CHAPTER EIGHTEEN LANA #2
"Bedroom," I say, because the counter is uncomfortable and this deserves better than quick and desperate in a safe house kitchen.
He doesn't answer with words. Just lifts me in one fluid movement that makes me gasp, my legs wrapping around his waist automatically as he carries me toward the bedroom.
His hands are under my thighs, supporting my weight, his fingers pressing into skin hard enough that I know there will be marks tomorrow.
The thought shouldn't be as appealing as it is—evidence of his hands on me, proof that this actually happened.
The bedroom is dark except for ambient light from the street.
He sets me down beside the bed, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off his body, can hear the way his breathing has gone uneven.
Then his hands are on me again, sliding under my shirt—the same clothes I've been wearing since this morning when I left my apartment.
"Can I?" he asks, fingers already at the hem, waiting for permission.
"Yes." The word comes out more desperate than I intended. "Yes, please, I need—"
I don't finish the sentence because he's already pulling my shirt over my head, tossing it somewhere behind me, his hands immediately going to the clasp of my bra.
He gets it open with practiced efficiency, and then the fabric is gone, and I'm exposed in ways that should make me self-conscious but don't.
He's looking at me with that focused intensity I've come to recognize—the way he gives his complete attention to whatever matters most in the moment.
But this time there's no professional assessment behind it, no surveillance protocol.
Just want, undisguised and direct. His hands on my skin, the expression on his face that suggests he's been holding himself back from this for far too long.
"God, you're beautiful," he says, almost like a confession. "I've imagined this so many times and it's nothing compared to the reality. You make me forget everything else exists."
I reach for his shirt and start working the buttons open with fingers that aren't quite steady. "Your turn. I want to see you."
He helps me get the shirt off, reveals skin I only glimpsed briefly when I visited his apartment last week.
He's broader than I expected, muscles defined in ways that speak to regular gym time or physical work that keeps him conditioned.
There's a scar across his ribs that looks old, another on his shoulder that might be from something recent.
I trace them with my fingers, cataloging the evidence of a life I know almost nothing about beyond what surveillance has made him to me.
"From overseas," he says, catching my hand before I can explore further. "Different work, different threats. Nothing you need to worry about."
"I'm not worried. I'm memorizing." I pull him closer, eliminating the remaining space between us. "You've been watching me for weeks. Cataloging every detail. Now it's simply my tur–"
His mouth crashes into mine again, hot and demanding, tongue thrusting deep like he’s claiming territory he’s been denied for too damn long.
I match his ferocity, nails raking over the hard ridges of his chest, feeling every flex and shudder ripple through muscle that’s been taut with restraint for weeks.
This isn’t Gabriel’s cold, clinical touch—this is raw starvation.
Jax devours me like he’s been surviving on pixels and shadows, and now he finally has warm, willing flesh under his hands.
His fingers tear at my jeans, popping the button, dragging the zipper down with a rasp that shoots straight to my clit. He pulls back just enough for our eyes to lock—dark, feral, asking.
“Yes,” I breathe, voice already wrecked. “Fucking take them off.”
He yanks jeans and panties down in one brutal tug, fabric scraping my thighs until I’m bare, slick and aching in the half-light.
I kick the pile away and stand there, letting him drink me in—pupils blown, jaw clenched, the predator who’s watched me a hundred times on camera finally seeing the real thing dripping for him.
“My turn,” I growl, fingers already ripping his belt open. He helps, shoving jeans and boxers down until his cock springs free—thick, flushed, a bead of pre-cum already pearling at the slit. The sight of how desperately hard he is for me makes my cunt clench around nothing.
I shove him back onto the bed, straddle his thighs while he sits, forcing him to look up at me for once. Power surges through me like voltage.
“Lana—”
I slide away from his lap to my knees between his legs, hands spreading his thighs wider. "You've watched me," I say, voice low and filthy. "You've longed for me, now you're going to feel it."
I don’t wait. I take him in one slow, deliberate glide, opening my throat until my lips seal flush around the root of him, nose buried in the dark curls at his base, the raw masculine scent of him flooding my senses.
His cock jerks hard against my tongue, thick and scorching, and a guttural “F-fuck, Lana—” rips out of him, half curse, half prayer.
His hips buck involuntarily, driving that last fraction deeper, and I moan around him—low and filthy, the vibration rolling through his shaft.
The sound he makes in return is wrecked: a deep, animal groan that starts in his chest and tears out of his throat, fingers tightening in my hair like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.
I pull back almost to the tip, lips stretched wide, saliva shining on every inch I expose, then sink down again, slower this time, letting him feel every wet inch of my mouth claiming him.
My tongue presses flat and firm along the underside, tracing the pulsing vein, swirling around the swollen head each time I rise.
I suck hard—cheeks hollowing, ruthless—until his thighs shake under my palms and another broken “Jesus—fuck—” spills from him, voice cracking.
I hum again, deeper, letting the buzz travel straight into his balls that are already drawn up tight.
His answering growl is pure desperation, hips rolling in tiny, helpless thrusts he can’t stop.
Wet, obscene sounds fill the room—my mouth working him, slick and greedy, the soft pop every time I pull off to breathe, then the long, filthy slurp as I take him back down to the hilt.
“God—Lana—your mouth—” he chokes out, the words ragged, almost incoherent.
Another shuddering groan, louder this time, when I swallow around him, throat fluttering, milking the head trapped deep inside.
My own moan vibrates through him again, needy and raw, tasting the fresh bead of pre-cum that floods my tongue—salty, addictive, all him.
I could stay here forever, drowning in the sounds he makes: the hoarse gasps, the broken curses, the way my name keeps fracturing on his lips like he’s trying to hold onto sanity and failing spectacularly.
Every twitch, every throb, every helpless jerk of his cock against my tongue is mine now—proof that the man who watched me for weeks is finally, completely undone by my mouth.
I hollow my cheeks again, tongue swirling the underside, sucking hard enough to make his thighs tremble. I memorize every reaction, every twitch of muscle, every choked groan, every time his cock pulses against my tongue when I hum around him.
“Lana—fuck—stop or I’m gonna—”
I pull off with a wet pop, lips swollen, saliva stringing from my mouth to his glistening cock. “Not yet,” I snarl. “I’m nowhere near done.”
I climb up and straddle him properly, my knees pinning his sides. His cock lies hot and heavy against my soaked folds. I grind once, twice, coating him in my wetness, making us both groan.
“Condom,” I demand, though I’m already shaking with need.
He fumbles for his wallet, hands unsteady, and tears the foil with his teeth. I roll it down his length slow and torturous, watching his abs clench with every inch I sheath.
Then I rise up and sink down in one merciless drop.
We both shout. He stretches me open, thick and burning, filling me so perfectly my vision whites out for a second.
His hands bruise my hips, but he lets me set the pace—slow, grinding circles at first, then hard, punishing drops that slap skin on skin.
Every time I bottom out, his cockhead drags over that spot inside me that makes my clit throb and my spine arch.
“Move,” I pant. “I want to feel you lose control.”
That’s all it takes. His hips snap up, slamming into me, relentless. The bedframe rattles. Sweat slicks our skin. I lean forward, nails digging into his chest, riding him harder, chasing the edge.
“Look at me,” he growls.
I do. Eyes locked, I let him see everything—every filthy gasp, every shudder as I fall apart. His thumb finds my clit, circles once, twice—
I come with a scream, my pussy clamping down on him in vicious pulses, milking his cock as pleasure rips through me like a blade. He watches every second, memorizing me the way he’s always done, only this time I’m totally naked, going wild with pleasure, and I’m coming on his dick.
He flips us before I finish shaking. Suddenly I’m on my back, legs hooked around his waist, and he’s pounding into me—deep, punishing strokes that hit so hard my breath catches on every thrust. Teeth scrape my throat, marking me. I want the bruises. I want proof.
“Come again,” he snarls against my skin. “I need to feel you break one more time.”
He angles his hips just right and I do—harder than the first, a second orgasm tearing through me while he’s still buried balls-deep. My cunt spasms around him, and that’s it—he slams home one last time, groaning my name like a prayer and a curse as he comes, his cock pulsing hot inside the latex.
He collapses, crushing me into the mattress, his heart hammering against mine. After a moment he pulls out, ties off the condom, then drags me into his arms like he’ll never let go.
We’re both wrecked, breathing ragged, skin stuck together with sweat and sex.
He tucks me closer against his chest as our legs tangle, slick thighs and trembling calves, the air thick with the scent of us.
His fingers drift in slow, reverent circles over the small of my back, tracing the faint bruises already blooming where he gripped me too hard, like he’s memorizing the proof that this was real.
Every few breaths, he presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to my damp temple, my hairline, the corner of my mouth, soft now, worshipful, as if he’s still tasting what just happened.
I feel his cock, spent and heavy, nestled against my belly, and the low, contented hum that rumbles from his chest vibrates straight into my bones.
Neither of us speaks; the only sounds are our slowing breaths and the quiet, possessive drag of his thumb across my skin, anchoring me to him like he’s terrified he might lose me again if he lets go.
Then I break the silence, "You've been watching me," I say, because post-sex seems like the right time for honesty that might be uncomfortable otherwise. "Even after you removed the cameras. Even after promising Elias you'd stop."
"Traffic cameras near your building," he admits. "Foundation office exterior feeds. Anything I could access that wasn't directly surveilling your apartment. I told myself it was threat monitoring. Really I just needed to see you."
The confession should probably bother me more than it does.
Instead it just confirms what I already suspected—that he's as unable to stop watching me as I am unable to stop wanting to be watched by him specifically.
Maybe that's unhealthy. Maybe that's exactly the kind of dynamic Solange warned me about.
But right now, lying naked in his arms after the best sex I've had in years, it's hard to care about whether our attraction is sustainable long-term.
"Are you going to reinstall the cameras?" I ask.
"In the new apartment? Yes. With Blackwood's oversight and your explicit permission and probably some limitations we haven't negotiated yet.
" His fingers are still tracing patterns on my skin.
"But it also depends on what you want. Whether you want me as a security system or whether you want me as something else. "
"What if I want both?"
"Then we figure out how to do both without it destroying us.
" He shifts so he can see my face. "But Lana, if we do this—if we make this real beyond crisis management—I need you to understand something.
I'm not good at relationships. I'm good at surveillance and threat assessment and maintaining professional distance.
Intimate connection that isn't mediated by screens is outside my operational experience. "
The vulnerability in his admission makes my chest tight. This is Jax without the professional language, without the tactical assessments, just admitting that he wants me but has no idea how to have me in ways that aren't surveillance.
"I'm not good at relationships either," I tell him. "I spent five years with someone who monitored my every move and six months trying to recover from that. My relationship skills are basically non-existent beyond knowing what I don't want."
"So we're both terrible at this."
"Spectacularly terrible." I curl closer to him, rest my head on his chest where I can hear his heartbeat. "But maybe that's okay. Maybe we figure it out together instead of pretending we know what we're doing."
His arms tighten around me, and for a while we just lie there in the comfortable silence of two people who've stopped overthinking long enough to just exist in the same space.
The safe house feels less like temporary displacement and more like an accidental sanctuary—a place where the usual rules don't apply and we can just be two complicated people trying to figure out how we’re going to make this work. .
Eventually I'm going to have to think about the logistics.
About whether I'm actually moving to a new apartment or trying to reclaim the one Trask violated.
About whether Jax's surveillance makes me feel safe or just reminds me of Gabriel's monitoring with better justification.
About what Solange will say when I tell her I slept with him.
But right now, in this moment, I just want to feel his hands on my skin and know that someone is watching me in ways that feel like intimacy instead of control.
"Stay," I say, even though he already said he would. "Tonight. Tomorrow. However long it takes to figure out what this is."
"I'll stay as long as you want me." His voice is rough with exhaustion or emotion or both. "But Lana, I should let you know—once I'm in, I don't know how to maintain the kind of distance most relationships require. When I care about someone, I watch them. It's how I show that they matter."
"Then watch me." I tilt my head up to see his face. "Just make sure I get to watch you back."