The bedroom is dark except for ambient light from the street. He sets me down beside the bed, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off his body, can hear the way his breathing has gone uneven. Then his hands are on me again, sliding under my shirt—the same clothes I've been wearing since this morning when I left my apartment.
"Can I?" he asks, fingers already at the hem, waiting for permission.
"Yes." The word comes out more desperate than I intended. "Yes, please, I need—"
I don't finish the sentence because he's already pulling my shirt over my head, tossing it somewhere behind me, his hands immediately going to the clasp of my bra. He gets it open with practiced efficiency, and then the fabric is gone, and I'm exposed in ways that should make me self-conscious but don't.
He's looking at me with that focused intensity I've come to recognize—the way he gives his complete attention to whatever matters most in the moment. But this time there's no professional assessment behind it, no surveillance protocol. Just want, undisguised and direct. His hands on my skin, the expression on his face that suggests he's been holding himself back from this for far too long.
"God, you're beautiful," he says, almost like a confession. "I've imagined this so many times and it's nothing compared to the reality. You make me forget everything else exists."
I reach for his shirt and start working the buttons open with fingers that aren't quite steady. "Your turn. I want to see you."
He helps me get the shirt off, reveals skin I only glimpsed briefly when I visited his apartment last week. He's broader than I expected, muscles defined in ways that speak to regular gymtime or physical work that keeps him conditioned. There's a scar across his ribs that looks old, another on his shoulder that might be from something recent. I trace them with my fingers, cataloging the evidence of a life I know almost nothing about beyond what surveillance has made him to me.
"From overseas," he says, catching my hand before I can explore further. "Different work, different threats. Nothing you need to worry about."
"I'm not worried. I'm memorizing." I pull him closer, eliminating the remaining space between us. "You've been watching me for weeks. Cataloging every detail. Now it's simply my tur–"
His mouth crashes into mine again, hot and demanding, tongue thrusting deep like he’s claiming territory he’s been denied for too damn long. I match his ferocity, nails raking over the hard ridges of his chest, feeling every flex and shudder ripple through muscle that’s been taut with restraint for weeks. This isn’t Gabriel’s cold, clinical touch—this is raw starvation. Jax devours me like he’s been surviving on pixels and shadows, and now he finally has warm, willing flesh under his hands.
His fingers tear at my jeans, popping the button, dragging the zipper down with a rasp that shoots straight to my clit. He pulls back just enough for our eyes to lock—dark, feral, asking.
“Yes,” I breathe, voice already wrecked. “Fucking take them off.”
He yanks jeans and panties down in one brutal tug, fabric scraping my thighs until I’m bare, slick and aching in the half-light. I kick the pile away and stand there, letting him drink me in—pupils blown, jaw clenched, the predator who’s watched mea hundred times on camera finally seeing the real thing dripping for him.
“My turn,” I growl, fingers already ripping his belt open. He helps, shoving jeans and boxers down until his cock springs free—thick, flushed, a bead of pre-cum already pearling at the slit. The sight of how desperately hard he is for me makes my cunt clench around nothing.
I shove him back onto the bed, straddle his thighs while he sits, forcing him to look up at me for once. Power surges through me like voltage.
“Lana—”
I slide away from his lap to my knees between his legs, hands spreading his thighs wider. "You've watched me," I say, voice low and filthy. "You've longed for me, now you're going to feel it."
I don’t wait. I take him in one slow, deliberate glide, opening my throat until my lips seal flush around the root of him, nose buried in the dark curls at his base, the raw masculine scent of him flooding my senses. His cock jerks hard against my tongue, thick and scorching, and a guttural “F-fuck, Lana—” rips out of him, half curse, half prayer.
His hips buck involuntarily, driving that last fraction deeper, and I moan around him—low and filthy, the vibration rolling through his shaft. The sound he makes in return is wrecked: a deep, animal groan that starts in his chest and tears out of his throat, fingers tightening in my hair like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.
I pull back almost to the tip, lips stretched wide, saliva shining on every inch I expose, then sink down again, slower this time, letting him feel every wet inch of my mouth claiming him. My tongue presses flat and firm along the underside, tracing thepulsing vein, swirling around the swollen head each time I rise. I suck hard—cheeks hollowing, ruthless—until his thighs shake under my palms and another broken “Jesus—fuck—” spills from him, voice cracking.
I hum again, deeper, letting the buzz travel straight into his balls that are already drawn up tight. His answering growl is pure desperation, hips rolling in tiny, helpless thrusts he can’t stop. Wet, obscene sounds fill the room—my mouth working him, slick and greedy, the soft pop every time I pull off to breathe, then the long, filthy slurp as I take him back down to the hilt.
“God—Lana—your mouth—” he chokes out, the words ragged, almost incoherent. Another shuddering groan, louder this time, when I swallow around him, throat fluttering, milking the head trapped deep inside. My own moan vibrates through him again, needy and raw, tasting the fresh bead of pre-cum that floods my tongue—salty, addictive, all him.
I could stay here forever, drowning in the sounds he makes: the hoarse gasps, the broken curses, the way my name keeps fracturing on his lips like he’s trying to hold onto sanity and failing spectacularly. Every twitch, every throb, every helpless jerk of his cock against my tongue is mine now—proof that the man who watched me for weeks is finally, completely undone by my mouth.
I hollow my cheeks again, tongue swirling the underside, sucking hard enough to make his thighs tremble. I memorize every reaction, every twitch of muscle, every choked groan, every time his cock pulses against my tongue when I hum around him.
“Lana—fuck—stop or I’m gonna—”
I pull off with a wet pop, lips swollen, saliva stringing from my mouth to his glistening cock. “Not yet,” I snarl. “I’m nowhere near done.”
I climb up and straddle him properly, my knees pinning his sides. His cock lies hot and heavy against my soaked folds. I grind once, twice, coating him in my wetness, making us both groan.
“Condom,” I demand, though I’m already shaking with need.
He fumbles for his wallet, hands unsteady, and tears the foil with his teeth. I roll it down his length slow and torturous, watching his abs clench with every inch I sheath.
