Chapter 22 #2
I adjusted the angle, and Jasper matched it, sucking harder when I pushed the vibe deeper, easing off when I pulled back.
He read my body like he'd been studying it for years, and every correction he made landed right.
Jasper's mouth, the deep thrum of the vibe against that spot, the rough cotton of the cot under my back, the cool stone air on my sweat-slick skin.
I couldn't think. I couldn't hold a single thought past the next second, and that was the whole fucking point.
Then Patroklos flashed behind my eyes. On his knees. The sickle in the dirt.
I flinched and Jasper pulled off. He looked up at me, one hand still on my hip, and waited.
"Don't stop," I said. My voice cracked. "I need you to not stop."
He held my gaze for a second. Then he lowered his mouth back down and took me deep, and the image broke apart under the heat of him.
"Close," I ground out. "Jasper, I'm gonna come."
He took me all the way down and swallowed around me.
I arched off the cot, one hand twisted in his hair and the other pressing the vibe tight against my prostate, and the orgasm hit so hard I stopped breathing.
Every muscle locked. I came into his throat with a sound that cracked in the middle, half groan and half something that had been sitting in my chest since Amritsar, and he swallowed and kept his mouth on me through the aftershocks until I shoved at his shoulder because one more second would have broken me.
He pulled off and sat back on his heels, lips swollen, cock flushed and leaking against his stomach, and every wrecked inch of him belonged to me.
"Keep your legs up," he said. His voice had gone low and rough.
A full body shudder rolled through me. I kept my knees pulled up, the vibe still humming inside me, and Jasper wrapped his hand around himself.
He stroked fast, eyes locked on the vibe disappearing into me, on my slick skin, on the mess of spit and come on my stomach. I spread my thighs wider, and his breath hitched.
"Come on," I said. "Come on me."
He came with a groan that tore out of him, spilling hot across my balls and the base of the vibe and the insides of my thighs. He kept stroking through it, kept coming, and the heat of it on my skin replaced everything I'd tried to scrub off in the shower. This I wanted. This I'd keep.
He stayed there for a second, breathing hard, his hand on my thigh. Then he clicked the vibe off and eased it out of me, setting it aside. He grabbed the towel from the floor and cleaned me up without rushing, then collapsed beside me on the narrow cot.
I turned into him and he wrapped his arm around me, pulling me close.
"Still here," I said quietly.
"Still here." He pressed his lips to my forehead.
We lay there until the sweat dried on my skin and the room came back. The stone ceiling. The bare bulb. The second cot nobody had touched.
My family waited somewhere in these tunnels. I had responsibilities, and I couldn't hide in here forever.
I sat up slowly. Jasper trailed his hand down my back.
"I need to see my family," I said.
"They can wait until you're ready."
I shook my head. "No. I need to do this now, before I lose my nerve."
Jasper stood and offered his hand. I took it and let him haul me to my feet. We cleaned up quickly, got dressed in clean clothes with boots laced tight. My hands shook on the laces, and I had to start over twice. Jasper waited by the door and said nothing about it.
I looked at my reflection in the small mirror someone had hung on the wall. I was exhausted, red-eyed, but still standing.
I turned to Jasper. "Thank you. For getting into the shower with your clothes on like a lunatic. For holding me. For keeping me from drowning in it."
He nodded. "You'd do the same."
"I'd do it worse. I'd be crying in there with you."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "You were."
"Yeah." I grabbed his hand and squeezed once. "Come on."
I turned a corner, and there she was.
My mother stood in the main corridor with Valentina, checking a list of names. She looked up when my boots hit stone and crossed the distance in three steps, grabbed my face with both hands, and checked me for bullet holes.
"Diego, mijo, estás herido?"
"Estoy bien, mamá. Just tired."
She cried and said my name like a prayer.
I hugged her back, wrapped my arms around her and held on.
Twenty minutes ago I'd been on my knees in the shower falling apart.
Now I stood in front of my mother, kept my breathing even, kept my hands steady on her back, and gave her the version of me she needed.
She pulled back and looked at me, then at Jasper standing behind me. Her eyes went sharp. She could smell bullshit from a kilometer away, but whatever she read in my face made her nod and let it go, filing it away to deal with later.
"Come," she said. "You need to eat. Both of you."
She turned and led us deeper into the tunnels, already talking about food, about beds, about who had arrived and who was still coming.
My mother had made enough food to feed an army. She always did.