his way to the top of my breast. “I’ll change the sheets.”

“The mattress.” I’m not sure how I’m so conscientious right now when I couldn’t care less about what’s getting wet but me.

He grips my wrists, pushing them over my head. “I’ve got other beds. Now, unless it’s more of that about letting me keep you or begging me to let you come, stop talking.”

“Let me touch you.”

His head lifts, eyes boring into mine with hesitation. Fingers twitch around my wrist nervously.

I wait without pushing, wondering what decision he’ll come to, watching so many things play out in his eyes. He reaches over me, taking one hand in each of his, threading our fingers together while he leans down, resting his forehead on mine.

And still I wait, sensing the war going on inside him. The internal battle of heart and head as he works to join the two.

His nose brushes mine, soft and slow. A warm exhale fans my face.

He rises, leaning back on his heels, bringing our joined hands and me with him until our positions mirror each other. Eyes closed, he presses a kiss to the knuckles of each hand, then unwinds our fingers, pressing my palm against his chest.

I’ve touched him so many times. Danced my fingers across his chest. Stroked the divots of his abs.

But never when sex is involved. Not once when his tongue licked me so well.

Or when he was buried deep inside me. Even when he took my mouth with such ruthless aggression that I thought I might break, my hands stayed firmly away from him.

This feels like the first time as I run them over his scalded flesh, feeling his heart beat like a thunderstorm against my palm. He hisses when I brush my thumb over his nipple. His flesh pebbles as I trace my fingers over the black lines covering his chest.

I lean forward, trailing my palm over his neck to his jaw, bringing my mouth to his. I lick the seam, then ask, “You said you don’t trust women, but do you trust me?” His nostrils flare, that internal battle still raging.

But he’s trying. Because I am. And I feel that. Confessing I wanted him to keep me? Allowing us to see what this is, damn the consequences is a big deal for me. It’s not the same as what he’s going through, but we’re both putting ourselves out there right now?

I reach beside him, where a condom appears out of nowhere. He watches my every move, his fingers buried into my thighs.

A sharp breath splits the silence when I grip his hard length. My eyes jump to his face, wanting to make sure he’s okay.

The last thing I want to do is upset him, trigger him. I don’t want to hurt him, but if I’m entirely honest, I’m a little scared of his reaction if I do.

His eyes, dark and wide, meet mine. The muscles in his jaw pulse like a heartbeat, and I second-guess everything.

Suddenly, I’m the one who can’t breathe because I can see it all written where his brows dip and his forehead creases. In the hurricane circling his eyes.

My nose burns, my own emotions shifting as I really understand the magnitude of this, and I wonder if it should be me. If I’m the person he should choose to trust. To want.

I’m a breath from letting go, doubt already loosening my grip, when his hand wraps around mine.

“Don’t stop.” His voice is rough, like gravel and broken glass.

He squeezes tighter, guiding me up and down a few times, another exaggerated inhale taking my own breath.

“Fuck.” He grips my other hand, the one with the condom.

Together, we slide it down his heavy shaft.

“Lie back,” I murmur, brushing my fingers over his jaw.

One side of his mouth lifts, a smirk breaking through the thick emotion hovering. “You want to ride me, baby?”

A huffed laugh fills the space between us. My head drops with embarrassment at being called out, but this…This feels natural, like the usual banter we share, not weighed down by the past. “Since the first time I saw you.”

“I figured that out when you ground your pussy on me in the locker room.”

It’s been two weeks, but it feels like a lifetime ago. Another chuckle tumbles from my lips, my head shaking. “Fair, but this isn’t about me. It’s about you.”

His chest vibrates with a deep rumble. He wraps one hand around my throat, the other yanking me to him. “It’s always about you, Halfpint. No fucking exceptions. If it weren’t, none of this would be happening.”

I start to respond, but his lips on mine prevent anything else from being said.

With little effort, he moves us until he’s half lying, half leaning against the headboard, and I’m straddling him.

Lust and desire twist our tongues, emotions neither of us intend to say, guide our hands as we explore this new understanding.

I lick across his rough, unshaven jaw. Open-mouth kisses trace across his collarbone. I mark his chest with gentle bites.

My hips tilt back, his impressive girth pressing against my core. My right hand stays firmly over his heart, feeling the thunderous rhythm beneath my palm. The left reaches between us, gripping him as I lower myself down. My head falls back, and I breathe through my nose at how deep he is.

But I don’t move. Instead, I lean forward, pressing my mouth to his chest, continuing where I left off. My lips wrap around his nipple, making him groan when my tongue flicks the metal piercing. His skin pebbles beneath my fingers as I trace the ridges and valleys of his abs.

He tilts his head when I latch onto his neck. Deep vibrations rumble from his chest, tickling my skin.

I reach for his sculpted face, brushing my thumb along his defined cheekbone. “Are you okay?”

His fingers weave through my hair, gripping the strands tightly, pulling me toward him so that our foreheads touch. “I’m good, baby.”

“If it gets to be too much—”

He cuts me off with a snort. “Halfpint, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you are emasculating the fuck out of me. You wanted to ride me, so stop talking, stop with the foreplay and bounce on my dick.”

“But I—”

“Ride. Me. Now.” It comes out gritted and strained.

My brows leap to my forehead, but my surprise only lasts a second before being replaced with a lustful moan when his cock twitches inside me.

I sit up, plant my hands on his chest, and roll my hips. Our eyes stay locked as I alternate between grinding and bouncing. His jaw is tense and tight, the tendons in his neck straining with his pleasure and restraint.

“Play with your tits, baby,” he growls. “Give me a show.”

I lean back, putting my hands on his thighs. Looking between us, I watch him disappear inside me, filling me to the brim. His hands grip me tight, assisting my movements as I give him the most intimate of lap dances, taking him in a little faster with each pivot.

My eyes shift, needing to see him…to make sure he’s okay. Spasms tickle my core when I see his gaze firmly locked on where we are joined.

“Fuck, the way your pussy fits me is perfection,” he mumbles, removing one hand from my side and sliding it between us.

I drop my attention back down as he spreads his fingers, rubbing them where we are connected. His thumb presses against my pulsing clit, and I cry out as a jolt of fire explodes between my legs, making me work harder, move faster.

My muscles burn, thighs quivering as he continues to work my clit, pressing the jewel against it in the most perfect of ways.

Breathing becomes difficult as I try to hold off a little longer, not ready for this to be over, spoiled by the torturous way he edges me to prolong the pleasure, then pushing me over the edge into the greatest freefall.

“God, you feel so good,” I whimper, bouncing hard, grinding faster despite my desire to make this go on forever. “I don’t want it to end, but…”

“Stop fighting it,” he demands. “Come. Squeeze me tight, baby.”

The world fractures, tilts, and erupts into blinding white light. It’s as if my spirit leaves my body, hovering between this plane and the next. A cataclysmic eruption melts my bones, turns my heart to ash, and rearranges every molecule of my being…to fit him.

Colors bleed into sound. Pleasure into sensation. Everything becomes him.

I can’t move. Can’t continue to chase the high he offers. My muscles spent from exertion.

So he does it for me, pulling me down as he continues to thrust into my spasming core, prolonging my bliss until I reach that point. The point of too much, too sensitive, and glorious with pleasure to the point of pain.

His favorite moment when my core contracts so tightly around him, it attempts to expel him from my body, but fails in his ruthless need to keep us joined. Together.

His thrusts lose their rhythm, becoming jerky and desperate. He pulls one final cry from me as he swells. A guttural roar erupts from him before he clamps his teeth down on my shoulder, surrendering to his release.

We lay wrapped around each other, motionless…shattered. The only sound is our heavy breaths trying to bring air into our lungs.

And for the first time in forever, there’s no stress. No fear. Just…utterly content .