CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE JAX #2
"Probably both." My hands are already reaching for her, pulling her against me, needing physical confirmation that she's actually here and safe. "We'll figure out which one later."
She kisses me before I can say anything else, her mouth hungry and demanding in ways that suggest she spent the afternoon thinking about this as much as I did.
I kiss her back with equal intensity, hands already working at her clothes, needing skin contact more than conversation about co-dependency or crisis-manufactured intimacy.
Her hands are already at my belt, getting it unbuckled with the kind of efficiency that suggests she's been thinking about this for hours.
I help her get my jeans open while simultaneously working on hers, both of us moving with urgency that has nothing to do with actual danger and everything to do with having spent the day apart after spending the night together.
"Bedroom?" she asks, but she's not moving toward it, just pulling at my jeans and boxers with hands that are already past patience.
"Here." I lift her onto the kitchen counter, the cold granite making her gasp against my mouth. "Can't wait."
"Good." She's working her jeans and underwear down her hips, and I help her get them off one leg while leaving them tangled around the other ankle because taking time to fully undress feels like wasted seconds. "Condom?"
"Wallet." I'm already extracting it from my back pocket, tearing open the packet with teeth while she watches with eyes that are dark with want.
I roll it on with hands that aren't quite steady, then pull her to the edge of the counter, position myself between her legs. She wraps them around my waist, pulling me closer as her heels dig into my lower back.
"Now," she says, and there's no hesitation in it, no second-guessing or overthinking. Just want and the decision to act on it.
I push inside her in one motion, both of us groaning at the sensation. She's ready for me, has been ready since I pulled her against me, and the ease of it makes something in my chest feel tight with feelings I'm not prepared to name.
I start moving, thrusting into her with a rhythm that's faster than exploration requires but not quite the desperation of first encounters.
"Yes," she breathes against my neck, her hands fisted in my shirt because neither of us bothered to actually remove clothing. "Just like that."
I grip her hips, pull her harder onto me with each thrust, the angle perfect for hitting deep while the counter provides stability we wouldn't have standing. Her mouth finds mine, kissing me with the same urgency as our bodies, her teeth catching my lower lip hard enough that I taste copper.
"Lana—" Her name comes out strained, a warning that I'm already closer than I should be given we just started.
"Don't stop." Her hand moves between us, fingers finding her clit, working herself with practiced efficiency. "I'm close too."
The visual of her touching herself while I'm inside her pushes me dangerously closer to the edge.
I increase the pace, thrusting harder, chasing release that's building too fast to control.
She comes first, her body clenching around me, a sound torn from her throat that's my name mixed with profanity.
The sensation of her orgasm triggers mine—I come hard, buried deep inside her, my face pressed against her neck as pleasure washes through me with intensity that leaves me shaking.
We stay like that for a long moment, both breathing hard, her legs still wrapped around my waist, my hands still gripping her hips. Eventually I pull out carefully, deal with the condom, return to find her still sitting on the counter trying to catch her breath.
"That was—" she starts, then laughs. "I don't even know what that was."
"That was 'I missed you' sex." I help her down from the counter, watch her pull her jeans back up with hands that are steadier than mine. "Apparently we do that now."
"Apparently we do." She's fixing her shirt, running fingers through her hair, transforming back from thoroughly debauched to presentable with practiced ease. "Is it always going to be like this? This desperate?"
"I don't know. Maybe it calms down once we're not operating under constant threat assessment.
" I'm tucking my shirt back in, making myself presentable despite the fact that we're alone in a safe house and presentation doesn't matter.
"Or maybe this is just what we are. Intense and complicated and unable to keep our hands off each other. "
"I'm not sure if that's healthy."
"Probably not. But it's honest." I pull her against me again, this time without the sexual urgency, just needing the contact. "Solange is going to have opinions tomorrow."
"Solange has had opinions since the first time I mentioned you." She's relaxed against my chest now, no longer wound tight with want. "But yes, brunch is going to be interesting. She'll take one look at me and know exactly what's been happening."
"Do you want me to come with you? Moral support against interrogation?"
"God no. That would just give her more ammunition." She pulls back to see my face. "Besides, I need to have this conversation with her alone. She deserves honesty about what I'm doing and why, even if she disagrees with the choices."
The assessment is fair. Solange has been Lana's anchor through Gabriel's death and the aftermath. She's earned the right to express concern about her best friend sleeping with the man who’s supposed to watch her and keep her safe.
"Then I'll stay here, give you space to deal with Solange without me complicating things." I'm already mentally planning tomorrow—coordinate with Brandon about apartment showings, review overnight reports from whoever pulls the shift, make sure nothing develops with Trask while Lana is at brunch.
"What about tonight?" She's watching me with an expression I can't quite decode. "Are you staying here? Or going back to your place?"
The question carries implications beyond simple logic. Staying means we're deliberately choosing proximity rather than just defaulting to it. Leaving means maintaining some semblance of boundaries even though we've already obliterated most of them.
"What do you want?" I ask, because the decision should be hers rather than mine.
"I want you to stay. I want to fall asleep next to you and wake up with you still here. But I also don't want to be the woman who can't sleep alone anymore, who needs constant proximity to feel safe."
"You don't need me to feel safe. You have Marcus on overnight shift.
The safe house has security that doesn't depend on my presence.
" I frame her face with my hands to make her look at me.
"If I stay, it's because we both want to be together, not because you need protection I'm uniquely positioned to provide. "
"Okay." She exhales like she's been holding tension she didn't realize. "Then stay. Because I want you here, not because I need you here."
"I'll stay." The decision is easy once the motivation is clarified. "But tomorrow during your brunch, I'm working. No checking in every now and then. No hovering through text. You get space to have that conversation without me inserting myself into it."
"Deal." She's already moving toward the refrigerator, pulling out leftovers from yesterday that we never actually ate. "Are you hungry? We kind of skipped dinner in favor of kitchen counter sex."
"I'm hungry." I join her at the counter, the same counter where I was inside her five minutes ago, now just a surface for reheating takeout. "Also, we should probably sanitize this before we eat off it."
She laughs, the sound genuine and unguarded. "Probably a good call."
We spend the evening like normal people—eating dinner, discussing plans for apartment hunting, arguing about whether action movies are better than psychological thrillers.
It's domestic in ways that feel natural and terrifying, like we're playing house without acknowledging we don't actually know if the foundation is stable.
At midnight, we're in bed—her bed, technically, since this is the safe house she's been living in—and I'm watching her fall asleep with the same focused attention I used to bring to surveillance footage.
Except now there's no camera between us, no professional distance, just the reality of choosing to be here without external pressure forcing proximity.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Text from Brandon: Derek reports a quiet evening. Marcus takes over at midnight. All clear.
I type back: Good. Keep me posted if anything changes.
I set down the phone, returning attention to Lana who's already deeply asleep. Maybe that's progress. Maybe she's healing enough to actually sleep without hypervigilance keeping her partially aware at all times.
Or maybe she's just exhausted from everything—the break-in, the sex, the emotional processing of what we're becoming to each other.
Either way, watching her sleep feels more intimate than anything we did on the kitchen counter.
My phone buzzes again. Text from Marcus: Taking over from Derek. All quiet. You two have a good night.
The phrasing suggests he knows exactly what "you two" are doing in this safe house, but professional discretion keeps him from commenting beyond the subtle acknowledgment.
I don't respond. Just set down the phone, pull Lana closer, and let myself sleep without the hypervigilance that's characterized most of my adult life.
For tonight, someone else keeps watch. And I get to just be with her without operational necessity justifying the choice.