8. James
Chapter eight
James
S teel and concrete made the stairwell in Marcus's building ring with harsh acoustics—functional, unadorned, like the man himself. My footsteps marked thirty-seven stairs to his third-floor unit, each one an opportunity to remind myself this was about the case. About evidence. Nothing more.
We'd agreed to meet to discuss the latest data, and I'd rehearsed what I'd say about Sarah's analysis. I practiced keeping my voice steady when talking about the geographical patterns emerging from our data. I'd perfectly organized everything in my messenger bag—lab reports, satellite maps, behavioral profiles.
Marcus opened his door and rendered all of it useless.
He stood in the entryway wearing old blue jeans and a faded Seattle Fire Department shirt, barefoot, hair still damp from what must have been a punishing workout given the rigid set of his shoulders. His apartment reflected the same spartan efficiency as his locker—he'd arranged everything with military precision.
"I was going to call." His voice rasped with the edge of too many hours pushing too hard. "The training log. There's something—" He raked a hand through his hair, leaving it standing in sharp spikes. "Just get in here."
The air smelled faintly of coffee while protein shake containers lined the kitchen counter, their contents suggesting he'd been eating liquid meals. A pharmacy's worth of supplements stood in precise rows—electrolytes, amino acids, recovery formulas. The labels faced forward with parade-ground precision.
From a Bluetooth speaker in the corner,Springsteen's voice filled the room, that unmistakable mix of grit and longing. I recognized the song—"Thunder Road."Not just a classic, but one of those songs that oozed promise, all open roads and restless hearts.
I wouldn't have guessed Marcus for Springsteen, but the more I thought about it, the more it fit.A song about staying and leaving all at once, about pushing forward even when you didn't know where the road would take you.
I filed that away with everything else I was learning about Marcus McCabe.
He paced the length of his living room, each turn precise as a lap count. The coffee machine's carafe sat empty beside a cluster of used cups, telling its story of sleepless hours.
"You want proof this is personal?" He thrust a leather-bound notebook at me. "Found this in my gym bag after training. They're not only watching anymore. They're—" His jaw clenched. "Just read it."
The notebook's pages documented obsession in carefully logged sets and splits, each entry annotated in red ink. Margin notes dissected every aspect of Marcus's technique.
I moved to his kitchen table, spreading the pages where better light illuminated the meticulous record-keeping. My fingers traced each entry without touching the paper, noting the precise pressure variations in the written strokes. It was a researcher's habit—analyze the evidence, find the pattern, maintain objective distance.
Marcus kept pacing—three steps, pivot, three steps back. The rhythm matched his regular running cadence but was tighter, constrained by walls and the weight of being watched.
"They've documented every training session." My academic voice emerged automatically, a shield against how his movement drew my eye. "The notations about form and technique suggest someone with extensive athletic knowledge, but these anatomical references—" I paused at an exceptionally detailed description. "This is medical terminology. Advanced kinesiology."
"Skip to the end."
The final pages abandoned any pretense of clinical observation. The writing grew aggressive, with deeper pressure on the paper.
"Subject maintains perfect discipline despite obvious fatigue. The way pain reshapes his movements transcends mere athletic performance. Soon he'll understand how fire strips away everything but essential truth."
"Marcus." I set the notebook down. "You need to stop—"
"Training? Racing? Breathing?" He barked out a laugh devoid of humor. "They're in my head now. Every lap, every mile, I feel them watching. Analyzing. Taking notes on how I move through water and air like they own—" He slammed his palm against the wall. The impact resonated throughout the room.
I crossed to him before I could stop myself. "You're bleeding."
He glanced at his hand as if surprised to find skin split across his knuckles. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing." I caught his wrist, and my professional mask slipped as I examined the injury. His pulse hammered against my fingers. "You're running yourself into the ground."
"I need to be ready. Need to be stronger, faster—"
"You need to rest." My thumb brushed his pulse point without conscious intent. "Your form is deteriorating. I see the compensation patterns in your left shoulder, the way you're favoring—"
"Don't." He jerked away. "Don't analyze me like they do."
"Then tell me what you need." The words escaped before I could filter them through professional distance. "Because watching you destroy yourself isn't—"
"What do I need?" His laugh was jagged and bitter. "I need to know why they chose me. Why they're turning everything I've built, everything I am, into their sick artistic statement. I need—" He broke off, dragging both hands through his hair. "I need this to make sense."
The analytical part of my brain noted his signs of stress—pupils dilated, breathing irregular, muscles coiled tight enough to snap. The rest of me ached to grab his shoulders and force him to relax.
"Sometimes patterns don't make sense." My voice was hoarse. "Sometimes we miss what's right in front of us because we're too focused on the evidence."
"James—"
"I was so focused on the evidence at Harrison Gallery that I didn't see the human behind it. Caroline burned because I was too careful. Because I couldn't step away from the science long enough to see the truth."
Marcus was quiet for a beat. "That wasn't your fault."
"Wasn't it?" Bitterness coated my tongue. "I had all the pieces. The evidence was there, but I couldn't—wouldn't—let myself see beyond the data. And now—" I gestured at the training log. "I'm watching it happen again. Watching someone turn your discipline into their canvas, and I can't—"
"Can't what?" He stepped closer, close enough that I smelled the mint of his toothpaste beneath coffee and sweat. "What's stopping you, James?"
"I don't do reckless." The words sounded desperate. "I can't afford to miss something because I let myself—"
"I think we already did." His voice dropped lower. "In the rain. At the warehouse."
My hand rose without permission, fingertips barely brushing the tension in his jaw. "That was—"
"Was what?" His breath swept across my palm. "An aberration? A mistake? Tell me you haven't thought about it. Tell me you don't—"
The last thread of my restraint snapped. I shoved him back against the wall, swallowing his harsh exhale with my mouth. There was nothing gentle about it—all teeth and desperation. His hands fisted in my shirt, yanking me closer as if he could crawl inside my skin.
Analytical patterns fragmented. The part of my brain that cataloged evidence and analyzed behavior dissolved into pure sensation. Marcus's teeth scraped my throat, the bite of pain dragging a sound from me I barely recognized.
"Tell me to stop." His voice vibrated against my pulse.
Instead, I dug my fingers into his shoulders, feeling the burn-scarred skin beneath his shirt. The researcher in me wanted to map each mark and understand the forces that had shaped him. The rest of me just wanted him.
He spun us, pinning me against the wall. The impact drove the air from my lungs, but I pulled him harder against me. His hand tugged out the tail of my shirt, slipping fingers underneath the fabric and palming the ridge of my spine where that old climbing scar interrupted the terrain.
"You're thinking too much." Marcus bit the words into my collarbone.
"Force of habit." I raked my nails down his back, feeling muscle shift beneath my hands. "The deltoid tension in your left shoulder indicates—"
He cut me off with another bruising kiss. "Stop analyzing."
"I can't." I gasped as his teeth found my neck. "The way your trapezius flexes when you—"
"James." He pressed his forehead to mine, both of us breathing hard. "Feel."
The command undid me. Raw lust obscured my academic reasoning like a thundercloud blotting out the sun. I grabbed his hips, yanking him closer as my careful walls crumbled. His hands bracketed my face, thumbs pressing against my jaw as if he could physically hold me in the moment.
His teeth nipped at my lower lip, drawing a hiss from me. My hands reached out to roam his body, shoving up under his shirt to feel the rigid lines of his muscles, the rough texture of his scars, and the heat of his skin. His heart pounded against his ribs, a primal rhythm matching my own.
He yanked my shirt open, buttons flying, and pushed it down my arms, trapping them at my sides. His mouth was on my bare collarbone, biting and sucking, marking me like an animal.
His hands were rough and callused as they slid down my chest, scraping over my nipples. I gasped, arching into his touch, the sensation shooting straight to my cock. He grinned against my skin, doing it again, harder this time.
He turned me back around and pressed me hard against the wall, his breath heavy on the back of my neck. The impact jarred my bones, but I was far past caring. All I wanted was his body against mine, his mouth on my skin, and his hands pinning my wrists above my head.
He shoved his knee between my legs, spreading them, and the hard length of him ground against me.
Marcus's teeth nipped at my earlobe. "If you want something, James, all you've got to do is ask. Tell me what you want."
I growled, low in my throat, my body writhing against his. "You know what I want, Marcus."
He gently turned me back around and pulled back, his eyes meeting mine. They were dark, almost black, his pupils blown wide. He held my gaze as he slowly sank to his knees, his hands sliding down my body as he went.
His fingers made quick work of my belt, yanking it open before moving on to my pants. He shoved them down, his hands rough and impatient. My cock sprang free, hard and aching, and I saw the seething hunger in his eyes as he looked at it.
He leaned in, and his tongue flicked out, wet and warm, tasting me. I groaned, my head thudding back against the wall and my eyes squeezing shut.
He took his time, licking and sucking, his hands gripping my hips, holding me still. It was torture, heaven, and everything in between.
When he finally took me into his mouth, the heat, wetness, and suction were almost too much, but I needed more. I needed him to never stop.
I raked my fingers into his hair, gripping it tight. He growled, and the vibrations sent shockwaves through my body. My orgasm started to build, pressure intense in my balls, but I didn't want to come. Not yet. I wanted all of Marcus. I wanted him to consume me.
I yanked on a bicep to urge him to his feet, and my mouth crashed into his. "Fuck me, Marcus. That's what I want."
He pulled back, his eyes searching mine. Whatever he saw there must have been enough, because he pulled me over to his couch, bending me over the back. He took mere seconds to retrieve lube and a condom packet from a side table.
"You sure about this, James?" he growled, his teeth nipping at my shoulder. His cock, rock hard and insistent, ground against my ass.
"Fuck yes," I moaned.
He didn't need any more encouragement. I heard the sound of his belt unbuckling and the zipper of his pants sliding down.
After pushing my pants down to my knees, his fingers, slick and cool with lube, pressed against my entrance. I gasped, my body tensing at the intrusion. But he didn't give me time to adjust or ease me into it. He shoved two fingers inside, hard and deep, making me cry out.
He fingered me roughly, his fingers scissoring, stretching me open. It burned, but I didn't care.
And then his fingers were gone, replaced by the blunt head of his sheathed cock. He thrust against me, slow and steady, but not gentle. Not even close.
He started to move, his hips slamming against my ass, driving his cock into me, hard and deep. It was intense, overwhelming, and everything I needed.
Marcus's hands gripped my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh. He held me in place, using my body, fucking me like he was taking out every frustration and fear that festered in his brain on me. And I loved every second of it.
My orgasm began to build again.
His body was slick with sweat, and his breath was ragged and harsh. He leaned over me, his chest pressing against my back, his mouth at my ear.
"Come on, James," he growled. "Come for me. Let me feel it."
I shook my head, my body tense, my breath hissing through my teeth. "Not yet," I grunted. "Not fucking yet."
He chuckled, low and dirty, his teeth nipping at my earlobe. "Yes, yet," he rasped. "Right fucking now."
He reached around, one hand clamped over my mouth and the other wrapped around my cock. He stroked me roughly, his thumb circling the sensitive head. I cried out, my body convulsing, and suddenly, my orgasm ripped through me like a freight train jumping the tracks.
My cock pulsed as my cum painted the couch in front of me, and I nearly blacked out. Marcus groaned, his body tensing, his cock throbbing inside me. And then he was coming too, his hips jerking, his breath hot and harsh against my neck.
We stayed like that for a moment, our bodies pressed together, our breathing ragged and syncopated. Then Marcus pulled out, a low groan rumbling in his chest. His cum, hot and wet, slid down my thighs.
I turned around to face him. Marcus stood there, his chest heaving, his cock still hard and glistening. His eyes were dark, and he looked like a man possessed.
He stepped forward, his body pressing against mine. His mouth was on me in an instant, hot and hungry.
We kissed like that for a long time—intense, raw, and real.
Eventually, we pulled apart, our foreheads pressing together and our breaths slowing. Marcus's eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his cheeks. He looked...vulnerable. It was a look I wasn't used to seeing on him.
I reached up, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw. He leaned into my touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips. It was a moment of tender intimacy that I hadn't expected.
The room had witness marks—a knocked-askew frame and scuffs from shoes I didn't remember kicking off. My shirt hung open, buttons scattered across the floor.
The analytical part of my brain began categorizing—bruises forming beneath my collarbone, teeth marks on my shoulder, and fingerprint patterns developing on my hips. The rest of me still vibrated with need, even as self-recrimination crept in.
"Don't." Marcus's voice was rough against my neck. "You're retreating."
"This compromises everything." Professional distance was impossible with his skin pressed against mine, but I tried. "The investigation, the evidence chain, my objectivity—"
"Your objectivity was shot the moment you walked through my door." He lifted his head. "We both know that."
I couldn't argue, not with his marks on my skin and not with the taste of him still in my mouth. Instead, I focused on straightening my ruined shirt, fingers working on the remaining buttons.
"The training log." My voice wavered. "We should analyze the handwriting patterns, cross-reference with—"
"James." He caught my wrist and pressed his thumb against my pulse. "Stop hiding behind evidence."
"I'm not hiding. I'm trying to keep you alive. I can't—won't—watch you become his masterpiece because I let myself get distracted by wanting—"
"By wanting what?"
I gestured helplessly between us at the chaos we'd made of his military precision. At the marks we'd left on each other. At everything, I couldn't afford to acknowledge.
"This isn't sustainable. The case has to come first. Your safety has to come first."
"And after?" His fingers tightened fractionally on my wrist. "When we catch him, when this is over—what then?"
I pulled free, ignoring how my body ached at the loss of contact. "You're assuming we both survive that long."
"James—"
"I should go." I gathered my messenger bag, now spilling papers across his floor. "The trace evidence analysis should be done by morning. I'll send you the—"
"Don't do this." He stepped closer, still radiating heat. "Don't shut down on me."
"I have to." My voice cracked. "Because the alternative is admitting I want to stay. And I can't—won't—let that compromise your safety."
I made it to his door before his voice stopped me. "You're wrong, you know."
"About?"
"This is making us vulnerable." His words followed me into the hallway. "Some things are worth the risk."
I didn't look back. Couldn't. The stairwell's harsh acoustics swallowed my footsteps as I descended, each one an exercise in not turning around. My skin burned where he'd marked me, evidence I couldn't ignore.
The night air hit like a physical shock, and I smelled the metallic edge of approaching rain. A passing car's headlights caught the marks on my wrists—perfect impressions of Marcus's grip, already darkening to bruises I'd examine later with scientific precision.
The need to analyze everything was returning, filling the spaces where raw emotion had briefly taken control. Soon, I'd be back in my office, surrounded by evidence boxes and behavioral profiles. I'd lose myself in data until I could almost forget how Marcus had bent me over his couch and how his careful control had finally shattered.
Almost.
My phone buzzed—a text from Sarah about new trace evidence found at the gym scene. The mundane normality of it made me laugh, a sharp sound in the empty street. Twelve hours ago, I was preparing a presentation on burn pattern analysis. Now, my skin wore a map of what happened when discipline failed.
The bruises would fade. The case would progress. We'd maintain a professional distance because anything else risked missing crucial details that could keep Marcus alive. I'd focus on the evidence and patterns—dependable science that had defined my life before Marcus McCabe crashed through my careful walls.
But as I walked toward my car, and the ghost of his touch still burned against my skin, one truth remained impossible to analyze away: some part of me was already planning how to go back.
The scientist in me could explain the physical attraction—endorphins, adrenaline, the natural chemical response to danger and desire. The rest of me knew better. I knew that no amount of clinical distance could erase the way he'd looked at me.
I touched the marks on my neck, calculating the precise force required to break blood vessels beneath the skin. Tomorrow, I'd be Dr. Reynolds again, examining the evidence with professional detachment. Tonight, I let myself feel everything I'd have to deny in the morning.
The rain finally broke, soaking through my shirt. I didn't hurry to my car. The cold helped clear my head and helped rebuild the walls that would keep us both alive, but as I drove away, Marcus's words followed me into the darkness.
"Some things are worth the risk."
The scientist in me knew better. The rest of me wasn't so sure.