Chapter 12 Jonah
Chapter Twelve: Jonah
I wake up warm.
That's still a novelty. Three years of detention center beds, thin blankets, cold concrete walls.
Fluorescent lights that never fully turned off, guards who checked on you every hour, the constant hum of machinery designed to keep you compliant.
Now I'm wrapped in a down comforter, in the Alps, with Jagger Harrison pressed against my back like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go.
His arm is heavy across my waist. His breath is slow and even against my neck. Outside the window, the Alps are turning pink with dawn, snow-capped peaks catching the first light. The mountains look like something from a postcard, unreal in their beauty.
I don't move. Don't want to break whatever spell is keeping him asleep.
Jagger sleeps like a colicky baby. He tosses, mutters, sometimes jerks awake with his hand reaching for a weapon that isn't there.
The Foundry trained rest out of him, replaced it with something that looks like sleep but never quite is.
I've watched him sit up, staring at the wall, his eyes far away, lips tight, relieving whatever is going on in his head.
But right now, he's still. Peaceful. His face is slack against my shoulder, all the hard lines softened by unconsciousness. His mouth is slightly open, and there's a small furrow between his brows that I want to smooth away with my thumb.
He looks almost angelic.
Almost.
I should hate him. Sometimes I think about hating him, try to summon the rage that should be there. But then he does something like this. Falls asleep wrapped around me like I'm the only safe thing in his world. And the hate just won't come.
I could watch him like this for hours.
I don't get the chance. His breathing changes, and I feel him surface into wakefulness, his arm tightening around me.
"Morning," I say.
"Mm." Not a word. A sound. He presses his face into my neck and breathes deep, like he's memorizing my scent. His stubble scrapes against my skin, rough and real.
"Very eloquent. Truly, your gift for language knows no bounds."
"Too early for sarcasm."
"It's never too early for sarcasm. Sarcasm is my love language."
He huffs a laugh against my skin. It's warm, soft, nothing like the controlled sounds he makes in public. This is the real him. The one only I get to see.
"How do you feel?" he asks.
"Like I slept. So, pretty fucking good." I stretch, feeling my joints pop, feeling the pleasant ache in muscles that are finally learning to relax. "Also, your brother's cabin is ridiculous. Who has a view like this? Rich people. Rich people have views like this."
"We're not rich. We're well-funded."
"Same thing."
"Really not."
I roll over to face him, and his arm adjusts automatically, settling around my waist again. His eyes are soft in the early light, the color of clouds before a storm. Sleep has left creases on his cheek from the pillow, and he’s got a line of dried drool down his cheek.
"You have pillow face," I tell him.
"You have morning breath."
"Rude. Accurate, but rude."
"How do you feel?" he asks again, more seriously this time. "No nightmares?"
"None that I remember." I think about it, searching for the usual residue of terror that follows me out of sleep. There's nothing. Just warmth and safety and the solid weight of his arm across my body. "You?"
"No."
"Really?"
"Really." He sounds almost surprised by it. "I don't remember the last time I slept through the night."
"Maybe you just needed a proper mattress. Though yours is pretty good. Bit hard for my taste."
"Maybe." His hand traces up my spine, fingertips light against the bumps of my vertebrae. "Or maybe I just needed you."
The words are quiet. Almost shy. From anyone else, they'd sound like a line. From Jagger, they sound like a confession being dragged out of him against his will.
I kiss him because I don't know what else to do. Soft and slow, morning breath and all. He kisses back the same way, no urgency, no heat. Just connection. Just two people learning how to be gentle with each other after a lifetime of walking on glass shards.
"What do you want to do today?" he asks as we break apart.
"Is 'stay in bed forever' an option?"
"Probably not. We have planning to do. Calls to make. Brothers to coordinate with."
"That sounds exhausting. I vote for bed."
"You can't just vote for bed."
"Watch me." I snuggle deeper into the covers, pulling him with me. "Bed wins. Democracy has spoken."
He shakes his head, but he's smiling. Actually smiling, not just the almost-smile I've grown used to. It transforms his face, makes him look boyish and kinda goofy.
"One hour," he says. "Then we get up."
"Two hours."
"Ninety minutes."
"Deal."
We settle into the pillows, facing each other, legs tangled under the blankets.
His hand is still tracing patterns on my back, and I let mine wander across his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under my palm.
The rhythm is slow, peaceful. Nothing like the racing pulse I've felt when we're fucking, when he's buried inside me, when he's losing the control he holds so tight.
"This is weird," I say.
"What is?"
"Being happy. Or whatever this is." I trace the edge of his collarbone, the sharp line of bone under warm skin.
"I spent three years in a fog. Before that, I spent five years chasing stories that kept me up at night.
I don't think I've ever just... been. You know?
Without the fear, or the work, or the constant feeling that something terrible is about to happen. "
"Something terrible is about to happen. The Silent is hunting us. We are probably going to die. You realize that right?”
"Yeah, but right now, in this bed, with you, I don't care." I meet his eyes. "Is that crazy?"
"Probably." His hand stills on my back. "But I don't care either."
We lie there in comfortable silence. The light outside grows brighter, painting the room in shades of gold and pink.
I can hear birds somewhere, and the distant sound of movement from the other part of the cabin.
Jace and Elliot, probably. Making breakfast. Living their life.
Being normal in a way that I'm only beginning to understand is possible.
"Can I try something?" Jagger asks.
"Depends on what it is."
"Trust me."
"Famous last words." But I nod anyway, because I do trust him. Against all logic, against all evidence, I trust him.
He pushes me gently onto my back and slides down the bed, disappearing under the covers. His hands find my hips, thumbs tracing the hollows there, the bruises from his grip that are finally starting to fade. Then his mouth is on my stomach, kissing a slow path downward.
"This isn't exactly a hardship," I say to the ceiling.
"Quiet."
He tugs my boxers down my legs, tossing them somewhere off the bed. I'm half-hard already, just from the anticipation, just from the feel of his breath against my skin. When his mouth ghosts over my cock, I feel it twitch, eager for attention.
But he doesn't touch my cock. He keeps moving, kissing along my hip bone, down to my inner thigh. His hands push my legs apart, gentle but insistent, and I let them fall open, exposing myself completely.
"Jagger, what are you—"
His mouth finds my hole.
I nearly come off the bed.
No one has ever done this to me. I've heard about it, seen it in porn, wondered what the fuss was about.
Actually feeling it is something else entirely.
His tongue is hot and wet, circling my rim with maddening slowness, and when he presses inside, I make a sound that's somewhere between a moan and a sob.
"Oh fuck." My hands fist in the sheets, knuckles going white. "Fuck, Jagger."
He doesn't respond. Just keeps licking, long strokes from my balls to my hole and back again. His stubble scrapes against sensitive skin, rough contrast to the soft wetness of his tongue. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open, keeping me spread and exposed and completely at his mercy.
I'm babbling. I know I am. Words spilling out without permission, curses and pleas and his name, over and over. He hums against me, and the vibration sends shockwaves up my spine, makes my cock jerk against my stomach.
He points his tongue and fucks me with it, pushing past the ring of muscle, and I swear I see stars. My hips try to buck, to grind down against his face, but his grip keeps me pinned. I'm completely under his control, and I've never felt more free.
"More," I gasp. "Please, more."
He gives me more. Licks deeper, works his tongue in slow circles inside me, then pulls back to suck. The sensation is overwhelming, pleasure building in waves that crash through me, recede, and crash again.
I don't know how long it goes on. Minutes. Hours. Time loses meaning when all I can feel is his mouth on me, his breath hot against my most intimate places, his hands holding me like I'm something precious.
"Please," I gasp. "Please, I need—"
He wraps a hand around my cock, stroking in time with his tongue, and that's it.
That's all I can take. The orgasm builds from somewhere deep in my gut, a wave that starts slow and then crashes through me without warning.
My body shakes as I spill over his fist, as his tongue keeps working me through it, drawing out the pleasure until I'm oversensitive and twitching.
When it's over, I'm a puddle. Boneless and twitching, every nerve ending still singing. Jagger crawls back up the bed and lies beside me, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. His lips are red, swollen, and there's a satisfied look in his eyes that I've never seen before.
"Good?" he asks.
"I think you killed me. I think I'm dead. This is the afterlife."
"Dramatic."
"I'm a dramatic person. You knew that when you signed up." I turn my head to look at him, still trying to catch my breath. "What about you?"
"This wasn't about me."