Chapter 13 #2
Relief crashes through me so hard my knees buckle. The Coast Guard navigator steadies me with professional kindness. "They've got them. It's over."
But it's not over until I see Holden. Until I confirm with my own eyes that he's unharmed and whole and coming back to me like he promised.
The wait feels endless. Holden's team secures the operatives, recovers the stolen data and attack plans, processes the scene with methodical efficiency.
When they finally return to the support boat, four men in restraints are transferred to Coast Guard custody.
Foreign operatives who planned to use my research to hurt people.
When the deck lights hit Holden, I see his wetsuit is torn, fresh blood seeping through a gash on his shoulder. But he's upright and moving under his own power. Our eyes meet across the deck and everything else falls away.
"You're hurt," I say, reaching for him.
"One of them fought back. Got a knife in before Kowalski took him down." His fingers tilt my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. "I'm okay. Are you?"
"Now I am."
Kowalski approaches, professional but clearly curious about the woman his commander brought on a mission. "Dr. McKay's research lays out where we were vulnerable, sir. Attack plans confirm they were targeting exactly the approach vector she identified."
"Good work," Holden tells him, then looks at me. "You helped stop an attack on Tidewater. Saved lives tonight."
The weight of that settles over me. My research, used correctly this time. Not as a weapon but as protection.
The Coast Guard processes the operatives. Holden's team handles evidence documentation. Hartwell coordinates with base command via secure channels. The machinery of justice grinds into motion while Holden and I stand on the deck of a support boat in the middle of the ocean, finally out of danger.
"Take me home," I whisper against his chest. "Not the safe house. Not the base. Your home."
Holden's arms tighten around me. "Yeah. Let's go home."
The drive back to shore is quiet, both of us processing what just happened. Hartwell handles Rexford's transfer while Holden drives us away from base, away from everything. His beach cottage appears in the headlights, weathered wood and large windows, exactly what I imagined.
Inside, it's masculine and comfortable. A leather Chesterfield couch faces the fireplace, two leather wingback chairs positioned to catch both the fire and the ocean view through the windows.
Antiques scattered throughout, pieces that look collected rather than purchased, each with a story.
Books line the shelves; maritime history mixed with fiction and technical manuals.
Photos of his SEAL team sit among the personal mementos.
This is where he comes to decompress. Where he sheds the warrior and becomes just Holden.
"Shower first," he says, leading me to the bathroom. "Then food. Then sleep."
But when we're both under hot water washing away salt and blood and fear, sleep is the last thing on my mind. Holden's hands are gentle on my bruises, cataloging injuries with careful attention. His shoulder wound has stopped bleeding, just another scar to add to the collection.
I press my lips to the fresh cut, tasting copper and antiseptic. "You scared me out there."
"I know." He brushes wet hair back from my forehead, touch reverent. "I scare myself sometimes. The risks we take, the close calls. But coming back to you makes it worth it."
"Holden—"
He kisses me, slow and deep and claiming. Different from the desperate urgency at the safe house. This is possession tempered with tenderness, need mixed with certainty. This is a man who knows exactly what he wants and isn't afraid to take it.
Water sluices over us, steam filling the bathroom, and I lose myself in the kiss. In the feel of his body pressed against mine, hard muscle and warm skin and the steady beat of his heart under my palm.
"Bed," I manage when he finally releases my mouth. "I need you in bed."
We barely dry off before we're tangled together on his mattress. Bigger than mine, sheets smelling like detergent and him. Holden looms over me, water still beading on his shoulders, dripping from his hair onto my skin. Each drop feels electric where it lands, cool against overheated flesh.
He doesn't ask for permission this time. Doesn't check in or offer me outs. We're past that now, past the careful negotiation of trust. This is claiming pure and simple, raw need stripped of gentleness.
His mouth crashes into mine, demanding and fierce.
Teeth scrape my lower lip hard enough to sting before his tongue demands entrance, sweeping inside to claim and conquer.
I open for him, meeting aggression with my own, biting back when he gets too rough.
The growl that rumbles from his chest vibrates against my breasts, sending heat flooding south.
Hands pin my wrists above my head, strong fingers circling bone as he holds me down.
The position should scare me after years of Bruce's control, but with Holden it just makes me burn hotter.
Wetness pools between my thighs, slick and ready, body responding to dominance that comes from desire instead of fear.
"Mine," he growls against my throat, teeth scraping down the column of my neck. "Say it."
"Yours." The word comes out breathless, needy. "All yours, Holden."
He releases my wrists to drag his mouth lower, lips blazing a trail down my sternum. When he reaches my breast, he doesn't tease. His mouth closes over my nipple, hot and wet, tongue flicking the sensitive bud before teeth bite down just hard enough to make me cry out.
Sharp pleasure-pain lances through me, making my back arch off the bed. My hands fist in his hair, holding him to me, silently begging for more. He complies, sucking hard while his hand finds my other breast, fingers pinching and rolling my nipple until I'm writhing beneath him.
"That's it." His voice is rough, satisfied at my response. "Let me hear you."
He switches sides, lavishing the same treatment on my other breast while his hand slides down my stomach.
Callused fingers trace patterns on my hip, my inner thigh, deliberately avoiding where I need him most. My hips lift, seeking contact, but he holds me down with one strong hand splayed across my lower belly.
"Holden, please." I'm not above begging. Not when every nerve ending is on fire and I can feel myself getting wetter with each passing second.
"Please what?" His breath ghosts over my nipple, making it tighten painfully. "Tell me what you want."
"Touch me." My voice breaks on the words. "I need you to touch me."
His hand finally slides between my legs, and we both groan at what he finds. I'm soaked, slick arousal coating my inner thighs, clit swollen and aching for attention.
"Fuck, Fallon." His fingers stroke through wet folds, gathering moisture, spreading it higher. "You're dripping for me."
"Yes." I can barely form words as his fingers explore, learning every fold and ridge. "God, yes."
He doesn't tease this time, doesn't build slowly. Two fingers thrust inside me with purpose, stretching me, filling me. The sudden intrusion makes me gasp, inner walls clenching around the welcome invasion. His fingers curl, finding that spot deep inside that makes my toes curl and my vision blur.
"Right there," I moan, hips rocking to meet each thrust. "Don't stop."
He doesn't. Fingers pump in and out with ruthless precision, setting a rhythm that has me climbing toward orgasm embarrassingly fast. His thumb finds my clit, circling the swollen bundle of nerves with perfect pressure, and I'm seconds from falling apart.
"Not yet." He withdraws his fingers abruptly, leaving me gasping and empty and so close to the edge I could scream. "When you come, I want to be inside you. Want to feel you fall apart around my cock."
"Then stop talking and do it." I pull him down, nails raking his back hard enough to leave red welts. "I need you. Now."
He positions himself between my thighs, hard and ready, the thick length of him aligned exactly where I need him. I'm so wet that when he presses forward, he slides in easily, but the stretch is still intense. He's thick and hard, and even though my body is ready, the fullness makes me gasp.
No gentle buildup this time. He drives in with one powerful thrust that seats him completely, hips flush against mine. The sudden invasion pushes the air from my lungs, pleasure and pressure mixing until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
"Okay?" The single word is strained, body trembling with barely restrained need. Sweat already beads on his forehead despite the shower, muscles coiled tight with the effort of holding still.
"Don't you dare stop." I wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging into his back, urging him deeper. "Harder."
He doesn't need to be told twice. His hips snap back and drive forward again, establishing a punishing rhythm that steals my breath.
Each thrust hits deep, the angle perfect to stroke that spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyes.
The bed frame creaks with the force of his movements, headboard thumping against the wall.
"Look at me." His hand grips my jaw, not gentle, forcing my eyes to his. "I want you watching when you come. Want you to know exactly who's making you feel this way."
Gray eyes burn into mine, fierce and possessive and focused entirely on my pleasure. The intensity of his gaze combined with the relentless rhythm of his body makes something in my chest crack open. This isn't just sex. This is claiming, marking, staking a claim that goes bone-deep.
One hand slides between us, fingers finding my clit and circling with perfect pressure. The dual sensations push me higher, coiling tension in my core until I'm trembling on the edge. Sweat slicks our skin where we're pressed together, the sound of flesh meeting flesh obscene in the quiet room.