CHAPTER TWENTY LANA #2
"Yes," I tell him. "Please."
He slides my underwear down and off, tosses it aside, then spreads my legs wider with his hands on my inner thighs. The exposure should make me self-conscious but instead it just makes me want him more, makes me need whatever he's about to do.
His mouth finds me with the same focused attention he brings to everything else.
The first touch of his tongue makes me gasp, my hands fisting in the sheets beside me.
He explores with deliberate patience, learning what makes me gasp, what makes my hips lift involuntarily, what makes sounds escape my throat that I didn't know I could make.
"Jax—" His name comes out ragged, desperate.
He responds by adding fingers alongside his mouth, sliding two inside me while his tongue works my clit with increasing pressure. The combination is overwhelming, pleasure building faster than I expected, pushing me toward the edge with ruthless efficiency.
"I'm going to—" I can't finish the sentence because I'm already coming, my body arching off the bed, thighs trembling around his head as waves of pleasure wash through me with intensity that makes my vision go white at the edges.
He doesn't stop until I'm pushing at his shoulders, oversensitive and needing a moment to recover. Then he's standing, stripping off his boxers, reaching for his wallet on the nightstand where he must have dropped it when we entered.
I watch him roll on the condom, my body still humming from orgasm but already wanting more. When he turns back to me, I expect him to climb on top, but instead he pulls me to standing, walks me backward until my back hits the wall beside the window.
"Here," he says, lifting me so my legs wrap around his waist, his hands under my thighs supporting my weight. "Hold on to me."
I wrap my arms around his neck as he positions himself, then pushes inside me in one fluid motion that makes us both groan.
The wall provides stability as he starts moving, thrusting up into me with rhythm that's harder and faster than last night's exploratory pace.
My back presses against the wall with each thrust, his hands gripping my thighs hard enough to bruise, and the combination of sensations is overwhelming in the best way.
"God, Lana—" His forehead presses against mine, breathing ragged. "You feel incredible."
I can't form words, I just hold on tighter as he picks up the pace, hitting deeper from this angle. The friction is perfect, the pressure exactly what I need, and I can feel another orgasm building impossibly soon after the last one.
"Touch yourself," he says, voice strained. "I want to feel you come around me."
One hand leaves his neck to slide between us, finding my clit, circling it with the same rhythm he's established. The added stimulation pushes me over the edge within seconds, my body clenching around him, his name torn from my throat as pleasure washes through me.
He follows immediately, pulling me down hard onto him as he comes, his face buried in my neck, teeth grazing my skin in ways that send aftershocks through my already oversensitive body.
We stay like that for a long moment, breathing hard, my legs still wrapped around his waist, his hands still gripping my thighs. Eventually he carries me the few steps to the bed, lowers us down carefully, then shifts to deal with the condom.
I collapse back on the bed trying to remember how breathing works. He returns to lie beside me, pulling me against his chest with his arm around my waist.
"That was better than last night," he says after our breathing has returned to something resembling normal.
"Different. Not necessarily better." I trace patterns on his chest, following scars I'm starting to memorize. "Both have their place."
"Are you saying you want variety in our sex life?"
"I'm saying I want a sex life with you. However it comes. Desperate or patient or something in between." I tilt my head to see his face. "Is that too direct?"
"That's perfect. Direct is good." He kisses the top of my head, a gesture that's more tender than erotic. "But we should probably get dressed. I need to check in with Brandon, see if there are any developments with Trask."
"Always bringing us back to logistics."
"Someone has to. Otherwise we'll just stay in this bed and pretend the outside world doesn't exist." His hand traces my spine, the touch casual but intimate. "Though I'm not opposed to that plan."
"Tempting. But Solange wants brunch tomorrow. I need to see her, let her confirm I'm actually okay." I sit up, already looking for where my clothes ended up. "And you need to make sure nothing else has happened while we've been otherwise occupied."
"We could ignore all of it."
"We could. But eventually Trask or Reese or Ezra would find ways to force us back into reality." I locate my underwear near the door, my sweater in the hallway. "Better to face it on our terms."
He stands, pulls on his boxers and jeans, the transformation from lover to professional security expert happening with practiced ease.
The shift is jarring but also oddly reassuring—he can separate roles when necessary, can be both protector and partner without the two identities destroying each other.
"I'll be gone for a few hours," he says, buttoning his shirt. "I need to review overnight reports, make sure I haven't missed anything critical." He pauses at the door, looks back. "But I'm coming back. This isn't me disappearing."
"I know." And I do know. This is different from Gabriel's absences that felt like surveillance continuing through other means. "Text me if anything changes?"
"The moment anything changes." He returns to kiss me once more, brief but meaningful. "We're figuring this out, Lana. Together."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone again in the safe house with the burner phone and the memory of his mouth on me and the strange new reality of wanting someone who's supposed to keep me safe.
Solange is going to have so many questions tomorrow.
I just hope I have answers that make sense.