Jaxon
Her apartment is small but neat, a faint hint of weed smoke still clinging to the air, one window partially open. I can see the end of a blunt in an ashtray on the window ledge, and I nod towards it. “Any of that left?”
She laughs. “I’ll roll you a fresh one, how about that? Go take a shower, and then I’ll fix up your hands.”
It’s been a long time since I’ve showered anywhere but my own bathroom or the gym. Pixie’s bathroom makes it clear that she lives alone—a countertop scattered with makeup brushes and containers, fresh towels hung up, all of it clean even if it’s a bit messy—which is hard to hold against her, considering how tiny the place is. The shower is filled with various soaps and shampoos with scents like strawberry and honey almond, and I wrinkle my nose, knowing I’m going to come out of here smelling like a freaking girl.
But I can feel the sweat and blood starting to dry on me and in my hair—which is stiff enough that it doesn’t so much as fall out of the knot I had it in as stick out awkwardly from the back of my head—and so the idea of a hot shower is suddenly enough to make me not care if I come out of it smelling like a fruit smoothie.
I linger in the shower longer than I really meant to, carefully avoiding my bruised and damaged hands as long as I can with the soap, wincing as the hot water runs over them, and the various other injuries I sustained in the fight—a split lip, the possible cracked rib, a spot on my cheekbone that will be bruised and swollen tomorrow. The hot water feels fucking amazing, and more than that, it allows me a minute to collect my emotions.
Just walking into this apartment was enough to awaken a deep yearning in me that I try to ignore most of the time, that feeling that I don’t belong in the place where I usually am. It reminds me of dreams I once almost believed could be a reality—a life free from my family, living in a small cramped place just like this, with a woman who would help piece me back together when I was broken. My dreams were never big ones like Dean’s or vengeful ones like Cayde’s. I just wanted simple things—but really, not so simple in the end. And it boiled down to the one thing I’ll never really have.
My freedom.
I grit my teeth, plunging my hands into my soapy hair regardless of the way it stings, welcoming the pain all over again. I think of Pixie out there waiting for me, of the way she kissed me, and my cock swells again, hardening until the head is almost pressed against the chiseled ridges of my abdomen. It’s almost enough to make me consider jerking off here in the shower, where I could imagine Athena, pretend this is our place, that she’s waiting for me out there, that we’ve escaped everything waiting for us back at the manor house.
But I don’t. I wrap my hand around my cock once, squeezing it, allowing myself one long, pleasurable stroke, wincing at the pain in my hand as I grip my length. And then I let go, steeling myself to go out there and let Pixie bandage me up and then leave.
When I step out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around my waist, Pixie is waiting at the tiny round table in her small kitchen, a first-aid kit open in front of her, two drinks in cheap glasses, and a lit blunt resting in an ashtray, a tendril of smoke curling up towards the ceiling.
“This is yours.” She nudges one of the glasses, which has about an inch of brown liquid in it, and a single ice cube. “It’s not expensive bourbon, but it’ll take the edge off.” Her own glass is full and dark, probably whiskey and coke, and my cock throbs at the thought of kissing her and tasting whiskey on her lips.
Pixie picks up the blunt, taking a hit off of it and holding it out. “As requested.”
I’ve never been one to smoke often, but there’s definitely something about it for taking the edge off. I take a deep hit, sucking the smoke down and feeling it fill up my lungs, and then blow it out, handing her back the blunt before picking up the glass and tossing the bourbon down in one gulp. She’s right, it’s cheap and burns all the way down, but it does dull the edges of the pain pulsing through me in multiple places.
She reaches for my hand as I sit down. Hers are gentler than expected, cool as she pours another slug of bourbon into my glass with her free hand and then tears open an alcohol pad, dabbing it over the broken skin on my knuckles. “I didn’t expect to see someone like you when I went there tonight,” she says, setting down the used pad and opening another. “You’re not like the usual guys fighting there.”
“No? What are they like?”
She shrugs. “You know. Tough guys. Guys with something to prove. Guys with small dicks who need to feel big. Guys who think women are prizes to be won.”
That last really stings, a lot more than the alcohol seeping into my broken skin and down my throat. I jerk my hand back, glaring at her. “What the fuck was that supposed to mean?”
Pixie frowns, reaching for my hand and pulling it back firmly into hers. “What? Am I wrong?”
I grimace. For a second, I’d thought maybe she knew more about me than she was letting on, that she was making a pointed jab at who I am, what I was supposed to do, what’s currently happening with Athena. But it seems like it was just an unfortunate comment. No reason to get bent out of shape.
“Well, I like to think I’m tough,” I tell her with a smirk, tossing down the rest of the whiskey. “And I guess maybe I have something to prove.” More than you’d know. “But as far as the dick goes, I promise you it’s not small.”
Pixie grins, laying a gauze pad down over my knuckles and starting to wind a bandage around them. “Oh? I didn’t think so, based on what I felt earlier.” Her eyes flick down to the towel around my waist. “But I wouldn’t mind getting a closer look.”
“I didn’t come here for that,” I warn her, pouring myself more whiskey this time as I reach for the blunt again.
“You’re telling me you don’t like to get laid after fights? You’d be the only guy to ever feel that way.”
I let out a long breath, looking over at her. “You’re awfully familiar for someone who just met me tonight.”
Pixie shrugs. “What can I say? I move fast.”
“Maybe I don’t.”
She pauses, looking up at me as she reaches for my other hand. “Fine. Suit yourself.”
When she’s finished with both of my hands, I take one more hit, standing up. We’re closer than I realized, and it puts her mouth level with my cock, which even soft presses against the towel pretty remarkably.
“Oh,” Pixie says softly, and before I can move, she reaches for the waistband of my towel, pulling me closer.