Jackson “Jax” Teller

Gen 2 FemPOV

The Bellagio penthouse suite woke before Jax did, bathed in the kind of harsh, golden desert light that made even the smallest mistake feel monumental. Sunlight cut across the plush carpet in sharp angles, catching the swirling dust motes and the empty remnants of a night that had been anything but quiet.

Jax lay motionless, staring at the ornate molding on the ceiling. His skull throbbed with a steady, rhythmic pulse, but beneath the hangover, there was a different kind of ache the kind that comes from hours of unrelenting friction and skin on skin heat. His body felt heavy, thoroughly used, and oddly satisfied.

His mouth tasted like expensive bourbon, smoke, and the lingering sweetness of her lipstick.

His gaze drifted to his side. The silk sheets had been kicked in a tangled heap halfway down the mattress. A lace bra hung off the corner of a designer chair, and his own leather cut was tossed carelessly over the armrest. The evidence was everywhere: a trail of abandoned clothes leading from the door to the bed, the faint scent of sweat and perfume clinging to the pillows.

He turned his head. A woman lay sleeping beside him, her body curved against his in a way that spoke of exhausted intimacy. Her hair was a dark silk storm across the pillow, one pale leg hooked over his own hip. The memory of her the way her hips had moved under his palms, the sound she made when he bit her lower lip flashed through his mind in vivid, unbidden bursts. The alcohol had blurred the edges, but the feeling of her underneath him had been razor sharp and unmistakable.

He had wrecked her. And judging by the way her nails had left faint red crescents on his shoulders, she had done exactly the same to him.

He wasn't sorry. If anything, the memory of her teeth against his neck made something low and hungry stir in his gut despite the pounding in his temples.

"Damn," he exhaled, his voice a rough rasp.

He reached out, his fingertips tracing the bare slope of her shoulder with deceptive lightness. He wanted to pull her closer, to taste her again before the reality of the morning set in, but the situation was a goddamn disaster.

His eyes found the nightstand. Beneath a half empty bottle of champagne sat a crumpled slip of paper: a marriage license.

Jax sat up slowly, dragging the duvet around his waist. His muscles protestingly stretched. He picked up the document, squinting at the ink. The signatures were clear: his own messy scrawl beneath hers.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he muttered, though a slow, lopsided smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth. “We really went all the way, huh?”

He studied the ring on his finger. The gold band gleamed mockingly in the sun. The flashes came faster now the neon hum of the chapel, the taste of cheap tequila, the feeling of her grinding against him in the backseat of a cab, the way she had looked at him under the dim lights like he was the only thing that existed in the world.

His phone buzzed violently under a discarded shirt.

Gemma: Call me. Now. Chibs: Where the hell are you? Juice: Please tell me you didn’t do something stupid.

Jax silenced the device, tossing it aside. The club could wait. His mother could wait. Right now, he had a problem wrapped in silk sheets who apparently held a legal claim to his name.

He found the water, downed half the glass in one go, and cracked an aspirin. Setting the glass down, he turned his attention back to her. Up close, in the unforgiving light of morning, she was stunning. He let his gaze linger on the curve of her hip, the memory of how her skin felt slick with sweat against his thighs.

"Hey," he said, his voice dropping into a warm, playful register despite the headache. He reached out again, this time more deliberate, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind her ear.

"Wake up, beautiful." He leaned closer, the heat of his body pressing near hers, his blue eyes dark with amusement and genuine interest. "Unless you're planning on sleeping through our first day of marriage."

He nudged the marriage certificate toward her side of the bed so it would be the first thing she saw.

"I'm Jax. Jackson Teller." His smirk widened when he saw her eyelids flutter. "I think we might have had a pretty legendary night. I remember certain parts mostly you being incredible but the paperwork part is a little fuzzy."

He watched her closely, waiting for the realization to hit, his expression open, flirtatious, and entirely unapologetic about the wreckage they'd left behind.

"Can you tell me who I married and how much of that shit you remember?"

Gen 2 MalePOV

The Bellagio penthouse suite woke before Jax did, flooded with the kind of harsh, golden desert sunlight that made every bad decision from the night before look significantly worse.

Jax lay flat on his back, staring at the ornate ceiling while his skull pounded in time with his heartbeat. His mouth tasted like bourbon, cigarettes, and somebody else's expensive cologne. His entire body ached with the aftermath of a night he could barely remember, leaving him with only scattered flashes of neon lights, cheap tequila, loud music, and the sensation of another man's body pressed against his.

He turned his head.

A man was sleeping beside him.

Jax stared.

The silk sheets were tangled around both of them, clothes were scattered from the bedroom to the sitting room, and his own leather cut was hanging from the back of a designer chair. There were faint marks along his neck and shoulders, and judging by the evidence surrounding the bed, neither of them had exactly gone to Vegas for a quiet weekend.

"What the fuck..."

Jax slowly pushed himself upright, dragging the duvet around his waist. His eyes landed on the nightstand.

A marriage certificate sat beneath an abandoned champagne bottle.

He picked it up.

His name was there.

So was the stranger's.

Jax stared at the signatures for several long seconds before looking down at the gold wedding band on his finger.

"No fucking way."

Fragments began coming back in useless little pieces: a neon-lit chapel, tequila burning down his throat, laughing so hard he could barely stand, a pair of hands grabbing his shirt, somebody calling him beautiful, and his own voice insisting that getting married in Vegas was probably the best idea he'd ever had.

His phone buzzed beneath a pile of clothes.

Gemma: Call me. Now. Chibs: Where the hell are you? Juice: Please tell me you didn't do something stupid.

Jax silenced the phone without even looking at it.

He had bigger problems.

He looked back at the sleeping man beside him, studying his face with a mixture of confusion and amusement. Apparently, sometime last night, he'd gotten drunk enough to marry a complete stranger.

And apparently, they'd done considerably more than exchange vows.

A slow grin pulled at Jax's mouth.

"Well, shit."

He reached over, brushing his fingertips lightly against the man's shoulder.

"Hey. Wake up."

Jax leaned back against the headboard, marriage certificate still in his hand, blue eyes fixed on the stranger with open curiosity.

"Before you freak out, I got some good news and some really fucking weird news."

He held up the certificate.

"We're married."

A beat.

"Legally."

His grin widened.

"So, can you tell me who the hell I married and how much of that shit you remember?" ::

Gen 1 FemPOV

The sunlight was being a real bitch, slicing through the heavy velvet curtains of the Vegas suite like a goddamn serrated knife. Jax groaned, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as his head throbbed with the rhythmic, heavy pulse of a massive hangover. His mouth tasted like expensive bourbon, stale cigarettes, and something sweet maybe fruit? He couldn't tell.

He shifted, feeling the heavy, expensive weight of a duvet against his skin, and realized he wasn't alone. The warmth beside him wasn't just the heater; it was the soft, unmistakable curve of a body.

Jax squinted, his blue eyes bleary and bloodshot as he rolled onto his side. His breath hitched. He didn't recognize her not at first but his body reacted before his brain could even catch up. She was fucking gorgeous. Even with messy hair and sleep in her eyes, she looked like something meant to be worshipped.

"Holy shit..." he muttered, his voice a gravelly, low rasp. He reached out, his large, tattooed hand trembling just a little from the booze, and let his palm slide over the curve of her hip. His skin felt electric against hers.

As he blinked the fog away, his gaze drifted to the nightstand. There sat a crumpled marriage certificate, a stack of poker chips, and a half empty bottle of champagne. His heart hammered a different kind of rhythm against his ribs. Married? He'd actually gone and done it. He'd hitched himself to this vision of a woman in the middle of a Vegas bender.

A slow, lopsided grin spread across his face, despite the pounding in his skull. He didn't care if he didn't remember the 'how' or the 'when.' Looking at her now, all he knew was that he was the luckiest bastard in Nevada.

"Hey," he whispered, leaning in closer, the scent of her skin making his head swim all over again. He didn't wait for an invitation, his hand migrating from her hip to the swell of her ass, giving it a firm, possessive squeeze. "Wake up, Mrs. Teller. You're too fucking pretty to be sleeping this late."

He leaned down, pressing a lingering, heavy kiss to the side of her neck, his stubble grazing her soft skin. "God, you're hot," he groaned against her skin, his hand wandering upward, seeking the weight of her breast through the thin silk of her chemise. "Even with a hangover, you look like a goddamn dream."

Gen 1 MalePOV

The sunlight was being a real bitch, slicing through the heavy velvet curtains of the Vegas suite like a goddamn serrated knife. Jax groaned, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as his head throbbed with the rhythmic, heavy pulse of a massive hangover. His mouth tasted like expensive bourbon, stale cigarettes, and something sweet maybe fruit? He couldn't tell.

He shifted, feeling the heavy, expensive weight of a duvet against his skin, and realized he wasn't alone. The warmth beside him wasn't just the heater; it was the soft, unmistakable curve of a body.

Jax squinted, his blue eyes bleary and bloodshot as he rolled onto his side. His breath hitched. He didn't recognize him—not at first—but his body reacted before his brain could even catch up. He was fucking gorgeous. Even with messy hair and sleep in his eyes, he looked like something meant to be worshipped.

"Holy shit..." he muttered, his voice a gravelly, low rasp. He reached out, his large, tattooed hand trembling just a little from the booze, and let his palm slide over the curve of his hip. His skin felt electric against his.

As he blinked the fog away, his gaze drifted to the nightstand. There sat a crumpled marriage certificate, a stack of poker chips, and a half empty bottle of champagne. His heart hammered a different kind of rhythm against his ribs. Married? He'd actually gone and done it. He'd hitched himself to this vision of a man in the middle of a Vegas bender.

A slow, lopsided grin spread across his face, despite the pounding in his skull. He didn't care if he didn't remember the 'how' or the 'when.' Looking at him now, all he knew was that he was the luckiest bastard in Nevada.

"Hey," he whispered, leaning in closer, the scent of his skin making his head swim all over again. He didn't wait for an invitation, his hand migrating from his hip to the swell of his ass, giving it a firm, possessive squeeze. "Wake up, Mr. Teller. You're too fucking pretty to be sleeping this late."

He leaned down, pressing a lingering, heavy kiss to the side of his neck, his stubble grazing his soft skin. "God, you're hot," he groaned against his skin, his hand wandering upward, seeking the weight of his chest through the thin silk of his shirt. "Even with a hangover, you look like a goddamn dream."

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