Chapter 10: Mark of Ownership
The slap cracked through the loft, a sharp, dry sound that seemed to hang in the oil-scented air. Jax’s head snapped to the side, a faint red bloom already spreading across his stubbled cheek. He didn’t move, didn’t release her. A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips, his blue eyes igniting with a fire that was equal parts admiration and pure, unadulterated hunger.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, the words a low rumble in his chest against hers.
He moved so fast her vision blurred. One arm hooked behind her knees, the other cinched around her back, and he lifted her as if she were weightless. Her gasp was swallowed by the sudden movement. Two long strides and he dropped her onto the vast expanse of the black leather couch. Her back met the cool, worn surface, her dark hair fanning out like spilled ink.
“Let’s see if you can handle me claiming you,” he purred, the previous violence in his voice softened to a predatory tease. He loomed over her, a tattooed silhouette against the single hanging bulb, his shoulders blocking out the dim light. “Now sit the fuck down, Princess.”
She tried to surge up, a silent snarl on her lips, but a single, large hand pressed flat against her sternum pinned her down. The pressure was inexorable, a warm, inescapable weight. Her green eyes, wide and blazing, locked onto his. She drew in a sharp breath, chest rising against his palm in defiance. Then she spat the words, her voice a rough, unused weapon she was finally wielding. “Fuck you.”
The mischief in her eyes was a dare, a challenge that went straight to his core.
His laugh was a short, dark sound. “Oh, I plan to.”
In one fluid motion, he shifted his weight. His knees settled on the couch on either side of her hips, caging her in. He caught her wrists as she tried to strike again, his calloused fingers encircling them with effortless strength, pressing them into the leather above her head. Held there, she was utterly exposed, the long line of her body arched in a taut curve. The old scratches on her back, cleaned so tenderly in the shower, were a faded history beneath this new, electric present.
He leaned down, his nose skimming the column of her throat, inhaling the scent of her skin, of turpentine and defiance. His mouth trailed lower, over the sharp collar bone, down the sensitive plane of her stomach. She squirmed, a futile, beautiful struggle that only made him grip her wrists tighter. His teeth found the sensitive, unmarked skin of her hip, just above the jut of bone. He didn’t bite, not yet. He grazed the spot with a deliberate, shocking pressure, a promise and a threat rolled into one.
A sharp gasp escaped her, all her fight momentarily suspended by the shocking intimacy of the act.
He lifted his head, his blue eyes dark as a stormy sea, fixed on hers. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a raw, possessive intensity that stole the air from the room. He growled the words into the space between their lips, each syllable a branding iron.
“This is mine now.”
“This is mine now.”
The claim, low and final, vibrated through her skin. He released her wrists, but the implicit command in his gaze held her in place. His hands, those same calloused hands that had trembled while washing blood from her back, now began a different kind of exploration.
They slid down her arms with a possessive surety, mapping the delicate skin of her inner elbows, the flutter of her pulse. His thumb stroked the swell of her hip, right over the imprint of his teeth, a soothing counterpoint to the sting. Lila watched him, her breath coming in shallow hitches, the defiance in her green eyes softening into a wary, captivated heat.
“You gonna fight me for every inch, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice a rough caress. He didn’t wait for an answer.
His mouth found the sensitive cord of her neck, not biting, but sucking with a slow, devastating pressure that made her spine arch off the leather. A broken sound escaped her, part gasp, part sigh. He soothed the spot with his tongue, then traced a path downward, his stubble scraping a line of fire across her collarbone. Each touch was a calculated deduction, a stripping away of her layers of control.
She trembled.
It started deep within her core, a fine, uncontrollable vibration that betrayed the stillness of her form. Her fingers, previously clenched, splayed against the cool leather, seeking an anchor. Jax saw it, felt it, and a dark, satisfied hum resonated in his chest. He shifted lower, his knees spreading her thighs with an unyielding gentleness, making space for himself in the cradle of her hips.
His eyes, locked on hers, were endless pools of blue intent. One hand slid beneath the small of her back, lifting her into the heat of his mouth as he took her through the damp fabric of her underwear. The shock of it—the intimacy, the deliberate slowness—wrenched a sharp cry from her throat. Her head fell back, a curtain of dark hair obscuring her face.
“Jax.” His name was a fractured thing, barely audible.
He lifted his head, his lips glistening. “Again.”
He didn’t relent, his tongue crafting a torturous, expert rhythm against her. The world narrowed to the slick friction of his mouth, the creak of the couch, the raw sound of her own breathing. Pleasure coiled, tight and terrifying, deep in her belly. It was a precipice, and he was building it beneath her with every stroke.
Her hips jerked, seeking, begging without words. A high, thin whine pierced the air. She was coming apart, the quiet artist unraveled into a raw bundle of nerve endings. Her hands flew to his hair, not to push, but to clutch, her fingers tangling in the short, dark strands as if he were the only solid thing in a dissolving world.
“Please.” The word was a ragged exhalation, torn from a place of utter surrender.
He slowed, drawing a final, lingering kiss from her before rising up her body, the weight of him a delicious anchor. He nudged her chin up, forcing her tear-blurred eyes to meet his. “Please, what?”
Her lips parted, trembling. The proud, silent woman was gone, replaced by this pleading, wanting creature he’d sculpted from need. Her voice was a raw whisper, scraped from her soul.
“Please, Jax.”
“Please, what?” he repeated “use your words princess.”
He watched the internal war play across her features—the fluttering pulse in her throat, the desperate part of her lips, the way her green eyes, still wet, darted between his as if searching for salvation in the very thing devouring her. The quiet artist who spoke through paintings was being asked to render herself in sound.
“You.” The word was a breath, barely there. She swallowed, her throat working. “I want you. All of you.”
A profound stillness settled over him. The playful dominance, the sharp teasing, it all melted away, replaced by something hotter and infinitely more dangerous. Her confession, ripped from the core of her silence, disarmed him completely. He released her chin, his hand coming up to cup her jaw, his thumb stroking away a traitorous tear that escaped the corner of her eye.
“You have me,” he said, the roughness in his voice now stripped bare, leaving only a raw truth. “You’ve had me since I first saw paint on your knuckles.”
Then he kissed her. It was not like before. This was a surrender of its own, a deep, consuming seal over the vow she’d just uttered. His tongue traced the seam of her lips and she opened for him with a helpless sigh, her hands rising to clutch at his shoulders, her fingers digging into the hard muscle beneath his shirt. He tasted of coffee and her, and the reality of it broke something loose inside her chest.
He broke the kiss only to yank his own shirt over his head, the fabric catching briefly on his wrists before he tossed it aside. The scars and tattoos she’d only glimpsed were now on full display—a faded map of a life she was only beginning to understand. She didn’t look at them with fear, but with a reverent curiosity, her fingertips reaching out to trace a raised line across his ribs.
He caught her hand, pressing her palm flat over the steady, pounding beat of his heart. “That’s yours, too.”
Her other hand went to the button of his jeans, her movements clumsy with urgency. He helped her, shoving the denim down his hips, and then he was free, hot and heavy against her thigh. She gasped at the feel of him, her eyes widening. He was every inch the Reaper, forged in violence and heat, and he was offering himself to her silence.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice gravel.
She dragged her gaze from his body back to his face. The intensity there held her captive.
“This isn’t about marking what’s mine anymore,” he said, shifting to settle between her legs, the blunt head of him pressing against her slick, aching heat. He didn’t enter her. He just held there, a torturous promise. “This is you taking what’s yours. You understand? You take me.”
The command reframed everything. It wasn’t a conquest; it was an offering. Her defiance melted, not into submission, but into a fierce, claiming grace. She nodded, a sharp, decisive movement. Then she arched her hips, taking the first inch of him with a low, torn cry.
A ragged groan was punched from his lungs. His forehead dropped to hers, his eyes screwed shut as he fought for control. “Christ, Lila. Easy.”
But she wasn’t interested in easy. The feeling of him, stretching her, filling the hollow ache she’d carried for years, unleashed a feral determination. She rolled her hips, drawing him deeper, her nails scoring his back. She took him, slowly, completely, until he was buried to the hilt and she was full of him, their bodies fused.
He began to move, a slow, relentless rhythm that was neither gentle nor brutal, but perfectly inescapable. Each stroke was a question, and her body answered with a shuddering, clutching yes. The couch groaned beneath them, a rhythmic creak that matched their ragged breathing. The single bulb above them swayed, casting moving shadows over his straining back, over her legs wrapped tightly around his waist.
He watched her face, mesmerized by every fleeting expression—the pinch of pleasure-pain, the dazed wonder, the moment her eyes lost focus and she stared past him at some unseen point in the dark rafters. He angled his hips, seeking, and found the spot that made her cry out, a sharp, broken sound that was better than any symphony.
“There?” he growled.
She could only nod, her hair sticking to her damp temples.
“Say it.”
“There,” she sobbed, the word shredded. “Right there, Jax, please—”
He granted her plea, setting a punishing pace that chased the coiled tension in her core. The world burned down to the slap of skin, the scent of sex and leather, the fractured sounds she made with every drive of his body into hers. He felt her tightening around him, the flutter that signaled her undoing.
“Come on,” he urged, his own control fraying, his voice thick. “Give it to me. Give me everything.”
It was the final permission she needed. The climax detonated through her, a silent, devastating rupture that whitened her vision. Her mouth opened in a soundless scream, her body bowing off the couch, every muscle taut as a wire. He held her through it, watching her shatter, his name a ghost on her lips.
Her climax pulled his own from him. With a final, deep thrust, he followed her over, a guttural roar tearing from his throat as he spilled into her, his big body shuddering violently. He collapsed onto her, careful to keep his weight on his forearms, his face buried in the curve of her neck. Their sweat-slicked skin slid together, hearts hammering a frantic, slowing rhythm against each other.
The silence that followed was different. It wasn't her old, guarded silence. It was a saturated, breathless quiet, thick with the echoes of what they’d just shared.
Slowly, he shifted to his side, taking her with him, pulling her back against the solid wall of his chest. He dragged a worn blanket from the back of the couch over them. His arm was a heavy, secure band around her waist, his fingers splayed possessively over her stomach.
Her breathing began to even out, her limbs leaden. In the warm, dark safety of his hold, the last of her walls crumbled to dust. She had given him her body, her voice, her trust. She had given him the story behind the scratches, the fear, the need.
She had given him everything.
He nuzzled the damp hair at her temple, his lips brushing her skin. "I got you," he murmured, the words a vow into the darkness.
"I got you," he murmured, the words a vow into the darkness.
His breath warmed the shell of her ear, a steady rhythm that slowly synced with her own. The heavy, satisfied stillness of their bodies was a new language. Lila traced the ink on the forearm draped across her, her fingers trembling not from fear, but from the aftershocks that still hummed in her blood. The silence was no longer empty. It was full of him.
She shifted, turning within the cage of his arms until she faced him. The leather sighed beneath them. In the dim light, his features were softened, the harsh lines of his history blurred by shadow and satiation. Her green eyes, clear now, roamed over his face as if committing it to memory, not to canvas, but to some deeper part of her that had been waiting.
Her palm found his cheek, the one she’d struck. She stroked the skin there lightly. A question without sound.
He caught her hand, kissing the center of her palm. “Worth it,” he said, his voice sleep-roughened. “To hear you.”
She smiled then, a slow, real thing that transformed her face. It was a rarity, and seeing it felt like a victory he hadn’t known he needed. She leaned in, closing the scant inches between them, and kissed him. It was not a kiss of passion, but of discovery. Soft, lingering, tasting the salt of his skin and the echo of her own name.
Her leg slid over his hip, drawing him closer. Her body, still thrumming and sensitive, sought the solid heat of him again. Her mouth grew more insistent, her hands drifting down the hard plane of his back, pulling. She needed the pressure, the proof, the connection to remain unbroken.
He broke the kiss with a low, amused sound deep in his chest. He understood. He’d created this hunger, and now it was a loop, feeding itself. Her eyes were dark, pupils swallowing the green, fixed on his with a single-minded intensity that bypassed thought.
SHE COULDN'T GET ENOUGH OF HIM.
“Mmm, greedy,” he purrs.
His hand slid down to grip the back of her thigh, hiking it higher around him. He was already hard again against her stomach, a testament to his own inexhaustible want. “You want more, baby? Already?” He nipped at her lower lip. “You’re gonna feel this tomorrow.”
“Good,” she whispered, the word a hot breath against his mouth. It was all the answer he required.
This time was different. There was no fight, no conquest. It was a mutual claiming, a slow, deep joining that felt less like taking and more like returning. He moved inside her with a languid, rolling rhythm that made her whimper, her forehead pressing against his. Her fingers twisted in the sheets they hadn’t made it to.
“Look at me,” he breathed, and she did. Her gaze was unfocused, drunk on sensation. “Stay right here with me.”
Every stroke was a conversation. Her hips rose to meet his, a graceful, urgent counter-rhythm. The sounds she made were small, punched-out things—gasps, moans, his name—a symphony replacing her old silence. He watched her come undone a second time, watched the flutter of her eyelids, the part of her lips, the exquisite tension tightening every muscle in her slender frame.
He followed her over, his release a quiet, shuddering collapse into her warmth. They lay tangled, breathless, the amber light from the bulb painting their sweat-slicked skin in gold.
Minutes passed, or maybe hours. The distant, metallic clang from the garage below finally pierced their haze. Reality, with its oil and gasoline and unfinished motorcycles, waited. Jax stirred, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, right where a faint bruise was blooming. “Coffee,” he said. “And you need to eat something.”
She made a faint sound of protest, burrowing closer.
He chuckled, the vibration rumbling through her. “Up, Princess. My couch is a death trap for sore muscles.” He slid out from beneath her and stood, a tall, tattooed figure moving through the shadows with a feline grace. He pulled on his jeans, leaving them undone, and fetched two mugs.
Lila watched him, propped on an elbow. The domesticity of the act, in this raw space, was more intimate than what they’d just shared. He moved with an unthinking competence, his scars on full display in the light near the small kitchenette. The Reaper, making coffee for her.
He brought a mug over, sitting on the edge of the couch. He held it out, his blue eyes scanning her face, her body, the new marks he’d left beside the old wounds. “How’s the back?”
She took the mug, the heat seeping into her hands. “Sore.” Her voice was a little raw. “Different sore.”
He nodded, a shadow passing behind his eyes—the memory of the shower, the pink water, his own helpless rage. He reached out and gently pushed her hair over one shoulder, exposing the line of her spine. He leaned in and pressed his lips to the most prominent scratch, a kiss that was an apology and a promise.
“She’s gone,” he said quietly, firmly, against her skin. “She touches you again, she’s dead. That’s not a figure of speech, Lila.”
She believed him. The calm certainty in his voice was more frightening than any shout. She shivered, but not from fear. From the absolute security of it. She took a sip of coffee. It was strong, bitter, perfect.
“I need to go downstairs,” he said, nodding toward the garage sounds. “Got a carb rebuild I promised by noon.” He watched her over the rim of his own mug. “You can stay. Sleep. Paint if you want. There’s a sketchbook and some pencils in the drawer by the bed. Don’t touch my tools.”
The last part was a soft command, the kind she loved. Her defiance sparked, mild and warm. “Or what?”
He set his mug down with a deliberate click. He leaned in, caging her against the cushions again, but his eyes were playful. “Or I’ll have to find a creative way to convince you to behave.” He kissed her, deep and thorough, until she was breathless. “Stay.”
He stood, grabbed a grey t-shirt from the floor, and pulled it on. At the door leading to the garage stairs, he paused, looking back at her. She was curled on his couch, holding his coffee, her hair a dark cloud around her shoulders, her eyes watching him with an open, quiet ownership that mirrored his own.
He pointed two fingers at her, a casual gun. “Mine,” he said.
Then he was gone, his boots thudding down the wooden stairs. The door clicked shut, leaving her in the sudden, profound quiet. The smell of him, of them, was on her skin, in the blanket. She finished the coffee, each sip a new grounding.
She rose, her body protesting in a dozen delicious ways. She found the sketchbook and pencils where he’d said. She didn’t go to the bed. She sat at his workbench, amidst the wrenches and greasy parts. She opened the book to a clean page.
Her pencil hovered. Then she began to draw, not the abstract emotions she usually poured out, but lines that formed the stark angle of a jaw, the intense set of eyes, the curve of a shoulder under ink. She drew the story of the night, not with blood or tears, but with the stark, claiming truth of graphite. She drew until the sounds from below became a comforting rhythm, a heartbeat under the floorboards, and she knew she was, finally, home.