Page 54 of Shattered Hate

“Stop clenching.” Daxton sighs for the third time today. I can see he’s mildly frustrated as he works the tattoo gun over my skin.

“Stop being you,” I snap back without a second thought, my words sharp. It’s typical for me—talk first, think later. Nailed it to a fuckingT.

The buzzing of the tattoo gun halts as Daxton turns his head slightly to check if anyone else is in the room, but it’s just the two of us. The bright glow of the overhead lights casts shadows across the walls.

“You can’t punch me while I’m tattooing you, Tray,” he says, a hint of amusement creeping into his statement.

“Who said I want to punch you?” I lean forward, a playful smirk spreading across my lips as I inch closer to him. “Who says I’m not holding myself back from jumping off this chair and pushing you to your knees so you can remind me how well you swallow me down?” Daxton’s eyes flare with intensity, and the heat between us is palpable.

“Don’t,” he warns, his voice weak and raspy, betraying his resolve.

“How’s your throat?” I ask, my smirk growing wider.

He doesn’t respond with words, just a huff of air as he turns the tattoo gun back on. The buzzing noise fills the room once more as if it can dampen the undeniable spark that crackles between us. That heat that feels like it could burn through lead.

He reaches a sensitive spot on my arm, and a sharp hiss escapes my lips. I notice a small smirk playing on his lips before he continues his work with the tattoo needle. The buzzing fills the room again.

“You enjoy seeing me in pain, Quiet Boy?” I ask, meeting his eyes. His jaw clenches tightly. I watch as the dark depths of midnight return to his eyes, swallowing the green that was there moments ago. It’s clear—he likes it. “What do you want to do to me right now, Daxton?” I whisper. He pauses, setting the tattoo gun on the table with a deliberate thud before standing up.

“Strangle you, honestly. Now let me finish this,” he replies, turning his back on me as though that will hide the way he tucks himself up. But I know better. I’ve had to hide my own reactions countless times.

“Does it turn you on, seeing me in pain?” I ask, pushing further.

“You manage that just by being you,” he murmurs, running his fingers through his hair with a heavy sigh. He doesn’t turn back immediately, and I can’t quite say where this surge of boldness comes from. Max, or anyone, could walk through the door any second, but the want is too overwhelming. I’m hard as a rock, my need undeniable.

With a quick motion, I undo my jeans, freeing my aching erection from my boxer shorts. My right arm remains resting on the table where Daxton was working. I begin to stroke myself, the sensation electric.

“Daxton,” I groan, the name escaping my lips like a plea.

He spins around abruptly, his eyes widening with shock as they dart to the door.

“What the hell are you doing?” he hisses, unable to tear his gaze away from the rhythmic motion of my hand.

“Taking care of this.” I moan, my hand moving rapidly, the friction driving me nearly over the edge.

“Trayton, stop.” Daxton’s feeble plea makes me chuckle under my breath.

“Finish the tattoo, Dax,” I insist, slowing the pace of my hand, desire pooling in my gut. A need to release tightens every muscle. When did being near him start affecting me like this?

“Trayton,” Daxton growls, his eyes glued to my hard dick pumping in my hand, an involuntary lick of his lips betraying his interest.

“Daxton,” I growl back, the tension thick between us. “Finish the tattoo,” I demand, squeezing the head of my cock as pre-cum beads onto my fingertips.

“Max could walk in at any minute,” he warns, yet his gaze remains fixed on me, a mix of fear and heat in his eyes. I can see he’s thinking about the other night, just as I can’t shake the memory of how he felt around me.

“Daxton,” I snap, and he finally sits, ripping off his gloves and putting on a fresh pair before picking up the tattoo gun with a deep, grounding breath.

“You’re making it hard to concentrate, Trayton,” he complains, eyes tracing the outline inked into my arm.

“Well, you infuriate me,” I counter, frustration edging every word. “This is what you do to me, Daxton. Now finish the damn tattoo so I can get out of here.”

The instant the needle pricks my skin, I groan, and a moan escapes Daxton’s lips. He pauses again, drawn to my hand.

“Trayton,” Daxton whispers, and it’s my undoing. Spasms rack my body as I fall over the edge, the release surging through me. I stifle a groan, letting it rumble deep in my throat as I press my head back into the seat and close my eyes. When I open them, Daxton is transfixed by the aftermath; his eyes burn into me with an intensity that leaves me breathless.

I growl “Finish” through clenched teeth. His hands tremble slightly as he swiftly complies, the tattoo gun buzzing. I shove my dick back into my pants, leaving the fly gaping. My fingers rake through the warm, sticky mess spreading across my shirt. I hold them up, two glistening digits, and shove them under Daxton’s nose. His eyes flicker, but he doesn’t pause his work. The needle keeps drilling into my arm. I trace his lips, slick and salty.

“Taste me.” The words escape my lips as a low hiss. Daxton parts his, just enough for me to push my fingers inside. Histongue twists, hot and wet, lapping up every drop. The tattoo gun eases as his eyes flutter closed, a low moan vibrating around my fingers. He sucks, licks, slurps, his breath hitching.

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