25. Marcus
Chapter twenty-five
Marcus
T he key stuck in my lock, metal grinding against metal—the sticking was a gentle reminder that some things remained as they always were. I had to jiggle it twice before the tumbler caught.
James stood close behind me, his breath warm against my neck. We'd finished the long drive back from Coeur d'Alene. The doctors at the local hospital had cleared us both—his burns superficial, my ribs bruised but not broken. We'd endured their questions and prodding silently, communicating only through slight touches and shared glances.
The door finally gave way with a reluctant groan. I stepped inside, James following so close his chest brushed my back. Something about the apartment was instantly different; it was no longer the defensive shelter it had become over the past weeks, but now it was something closer to what it used to be. What it could be again.
"You need anything?" James's voice was rough, scraped raw from smoke and exhaustion.
I shook my head, letting my gear bag slide from my shoulder. It hit the floor with a dull thud that made my ribs protest. "Just this." I caught his wrist. "Just you here."
The air conditioning hummed, raising goosebumps on my sweat-dampened skin. We both still reeked of smoke and antiseptic, hospital-grade soap failing to mask the chemical stench of extinguisher foam. James winced as he shrugged off his jacket, the motion pulling at the bandages beneath his ruined shirt.
We stood there momentarily, eyes tracking each other's movements, documenting every scrape and bruise. His gaze lingered on the butterfly strips holding the gash above my eye together. Mine fixed on the angry red marks peeking above his collar where Elliot's knife had drawn blood.
Both still standing. Both still breathing. It was enough.
My sound system had survived whatever sweep Elliot's surveillance had included. The familiar weight of the volume dial grounded me as I turned it, needing something to fill the silence that pressed against my skull. My fingers hesitated over the vinyl collection before finding what fit—not Springsteen's arena anthems or Cash's defiance, but something that spoke about surviving.
Tom Waits's voice crawled through the speakers, gravel, smoke, and raw honesty. "Jersey Girl" unwound between us, piano notes falling like rain. Not polished. Not perfect. Real.
James exhaled, the ghost of a smile touching his mouth. "Trading Cash for Waits? That's quite a shift."
"Cash was for fighting." I leaned against the wall, watching him follow my movements. "This is for after."
He nodded, understanding settling between us as the music wrapped around the room. Waits growled about love and redemption while James's shoulders gradually lost their battleground rigidity.
"When's the last time you ate?" he asked, eyes sharp despite his exhaustion.
My stomach churned slightly at the thought, but hunger edged through the nausea for the first time in days. "Can't remember." I pulled out my phone, muscle memory taking me to my favorite pizza place's number. "But I think I could now."
"Extra pepperoni?"
"Yeah." I hit confirm on the order, watching his face. "And those garlic knots you pretend not to steal."
A smile flashed. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
The couch beckoned—the same one where we'd crossed so many lines before everything went sideways. James sank into it first, a quiet groan escaping as he stretched his legs. I followed, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him but not quite touching. Waits's piano wove through the space between us, filling gaps we weren't ready to bridge with words.
James's hand lay on the cushion between us, fingers slightly curled. His knuckles were scraped raw from the fight; his skin split where he'd driven the knife into Elliot's thigh. I reached for him, letting my thumb trace the ridges of damaged skin.
His fingers tangled with mine, grip firm enough to ground us both. The simple contact unleashed something in my chest—not the adrenaline-fueled need from before, but something more profound that ached beneath my ribs.
"You did it," he murmured. "You faced him down."
"We did. You saved my life out there."
He turned his head, eyes connecting with mine in the apartment's shadows. "You'd have done the same."
"Yeah." I shifted closer, the movement pulling at my bruised ribs. "But you did it first."
The pizza arrived, and we tipped the delivery person. Before either of us could retrieve a slice, we had unfinished business to face.
The space between us shrank to nothing. James's breath fanned lightly over my jaw. I gently brushed my lips against his, testing what still held between us after everything.
His response was immediate. He pressed forward, his free hand coming up to curve around the back of my neck. The kiss deepened slowly, deliberately, like we were learning each other again. His fingers tightened in my hair, careful of the bruises but still holding on.
Heat bloomed in my chest, different from the desperate fire of our earlier encounters. This was steadier, like embers banking for the long burn. When we broke the kiss, he burrowed his face into my chest, and our breathing synced up.
His pulse quickened beneath my fingers, where they rested against his throat. The music had shifted to something slower, but I barely registered it over the sound of our breathing. James's hands slid under my shirt, palms pressing flat against my sides.
"Easy," I muttered as his touch grazed my ribs. "Still tender."
He laughed softly against my neck. "You're telling me to be careful? That's new."
I caught his mouth again, swallowing whatever analysis he planned next. His body shifted, pressing me back into the couch cushions. The weight of him, mindful of injuries, settled against my body.
The kisses deepened. His hands mapped familiar territory with fresh reverence like he needed to verify I was still whole. I understood the impulse—my fingers traced the planes of his back, counting the vertebrae through thin cotton.
"Bed," he murmured against my jaw. Not a question or demand—just certainty.
I nodded, letting him pull me up. The movement sent sparks of pain through my ribs, but I didn't care. His hands never entirely left me as we navigated the darkened apartment. The bedroom door clicked shut behind us, and James's fingers found the hem of my shirt.
"You sure?"
Instead of answering, I helped him ease the fabric over my head, wincing slightly as the motion pulled at bruised muscle. His shirt followed, revealing bandages stark against his skin. I traced the edge of the gauze covering his shoulder, remembering flames licking up his sleeve.
"Stop." He caught my wrist. "I'm here. We both are."
I pressed my forehead against his collarbone, breathing in the lingering scent of smoke and survival. His hands slid into my hair, holding me there while the world steadied around us.
James's hands guided me as we moved together.
The darkness held us, broken only by the city's light filtering through the blinds I hadn't bothered to close. It painted patterns across James's shoulders as he moved above me, his breathing uneven but controlled. My hands traced the lean muscles of his back, feeling them shift beneath his skin.
Heat built between us, slow and inescapable. James's lips found my throat, teeth grazing the skin. I arched into the contact, one hand fisting in his hair while the other gripped his hip.
We'd done this before—traded hunger and need in desperate moments, but it was different now. Each touch lingered, exploring without rushing toward completion. His fingers threaded through mine, pinning my hand beside my head while his other hand traced patterns down my chest.
The music faded into the background, a soft hum that underscored our movements. We shed the rest of our clothes, each piece of fabric a layer of armor we no longer needed. Skin to skin, there was no hiding, no pretense—only us, raw and real.
James's hands roamed over my body, careful of the bruises but unyielding in their intent. There was desperation in his touch, the need to claim and be claimed. I met him with equal fervor, my fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer.
"I need you," he murmured against my skin, his voice rough with emotion.
"I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
His mouth trailed down my neck, leaving a path of heat that made me arch into him. His arousal pressed against me, a silent plea that mirrored my desire. His hands were everywhere, mapping my body reverently.
When his sheathed cock finally entered me, it was with a slow, deliberate thrust that made me gasp. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him deeper, needing to feel every inch of him. His breath hitched as he began to stroke me.
Our bodies moved in sync, a dance as old as time yet uniquely ours. Each thrust and caress was a testament to our bond, a promise of more to come.
When our orgasms finally crashed through us, it was a shared climax that left us both breathless and trembling. James collapsed against me, his body slick with sweat, his heart pounding in time with mine. I held him close, my fingers tangled in his hair, unwilling to let go.
We lay tangled afterward, sweat cooling on our skin while our breathing steadied. James's weight settled half across my chest, his head tucked under my chin. My fingers traced idle patterns along his spine, feeling his muscles gradually unwind.
"You okay?" I murmured into his hair.
He kissed my collarbone. "Yeah." A pause, then softer: "You?"
Instead of answering, I pressed my lips to his temple, tasting salt and survival on his skin. The words I'd been holding back finally broke free. "I love you."
James was still for a heartbeat. Then he shifted, propping himself up to meet my eyes. His expression was open and confident.
"You know that already," he said like it was the most straightforward truth in the world.
I smiled. "Say it anyway."
He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the hollow of my throat. "I love you."
The words settled into my bones, warming places I hadn't realized were cold. Outside, the city hummed with its usual rhythm, but for once, no sirens split the night. No phones rang with fresh emergencies. It was only us.
James's breathing evened out as sleep pulled him under. I stayed awake a while longer, one hand resting over his heart, feeling it beat steady and strong beneath my palm. For the first time in weeks, I didn't need to count the rhythm to know we were both still here.
Rain tapped against the windows—a steady rhythm, unlike the chaos of firehoses. James shifted beside me, his breathing changing as sleep loosened its hold. Our skin stuck slightly where we pressed together, the remnants of sweat and hospital soap.
"You still here?" His voice was rough with sleep.
"Yeah." I traced my fingers along his arm, careful of the bandages. "Not going anywhere."
His fingers found my ribs, the lightest of touch over my bruises. It wasn't clinical anymore—not analyzing, only connecting. "Good."
I watched his face in the grey light filtering through the blinds. His usual sharp focus had softened into something more vulnerable. More real.
"We should probably eat something," he murmured, though he made no move to get up.
"Later." I pulled him closer, ignoring the protest in my ribs. His head settled under my chin, breath warm against my collarbone.
The pizza sat forgotten on the counter. Tom Waits had gone quiet hours ago. The rain continued its steady pattern against the glass.
Finally, completely home.