The stairs creaked, slow and even, each step louder than the last. My skin went electric, nerves dancing in anticipation. By the time Jo reached the landing, my heart was going so fast I thought I might pass out.
He paused in the doorway, arms crossed, filling up the space with a calm that was anything but. He looked at me for a long, long moment, and there was nothing gentle in it.
“Take off your clothes,” he said.
I froze. “What?”
He stepped forward, not breaking eye contact. “You heard me.”
The order hit somewhere deep in my spine. I waited for the anger, the old familiar urge to fight, but it didn’t come. Instead, I felt my skin flush, my cock twitching to life as if it’d been waiting for this exact moment since the day I met him.
Jo’s gaze flicked to my hands, then back to my face. “I won’t repeat myself.”
The words were low, soft, but the authority in them was a hammer blow.
I moved, slow and clumsy, unbuttoning my shirt with fingers that didn’t want to work. The fabric stuck to my shoulders, sweat gone cold against my skin. I stripped it off and let it fall to the floor. My hands went to my jeans, but I hesitated.
Jo just watched, silent, arms still folded. “You want me to help?” he asked, and there was a challenge in the question, a dare.
I shook my head, managed to pop the button, and wriggled out of the denim, careful not to wince when the waistband scraped over the worst of the bruises. Underneath, I was already half hard, the outline of it obvious in my briefs.
He noticed, and the edge of his mouth curled up, slow and mean. “Keep going.”
I swallowed, slid the underwear down, and kicked it aside. I stood there, naked, every scar and tattoo and old fuck-up on display, shivering despite the heat in my cheeks.
Jo took his time looking me over. His eyes swept the length of my body, slow and deliberate. I felt myself flush even harder, every nerve ending humming with embarrassment and excitement.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just let the silence build, filling the room with its weight. Then he turned, walked into the bathroom, and left the door open.
For a second, I just stood there, feeling like an idiot. But then I heard the sink running, and the unmistakable sound of a zipper coming down.
Jo came back out a minute later, stark naked. It was the first time I’d seen him in full light—shoulders broad and solid, chest dusted with hair, thighs thick enough to break bones. There were scars, too, white and puckered on his arms and ribs, a road map of every fight he’d ever survived.
He crossed the room, every step controlled, unhurried. He stopped in front of me, so close I could smell the clean, sharp tang of soap and aftershave.
He reached out, ran a thumb over my cheek, then down my throat. His hand was huge, fingers rough from a lifetime of wrench work, and the pressure was just shy of painful.
He looked me in the eye. “Do you trust me?”
I wanted to say yes, but the word stuck. It was too big, too real. I’d never trusted anyone—not even my own family. Not really. But I nodded, and when that wasn’t enough, I whispered, “Yeah.”
He smiled, not soft, but genuine. “Good,” he said, and let his hand slide down my chest, stopping just above my heart. “On the bed,” he said. “Now.”
And I went, because that’s what you do when someone finally gives you what you want.
Jo didn’t waste a second. He herded me to the bed, pressed my shoulders until I sat, then knelt in front of me, one hand on my knee, the other digging through the nightstand drawer.
He pulled out a strip of black cloth. The sight of it made my pulse jackhammer.
“Blindfold?” he asked, like it was an option.
I nodded. I’d have said yes to anything right then.
He tied it slow, careful not to catch my hair, the cloth snug enough to blot out all light. My other senses flared—smell, taste, the scrape of his skin on mine. I couldn’t see shit, but I could feel the weight of his stare, burning holes into me.
He stood. “Hands,” he said.
I held them up, palms open.
