Jagger
I grind my teeth. Darkness surrounds us. I have shit on my chest that I need to get off.
My parents always said never go to bed angry with someone. Kind of fucked up to remember that now, after all these years.
The only absolution to pissing me off is usually by me shooting my enemy. I cannot believe Mikayla Bryant demanded I rape her. Inside, I’m a raging lion, ready to slap the sullen look off her. I concentrate on the graduation photo from the X Member profile request.
That Mikayla Bryant was the epitome of confidence and beauty.
This one is gorgeous, damn she’s gorgeous, but who becomes so dead inside that they don’t care about how they’re treated. I can’t even fathom what I’ve done to make her believe I’d rape her. I mean, yes, I’d just killed at least 5 people in front of her, and one of them was her boyfriend, but violence and murder is way different than rape.
I feel like lying on my side, so I yank my left arm, which I briefly forgot is connected to her right wrist.
She growls.
I grin. There’s a little fight in her left. I prefer the fight in her versus the woman I just cornered in the bathroom, fuck that. Yes, I’ll dirty up a damsel in distress, but I prefer my women more like Ava Sinclair. She grabs a bull by the balls. In my case, she massages instead of claws and squeezes.
The grin on my lips dies after a few moments. My cock is weighed down against the mattress beside me. I’ve only had the faintest taste of her pussy.
It was malva… addicting, the sweetest savor. It was like honey, and even though I don’t eat pussy, if she were willing, I’d stretch those thighs over my shoulders and drink of her. Feast and … fucking savor. I rub my fingers together. The tight fit of her is rooted to memory.
Tight. And wet. Shit, I stretched her enough inserting a second finger. My cock is going to butcher that virgin pussy. Wait! What the hell am I thinking? I’m not “permitted” to screw Mikayla Bryant.
I fist a handful of the hair at my crown, my growl blows the one she just issued to smithereens.
An hour later, the tiny, exhausted whimpers of her fresh tears fade away. Mikayla is sound asleep. I lie on my back and pull her closer to me. I can’t seem to help myself.
I bite my lip and reach for my cock. My hand is dry, but my meat is seeping. It’s so taut. I grit my teeth, hating Ava for placing me in this predicament. I’ve never fought for pussy. Legs fly open for me, but I’m lying in bed with a virgin who hates my guts. Yet, the only image in my mind is Mikayla Bryant as I whack my erection in anger.
***
On the morning of day two, Mikayla is fully cuddling into my arms. Holding me tightly to her. Her lips are inches away from mine, and she’s in rapid eye movement sleep. My thumb is brushing across her mouth before my brain catches on. The boner I’m sporting puts all the other ones I’ve ever had to shame. I’ve had international, exotic pussy, and yet there’s a fucking tepee spearing against my pajama pants for this untouched innocent lying next to me. I deftly move her head from my shoulder.
She parts her lips. She murmurs something intelligible. Now, she’s not at peace but crying softly in her dream. Hell no. I don’t give enough shit about her to wake her from whatever horrors she’s dreaming of. I can’t. I’m probably the cause…
So, making sure not to rouse her awake, I couldn’t unlock the handcuffs and get out of the bed fast enough. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, my parents are on my mind. As a child, I’d look at them. I could just about feel how in love they were with each other. They’d be as ashamed of me as Mikayla Bryant was last night.
I’m a monster who lacks social graces. Evolution has genetically predisposed me to stake claim to what doesn’t belong to me. My parents are dead. I need to shake them from my mind and stop all thoughts of reconfiguring the childhood in which I was raised.
The real Jace and Alisha Johansson finished each other’s sentences. My father, Jace, had unruly dark blond hair; my mother, Alisha’s hair was on the lighter side, not quite as white as Ava’s. And my mother was the polar opposite of Ava, the only woman I’ve connected with in the past. Alisha, teacher and director of the church choir—amongst other things— would’ve been repulsed by Ava Sinclair. My mother never had a hateful bone in her body. My father was more than capable with a gun. His morals by far outshine mine. Selling a woman to the Zihula nation, without her consent, for money and a fucking engine—never.
Damnit, I can’t get my parents out of my mind, now. The disappointment in my father’s eyes when he saw the blood oath marking on the palm of my left hand was tangible. Though they died a few years after I joined the organization, I never crossed paths with them after I joined. And still, I use his first name when out. It helps remind me that I should respond when my name is called. I switch up the last name at times. My current surname, Windhoek, was his favorite beer, hailing from all the way in Namibia.
I was a fucking disgrace to my father. Dead to him years before he and my mother were murdered, and though I keep his rigid beliefs from my mind, I can’t stop myself from recalling the little things like Windhoek Lager, or more importantly big things like I know they’d both love Mikayla.
I grit my teeth as hate for myself fills me.
What the heck is wrong with you Jagger? You should’ve demanded that Ava schedule a meeting with the board members of X Member organization. It isn’t like I’m able to lawyer up, but ruining a life… I'm ruining the life of a young woman who has something going for herself. I’m a fucking dick.
I head to the shower. The luxurious bathroom is more than suffocating. I get inside and allow the hot steam to slam down on me. Leaning against the glass wall I plead with my cock to not desire the untouchable Mikayla Bryant.
If I had declined the mission, the rules call for my death.
If I touch Mikayla the way my body is screaming to, the same rules apply. And forget my desires. Even as I lather with expensive soap, I feel dirty and unworthy of her. I’m a man who loves to murder people. She was on the path to saving people, stitching them up, mending them, making sure they live. Whereas I’d rather tear them apart, limb from bloody limb… and I enjoy it.
Nothing I’m trying to use to convince myself away from thoughts of her are working. My imagination still burns with the thought of Mikayla’s hand stroking my cock instead of my own. The sparkle in her dark brown eyes tells me that the feisty minx just about caught rhythm to bring me to the brink of pleasure and reel in my desire again. Going fast… faster and then slower.
She rolls my balls in one hand while the other pumps at my cock. Keeping with her steady rhythm her thumb rubs along my crown masterfully and she moans about just how hard, just how fucking huge I am.
She works at my cock until my toes clinch along the marble floor, and jets of my hot come splashes out. The side of my fist presses into the marble wall as I realize it is only me.
If it were her, she would be sloppy in her innocence and without any real technique. But damn it, teaching her how to fuck the way I like it just might have me coming faster than a more seasoned woman.
“She’s not yours, Jag,” I growl to myself.
She could be. With that thought my cock is already hardening again. That tease of a taste I had last night sends an unstoppable craving slamming through my veins.
Again, I tell myself that Mikayla Bryant, princess of the Nivean nation and future queen of an even greater land does… not…belong to me.
Time escapes me as I get out of the shower and wrap a towel around myself. Voices travel toward me. My footsteps slide over the marble floor as I hurry out of the bathroom, clutching the towel against me. The voice is definitely Mikayla’s, the other one, takes a few seconds to decipher. It’s the effeminate concierge. They’re standing at the doorway.
Mikayla tosses her head back, her hair drapes over her shoulder, and she’s moaning. And my cock is as devilish as ever, begging to dominate her.
“This waffle tastes amazing, Harry. Thank you so much for breakfast. Flip flops or any pair of sandals will work just fine.”
“Of course, I’ll have your shoes available when the dry-cleaning returns. Again, Mrs. Windhoek I apologize for the delay.”
In my haste to get to her, I stop the mad dash just as Harry gives me an odd look. Then Mikayla’s glare cuts over to me. I look like a fucking idiot.