The apartment you shared with Jason was drenched in low shadows and quiet menace: glass, steel, and smoke. The lit-up city beyond the windows glowed like an open wound of iridescent purples and neon blues. Jason stalked in, the door slamming shut behind him like a verdict. Rain clung to him. His worn mahogany leather jacket hit the floor, his cherry red helmet followed, it clattered and rolled across the floor, cheeks flushed and his pupils blown-out swallowing any color, white and raven sweat-slicked hair glued to his forehead and temples. His boots thudded heavy against the dark-wood flooring as he looked up and saw… you.
His girl. His Princess. His absolute fucking brat. Sitting there, perched on the edge of the dark couch like sin and temptation wrapped in hand-stitched custom black silk from Milan. The same fucking dress from the photos. That clingy little black number that hit only the tops of your thighs, strap sliding down your left shoulder, the fabric pulling tight across your chest and dipped waist, showing off every curve he missed with an ache. The same beloved red-bottomed Christian Louboutin heels he’d dropped nearly $2K just for you to have adorning your freshly pedicured feet. Juicy clear E.L.F plumping gloss smudged on soft lips. Hair sleek. Pupils blown wide and dilated.
Waiting.
Breathing.
Wanting.
“Look at you…” Jason’s voice was a growl, jaw clenching. His gloves were still on as he stood in his tactical pants and grey compression long-sleeve with the dark red bat symbol stretched across his chest, his body built like a goddamned brick shithouse, he could crush you in one hand like it was nothing. Towering over at 6’4” and so much heavier… bigger. Hulking. His eyes flicked down, drinking you in. “Acting all sweet now, huh? What happened to that mouth you had three hours ago in our texts, brat?”
You blinked up at him, playing sweet and innocent, long and thick mascara painted lashes fanning wide as you smirked, legs crossing slow. “You liked it, Jacey…” A smug look on your face as you whispered tantalizingly, you were completely unapologetic and honestly? Proud of yourself, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling with indignation. “Don’t lie to me, Jaybird.”
Jason stepped over you, casting shadows over your little perimeter you were sat within, blocking out the light. The late-night lights of Gotham playing across his face from the windows like spilled watercolor, the faint scars that never fully healed painted across his skin, the slash in his eyebrow, the one by his mouth. His eyes dark, lips not even twitching to a smirk. He was already rock-hard, straining against his cargos zipper like Hell on Earth. He loomed, rain-soaked and furious and starving. Gloved fingers curled under your chin, yanking your face up to his, not caring to be gentle with you. You could handle it, he knew you could.
“Take off the fuckin’ panties. Keep the heels.” His deep, Jersey-accented voice sent your nerves dancing down your spine and pooling in your tummy. You obeyed, breathing shaky as you slipped down your underwear, the pathetic excuse for them. It was more like a black scrap of Victoria Secret lace with a strap.
He tugged you forward until you were kneeling on the hardwood, pressed and straddled around his boot on the floor like a pretty little offering. He was dropped back onto the couch, spreading his legs wide. Jason grinned. Sharp, mean, and dark. “You wanna play games, babydoll, then play. Ride it.” His boot. Still slick from the rain and patrol. The toe pressed up between your thighs, right against your bare heat.
You whimpered before you even moved. Knees trembled as you straddled his boot, heat blooming across your skin when the toe of it pressed just right against your swollen little clit. He leaned back and watched, his massive hand palming himself through his tactical pants.
“That’s it. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Got my phone filled with pictures of you in this little fuck-me dress. Tits out, showing me your perfect ass, sending ‘em while I was out on rooftops to keep you and this God-forsaken city safe.” His voice was low, husky… scolding, watching as you whimpered, cheeks turning crimson at his strict tone. “You thought you were teasing me, babygirl, but all you did was earn yourself right damn here, humping my boot like a bitch in heat, you have no one else to blame but you, huh.”
You rocked, hips twitching, clit catching on the leather just right. Your breath stuttered. “Faster.” He snapped. “I want that pretty cunt soaking my boot, Princess.” You moaned, soft, high, and pathetic, gripping his calve for leverage. Your thighs trembled, grinding harder against the pressure. Lashes fluttering.
Jason’s hand shot out, burying in your hair, yanking your head back. “You just had to be a little tease tonight, didn’t you?” He growled against your throat. “Wanted to show me what’s mine while I wasn’t around to claim it.”
“You don’t get to beg yet.” He said, patting your cheek with a firm hand, something boarding on a slap but not quite as you choked on a cry. “You earn it.” His lips brushing and mouthing at you ear. “You feel how wet you are for me, sweet girl? Look at you; grinding on my fucking boot— you’re so beautiful. You’re the only thing I’ll ever fuckin’ need, pretty thing.”
“Jason-p-please—!”
Jason groaned, low and primal, and yanked you off his boot with one hand, dragging you up into his lap like you weighed nothing. Straddling him now, dress hiked around your hips, soaked cunt pressed hot against his zipper and his hard-on. “You did so good, baby. Look at you… fuck, you’re a mess.” He wiped your smeared gloss with his thumb. “But you’re my mess, huh?”
You nodded fast, already feeling a little dumbed out and desperate . “Yours. Only yours.”
“Damn right.” He fisted your hair once more, forcing you to look down at the wet trail you’d left all over his boot. “Now thank me for letting you ruin my shoe.”
Your lips parted, breath shaking. “Thank you...”
“Good girl… now let’s see if you can earn at least one orgasm tonight, no promises.” He kissed you. Brutal and deep. And when you moaned into his mouth?
