CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE JAX #2
"Ignorant widow who wants her life back. I can do that." She's already shifting into the performance mindset. "What else did Julian say?"
I tell her about the timeline pressure, about Ezra's campaign deadlines forcing urgency, about why Wednesday can't be postponed or delayed.
The information makes the meeting feel more imminent, more dangerous—they can't afford to wait for better intelligence, which means Wednesday's assessment is final.
"Two days," she says when I finish. "Two days to prepare for the performance that determines whether I live or die."
"Two days. But Lana, we have better intelligence now.
Julian gave us specific protocols they'll use.
We know what they're looking for. That's an advantage we didn't have yesterday.
" I reach across the table, covering her hand with mine.
"You can do this. You've been performing for years. One more performance to stay alive."
She manages something resembling a smile. "At least this time I know exactly what the stakes are."
We spend the next few hours reviewing strategy, practicing responses to questions they might ask, refining the narrative that frames her as non-threatening. By evening, Lana looks exhausted from preparation but more confident about Wednesday's approach.
"I need a break from tactical planning," she says, standing and stretching. "My brain is full of protocols and behavioral tells and performance strategy. Can we just... not think about Wednesday for a few hours?"
“We can absolutely do that,” I say, my voice already rough, stalking toward her with single-minded focus. “Tell me what you need, Lana.”
She doesn’t answer with words. She surges up and crashes her mouth into mine, teeth clashing, her tongue sliding hot and filthy against mine like she’s trying to crawl inside my skin.
We’re moving before I register it, stumbling down the hall, hands frantic—her shirt rips over her head, mine dragged off and flung aside.
Skin meets skin and the shock of it rips a growl from my chest.
I shove her through the bedroom door, spin her, walk her backward until her legs hit the bed.
She falls and I follow, mouth fused to hers, swallowing the desperate little whimpers she feeds me.
My fingers tear at the button of her pants; hers yank my belt loose with a metallic shriek.
The air is thick with the scent of her arousal and the low, continuous sound she makes when I finally shove denim and lace down her thighs.
“God, I need this,” she gasps against my lips, nails scraping down my back. “Need you inside me, Jax. Need to forget everything else exists.”
“Then forget,” I snarl, spreading her open with my thumbs, lowering my mouth to the slick heat already pulsing for me.
One slow lick from entrance to clit and her back bows off the bed, a broken cry tearing loose.
She’s drenched, swollen, tasting like desperation and mine.
I pin her hips and devour her— my tongue thrusting deep, then circling her clit with tight, ruthless flicks until her thighs clamp around my ears and she’s chanting my name like a prayer.
I slide two fingers inside her, curl them hard, suck her clit between my lips, and she shatters—hips bucking wildly, pussy clamping down on my fingers in wet, rhythmic pulses while my name rips from her throat in a raw scream that goes straight to my cock.
I’m already moving, ripping open the nightstand drawer, condom in my teeth before she’s finished trembling. She watches me roll it down with blown-black eyes, legs falling open wider in blatant invitation.
“Now,” she breathes, wrapping those long legs around my waist and dragging me down. “Fuck me now.”
I drive into her in one brutal thrust.
We both shout. She’s scalding, impossibly tight, gripping me so perfectly my vision tunnels.
I pull back and slam home again, setting a punishing rhythm—deep, grinding strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside her.
The bedframe slams the wall in time with her moans, louder, and filthier with every thrust.
Her nails rake bloody lines down my back; I hiss and angle deeper, hitting that spot that makes her eyes roll back. I’m already close, balls drawn tight, when the fucking burner phone starts shrilling from the living room.
“Ignore it,” I growl against her throat, teeth scraping the pulse hammering there, hips never slowing.
She tries—God, she tries—arching into me, meeting every thrust, breath hitching higher and higher toward a second climax. The phone stops. Silence.
Then mine starts buzzing like a chainsaw.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she pants, but her cunt still flutters around me, greedy, chasing release.
Three sharp knocks hit the front door—security protocol, not emergency. Both phones explode again. The knocking continues.
Lana’s head thumps back against the pillow, a frustrated scream caught in her throat. “Are you fucking serious right now?”
I pull out slowly, agonizingly, both of us groaning at the loss—my cock slick and aching, her pussy clenching around nothing. We stumble naked into the living room, cursing under our breath. I snag my phone—Elias. She snatches the burner—Solange.
She answers as she heads back to the bedroom, yanking my discarded shirt over her head, the hem barely covering the tops of her thighs, nipples still hard against the fabric. “Sol, yeah, I’m fine—what is it?”
I drag sweatpants up my legs, cock throbbing painfully against the waistband, and yank the door open. Andre stands there with takeout bags and the patience of a saint.
“Dinner,” he says flatly, eyes flicking once at my wild hair, then away. “Everything is quiet out here.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, taking the bags with one hand while the other scrubs over my face.
He’s gone before I close the door.
Lana pads out ten minutes later, still swimming in my shirt, thighs flushed and marked from my stubble, looking edible and furious.
“Solange has another batch decoded. Sending tonight. Says it proves how far Gabriel and Julian went together.” She exhales shakily.
“Also said I sound… different. Too calm. Apparently mid-fuck is a good look on me.”
I drop the food on the counter, stalk over, and cage her against it, letting her feel exactly how hard I still am.
“Later,” I promise against her mouth, stealing one hard kiss.
“The second we’re done with these files, I’m bending you over the nearest surface and finishing what we started. Count on it.”
Her eyes flare, dark and hungry. “Count on it,” she echoes, her voice wrecked.
We eat the takeout at the counter, thighs brushing, tension crackling like static. Two days until Wednesday.
Two days until I finally get her alone again and make her scream my name until she forgets every fucking thing except how perfectly we burn together.