Chapter 10 Jonah #2
When I'm fully seated, my hips pressed against the curve of his ass, I have to hold completely still. My balls are drawn up tight, my cock throbbing inside him, and if I move right now, this will be over before it starts.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Fuck, Jonah."
"So good, you look so fucking good." I lean over him, pressing my chest against his back, feeling his heart pound against my ribs.
We stay like that for a long moment. Breathing together. Adjusting. I can feel him relaxing around me, his body learning to accept my cock. When he rocks back against me, pushing me impossibly deeper, I take that as permission to move.
I start slow. Long, deep strokes that drag against his inner walls, pulling out until just the tip remains before sinking back in. He moans with each thrust, his fingers leaving scratches in the wood of the table. I angle my hips, searching for that spot again, and when I find it—
He screams.
"There." I hammer that spot, watching him come apart beneath me. "Right there. That's what you do to me. Every time. You make me feel like I'm going to shatter."
"Don't stop." He's sobbing now, actually sobbing, tears streaming down his face and dripping onto the table. I've never seen him cry. Never imagined he could. "Please don't stop."
I fuck him harder. Faster. The table creaks beneath us, sliding inch by inch across the floor with every thrust. He's pushing back to meet every thrust, taking me as deep as I can go, and the sight of him—this cold, controlled, untouchable man—so completely wrecked and desperate pushes me right to the edge.
"Touch yourself," I order. "I want to feel you come around my cock."
His hand flies to his dick. Three strokes, maybe four, and he's coming with a groan that rattles the windows. His ass clenches around me in rhythmic waves, milking my cock, and I follow him over the edge with a groan, burying myself to the hilt and spilling deep inside him.
We collapse together onto the table. I'm still inside him, both of us shaking, covered in sweat. His face is pressed against the wood, and I can see the tear tracks on his cheeks.
"Hey." I brush the hair back from his forehead. "You okay?"
He laughs. It's watery, broken, but genuine.
"I don't know," he admits. "I've never felt anything like that."
"Good different or bad different?"
"Just... different." He turns his head to look at me, and his eyes are softer than I've ever seen them. "You ruined me."
"That was the plan. Take a second, you’ve just gone on a rollercoaster." I kiss his shoulder, his neck, the corner of his jaw, slowly bringing him back to me. When he’s calmer and the flush has left his cheeks, I take his hand. "Come on. Let's get cleaned up."
We untangle ourselves, grab our clothes, make our way to the bathroom on shaky legs. I clean him up carefully, gently, the way he's done for me so many times. He lets me. Doesn't try to take control. Just watches me with those now-soft gray eyes.
Afterward, we curl up on the couch in the living room, too tired to make it to the bedroom. His head is on my chest, my fingers in his hair, and for a while, neither of us speaks.
"I found something else in the files," he says eventually.
"Now? You want to talk about files now?"
"It's important." He shifts, looking up at me. The softness is still there, but there's something sharper underneath. The strategist, never fully asleep. "Dr. Andros. The woman from your memory. I found her current location."
All the post-orgasmic warmth drains away, replaced by sharp attention. "Where?"
"A private research facility in the Swiss Alps. It's funded through three of the shell companies connected to Kreiss." He pauses. "It's one of the Phase Two locations. Active. Operational."
"How do you know?"
"Because the facility's cover is fertility research.
And the staff roster includes six other doctors who worked for Westpoint before the fire.
" His fingers trace patterns on my chest, but his voice is all business.
"There's more. The facility has contracts with three European governments for what they call 'advanced reproductive services.
' But the patient intake numbers don't match the reported births. "
"Meaning?"
"Meaning children are being created there and not being released to the families who supposedly commissioned them." His gray eyes meet mine. "They're manufacturing assets, Jonah. Right now. As we speak."
My stomach turns. I think about the children's photos in my fragmented memories.
The rows of faces on Dr. Andros's wall. How many more have there been?
How many are there now, growing up in facilities like Westpoint, being shaped into weapons before they're old enough to understand what's being done to them?
"We have to stop them," I say.
"We will." His hand finds mine, squeezes. "But we need more than just the location. We need evidence. Documentation. Something that proves what's happening there beyond any doubt."
"The kind of evidence that would hold up if we took this public?"
"The kind of evidence that would bring the whole thing crashing down." He's quiet for a moment. "Kreiss is the key. His financial records would connect the Custodians to the facility. If we can get those records, we can prove who authorized this. Who funded it. Who knew."
"And then?"
"And then we destroy every one of those and rebuild the Silent the way it always should have been."
That thought rolls around my mind. About what it would mean to expose something this massive. The Custodians wouldn't go quietly. They'd fight back with everything they had. People would die. Maybe us.
But children are being manufactured in a facility in the Swiss Alps. Right now. Tonight. While we lie here on this couch, catching our breath, they're creating the next generation of weapons.
"How do we get to Kreiss's records?"
"I'm working on it. The Bonaccorso’s are still investigating him, despite my warning. If they find something, they might be willing to share." He pauses. "There's also another option."
"Which is?"
"We go to the facility ourselves. Not to destroy it. Not yet. But to gather evidence. Photographs. Files. Testimony from anyone willing to talk."
"That's suicide."
"Maybe. Or maybe it's the only way to get what we need." He sits up, pulling me with him. "I'm not asking you to come with me. This is my fight. My brothers and I are products of this program. We have a responsibility to end it."
"Like hell you're leaving me behind." I grab his face, force him to look at me. "I spent three years in a chemical fog because I got too close to this story. I've earned the right to see it through."
"Jonah—"
"No. Listen to me." My voice is harder than I intend, but I don't soften it. "You said we do this together. You meant it. I could see it in your eyes when you said it. So don't you dare try to protect me now by pushing me away."
He stares at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nods.
"Fine, but if you die, I’m following you to hell," he says.
"Maybe we can make s’mores and tell Satan about your piss poor choice in décor. Think he’d let us decorate our cell with a bit of flare? I’m getting kind of bored of all the grey."
“Ha ha. Aren’t you just full of jokes.”
“Wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t.”
We banter back and forth for a couple minutes before settling into the quiet. Just laying here, holding each other as the world carries on around us.
I close my eyes.
Somewhere out there is an active facility with children being created as weapons. A conspiracy that reaches into the highest levels of power.
But right now, in this moment, Jagger is warm against me, and the city is quiet outside the windows, and for the first time in three years, I feel like I have something worth fighting for.
It’s time I regain control of my life.