14. Jackson #3
"Bad day?" she murmurs against my chest, hands tracing soothing patterns on my back.
"Christine threatened me," I say, the words muffled by her hair. "Or more specifically, threatened you through me."
She stiffens, pulling back enough to see my face. "What did she say?"
Once seated, I explain my encounter with Christine—her thinly veiled blackmail attempt, her implied knowledge of our relationship, her specific threat regarding the disproportionate consequences Tarryn might face.
"She said women always suffer more severe repercussions than men when office relationships become public," I finish, the bitter truth of the statement making my jaw clench. "And she's leveraging that reality for her own advancement."
Tarryn sits still, absorbing the information, her legal mind visibly processing implications and potential strategies. "She has no proof," she says finally. "Just suspicion and circumstantial evidence."
"That might be enough if presented the right way to the right people." I take her hand, needing the physical connection. "We should consider going to Miguel first, controlling the narrative before she can shape it."
"Absolutely not." Her reaction is immediate, body tensing beside me. "That would confirm her suspicions and potentially jeopardize both our positions, especially with the junior counsel decision pending."
"Then what do you suggest?" I ask, frustration edging my voice. "Wait for her to make the first move? Let her dictate the terms of engagement?"
"I suggest we be more careful," she counters, pulling her hand from mine. "Maintain stricter boundaries. Give her nothing concrete to work with."
The suggestion—more distance, more caution, more denial of what's growing between us—sends a surge of possessive heat through me. "Is that what you want? More careful separation? More pretending this isn't happening?"
"I'm not giving you up," I tell her, the declaration emerging with raw certainty. "Not for Christine, not for the promotion, not for anything."
Her eyes widen, pupils dilating at my vehemence. "Jackson?—"
I silence her with a kiss, pouring years of restrained emotion into it. She freezes for a heartbeat, then melts against me, mouth opening beneath mine with a surrender that ignites my blood.
My hands slide from her face to her waist, pulling her across my lap until she's straddling me, her thin pajama shorts and my suit pants doing little to disguise how quickly my body responds to her proximity. When she rocks against me, the friction draws a groan from deep in my chest.
"I need you," I murmur against her mouth, hands slipping beneath her t-shirt to find warm skin. "Now."
She nods, already working at my tie with practiced efficiency, then attacking the buttons of my shirt. When her hands reach my bare chest, her nails scrape lightly across my skin, the slight sting sending pleasure spiraling through me.
I pull her shirt over her head, momentarily breaking our kiss, then recapture her mouth as my hands cup her breasts.
She's not wearing a bra, her nipples already hard against my palms. The realization that she's been like this since I arrived—soft and accessible beneath thin cotton—makes my cock throb with urgent need.
"Bedroom," she gasps as my mouth moves to her neck, finding the spot just below her ear that always makes her shiver.
"Too far," I growl, lifting her slightly to push her shorts down her hips. "Here. Now."
Her breath catches at the command, eyes darkening with desire. "Yes."
I lift her, turning to lay her on her back along the couch, my larger frame covering hers. My mouth traces a path from her throat to her breast, taking a hardened peak between my lips as my hand slides between her thighs, finding her already slick with need.
"So wet for me," I murmur against her skin, fingers circling her entrance without pushing inside, teasing her until her hips buck against my hand, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of everything.
"Jackson," she breathes, the plea in her voice sending fresh heat coursing through me. "Please."
The edge of desperation in her voice almost undoes me. I rise long enough to rid myself of my remaining clothes, then return to her, positioning myself at her entrance without pushing inside. Her hands clutch at my shoulders, nails digging into skin as she tries to pull me closer.
"Tell me you're mine," I demand, the words emerging from some primal place I barely recognize. "Tell me."
Her eyes meet mine, surprise evident at the possessive claim. But rather than bristling at the demand as I half expect, she pulls me down until our foreheads touch, breath mingling between us.
"I'm yours," she whispers, the simple declaration causing something to crack open in my chest. "Only yours."
With a groan, I push inside her in one smooth thrust, her heat enveloping me so perfectly that stars explode behind my eyes. She cries out, back arching, legs wrapping around my waist to draw me deeper.
"Mine," I repeat against her neck, setting a rhythm that has us both gasping. "Mine."
Her response is to tighten around me, inner muscles clenching in a way that threatens my control. I slow down, determined to make this last, to claim her so thoroughly that neither of us can pretend this is merely an arrangement, merely physical release.
"Look at me," I command, one hand tangling in her hair to tilt her face toward mine. "I want to see you."
Her eyes open, dark with desire but startlingly vulnerable. I thrust deeper, angling to hit the spot that makes her breath catch, her pupils dilating further.
"No hiding," I tell her, watching pleasure transform her features. "Not from this. Not from us."
Her hands slide up my back, one tangling in my hair to pull me down for a kiss that's more breath than contact as our bodies move together with increasing urgency. I feel her beginning to tighten around me, her breathing growing ragged.
"Come for me," I urge, sliding a hand between us to circle the bundle of nerves at her center. "Let me feel you come apart."
The combination of my words and touch pushes her over the edge, her body clenching around mine as she cries out, wave after wave of pleasure rippling through her.
The sight of her coming undone, knowing I'm the cause of her release, triggers my own climax, vision going black at the edges as I empty myself inside her.
In the aftermath, we lie tangled together on her couch, skin cooling in the apartment air, breath gradually returning to normal. My hand traces idle patterns on her back, following the graceful curve of her spine, the delicate architecture of her shoulder blades.
"I meant what I said before," I tell her, voice low in the quiet room. "I'm not giving you up. Not for anything."
She shifts in my arms, chin resting on my chest as she studies my face. "This was supposed to be an arrangement. Strictly physical."
"Is that all it is to you?" I counter, needing her honesty more than her agreement. "Just physical release? Just convenient comfort?"
She looks away, unable to meet my gaze directly—a telling reaction from a woman who's never backed down from a challenge. "You know it's not."
I cup her cheek, turning her face back to mine. "Then stop pretending. Stop treating what's between us like it's something shameful, something that needs to be hidden away in dark corners."
"It's not shame," she insists. "It's professional survival. You heard what Christine said—when office relationships become public, women always suffer more severe consequences."
"Then we fight that reality together," I tell her, sitting up and bringing her with me. "We don't let her weaponize sexist double standards against us. We take control of the narrative."
"How?" The genuine uncertainty in her voice reminds me that beneath her professional confidence lies the girl who watched her father's business collapse, who learned early that security can vanish in an instant.
"We could talk to Miguel directly," I suggest again, tracing her jawline with my thumb. "Disclose our history, establish that our personal connection resumed only after all professional decisions were made. Take away Christine's weapon by being transparent before she can distort the truth."
Tarryn considers this, legal mind visibly weighing risks and benefits. "It's risky. Miguel could still view it as a conflict, especially with the junior counsel decision pending."
"More risky than letting Christine control the narrative?" I challenge. "More risky than constantly looking over our shoulders, wondering when she'll strike?"
She sighs, leaning her forehead against my chest. "I don't know. I need to think."
I stroke her hair, understanding her hesitation.
"Think, then. But know this—" I tilt her face up, making sure she sees the determination in my eyes.
"Whatever happens with the promotion, with Christine, with any of it, I'm not walking away from you again.
Not after eight years of regretting the first time I let you go. "
Something shifts in her expression, vulnerability giving way to resolution. "This is more than an arrangement to me too," she admits quietly. "It has been from the start, even if I tried to pretend otherwise."
"So what now?" she asks.
I brush my lips against hers, a gentle affirmation rather than renewed passion. "Now we face whatever comes next. Together."
The word hangs between us, a commitment that transcends our carefully negotiated arrangement, and acknowledges the truth we've both been circling: what exists between us has never been merely physical, merely convenient, merely temporary.
It's always been everything.