Chapter 24 Talia
TWENTY-FOUR
Talia
THE AFTER
Jackson’s quarters are exactly what I expect—sparse, masculine, scrupulously organized.
The bed is made tight and exact, corners squared, sheets pulled flat without a wrinkle in sight. A single leather chair sits nearby, worn by the weight of a man who doesn’t sleep well.
No photos. No clutter. Just a space designed for resting between wars.
The rain drums against the window, a soft, steady rhythm that seals us in. The door clicks shut, cutting off the hum of the command center, the chatter of the team, the noise of the world.
Silence settles. It’s heavy, but not oppressive. It feels like an exhale held for years.
“Sit,” I say, guiding him toward the small leather sofa in the corner. “You look gray.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re swaying. That’s a vestibular response to exhaustion.”
He doesn’t argue. He sinks onto the leather cushions with a heavy exhale, his head tipping back against the wall. His eyes slip shut for a second, the lashes dark against his pale skin, before snapping back to me. He watches me as I move through the room.
I need to do something. If I stop moving, I have to acknowledge that the mission is over. I have to admit my skin feels tight, and that my blood is still humming with a fight-or-flight rhythm that has nowhere to go.
I turn on a low lamp. Amber light pools in the corner, softening the hard angles of his face. I check the thermostat—too cool. I bump it up two degrees. I find the kitchenette—clean counter, single mug in the sink.
I fill a glass with water. I locate a throw blanket in a cabinet.
“Talia.” His voice is a rumble, low and tired.
“One second.” I grab a pillow from the bed. “You need lumbar support to keep the pressure off your side.”
I bring the items to the couch. I place the water on the table. I tuck the pillow behind his good side. I spread the blanket over his legs.
“You’re hovering,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t stop me. His eyes track my hands as I smooth the blanket.
“I’m optimizing your recovery environment.”
He catches my hand.
His grip is warm, calloused, and unyielding. It stops me mid-motion.
“Stop.”
I freeze. “I’m just trying to—”
“I know what you’re doing. You’re organizing the room because you can’t organize your head.” He tugs my hand, gently this time. “You’re nervous. Sit. Please.”
I sink onto the cushion beside him, careful to leave space for his injury. The leather creaks beneath us.
“I’m not nervous.”
“Liar.” He shifts, turning his body toward me despite the stiffness in his spine. He keeps my hand in his, his thumb tracing the line of my knuckles. Back and forth. A rhythmic, soothing pattern. “You’re vibrating.”
“It’s the adrenaline crash. Statistical probability of post-traumatic—”
“Talia.”
I shut my mouth.
He lifts my hand, pressing his lips to the back of my fingers. The contact sends a jolt straight to my core, warmer than the room, sharper than the pain in my ribs. He lingers there, his breath ghosting over my skin.
“We’re safe,” he says against my knuckles. “Nobody is shooting at us. Nobody is hunting us. It’s just us.”
“Just us,” I whisper.
He doesn’t let go of my hand. He studies it, tracing the small cuts, the grime under the nails, the bruises on my skin. He treats my hand like a map he’s memorizing.
“You have nice hands,” he says quietly. “Capable.”
“They’re shaking.”
“They’re steady enough to stitch me up.” He looks up, meeting my eyes. The intensity there steals the air from my lungs. “They’re steady enough for me.”
The air in the room changes. It thickens. The exhaustion recedes, replaced by a slow, heavy gravity pulling me toward him.
He reaches out with his other hand—the good one—and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger on my neck, warm and rough. He isn’t rushing. He’s taking his time, savoring the fact that we have time to take. His thumb brushes the pulse point under my jaw.
“Fast,” he notes.
“You have that effect on me.”
“Good.”
He leans in.
The kiss is slow. Tentative. It tastes of coffee and fatigue and relief. It’s a question. Are we here? Is this real?
I soften against him. My hand comes up to cup his jaw, the stubble scratching my palm.
He makes a low sound in his throat and tilts his head, deepening the angle. His tongue sweeps my lower lip, lazy and thorough. It’s not the desperate collision of the warehouse. It’s an exploration. He kisses the corner of my mouth, my chin, the sensitive cord of my neck.
The iron tension strung through his back loosens under my hands, muscles unclenching as if my touch flips a hidden release valve. His body settles against me, chest to chest, and his heartbeat thuds in steady, grounding pulses I feel through my ribs.
He breaks the contact but doesn’t pull away. He rests his forehead against mine. We breathe the same air.
“I miss this,” he murmurs.
“We just met a few days ago, but it feels longer.”
“Truth.” His thumb strokes my cheekbone.
He kisses me again. This time, there’s heat. A spark catching in dry tinder. His hand slides from my neck into my hair, gripping the back of my skull, anchoring me. The pressure increases. The demand rises.
I open for him.
He groans, the vibration pressing into my chest. He shifts, instinct taking over, trying to twist his body to pull me into his lap, trying to leverage his weight over mine to claim the space.
He flinches.
A sharp hiss of breath through his teeth. His body goes rigid.
He breaks the kiss, his head dropping back against the cushions. He swears, low and vicious.
“Jackson?”
“Fuck.” He breathes hard, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the spike of pain to recede. “I can’t … The stitches pull when I twist.”
“It’s okay. We don’t have to—”
“I want to.” He opens his eyes. They are dark, burning with a hunger that has nothing to do with safety.
“I want to wreck you, Talia. I’ve been wanting to since I watched you take apart that lock in the garage.
I want to be over you. I want to drive into you until neither of us remembers our own names.
” He hits the arm of the sofa with a frustrated fist. “But I can’t even lift you. ”
The vulnerability in his voice stops me cold. This is a man who defines himself by his capability. By his physical dominance. And right now, his body is a cage.
I look at him. I see the hunger. I see the frustration. And I see the three years of denial he told me about—the walls he built to keep everyone out.
He wants this. He needs this. And I need him.
My mind shifts gears. Problem. Variable. Solution.
If he can’t be the active force, I have to be.
“You don’t have to lift me,” I say softly.
I stand.
His eyes track me, widening slightly as I grab the hem of my sweater.
“Talia?”
I pull it over my head. The cool air hits my skin, raising goose bumps. I drop the sweater to the floor.
I don’t look away. I unbutton the jeans. Push them down. Step out of them.
I stand before him in nothing but lace scraps. I’m not a model. I have bruises from the harness. I have a scar on my collarbone. And, I’m trembling.
But the way he looks at me …
It’s like he’s seeing a miracle. His gaze travels up my legs, over my hips, lingering on my breasts, finally meeting my eyes. There is no critique. There is only worship.
“Beautiful,” he breathes. “You are—terrifyingly beautiful.”
I step between his spread knees. I place my hands on his shoulders, careful of the bandages.
“Let me,” I whisper.
He nods, surrendering. “Yeah. Okay.”
I climb onto his lap, straddling his thighs. I keep my weight on my knees, hovering, protecting his injured side.
His good hand comes up immediately to my hip, gripping hard. His fingers dig in, possessive. Even with one arm, his touch is electric. This is a man who works with explosives—he understands pressure, timing, and the exact amount of force required to get a reaction.
He leans back against the cushions, watching me. “Take it off.”
I reach behind me, unhooking my bra. It falls away.
His eyes darken to black. He lifts his hand, cupping my breast, his thumb brushing the nipple. I gasp, my back arching instinctively.
“Sensitive,” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
He leans forward, ignoring the pain in his side, and takes me into his mouth.
The sensation is blinding. His tongue is hot, rough, and skilled. He teases, licks, and sucks, sending lines of fire straight to my core. My hands tangle in his hair, holding him there.
He pulls back, leaving me wet and aching.
“I need to see you,” he rasps.
He reaches for his belt buckle with his good hand. He fumbles, just for a second—a tremor in his fingers.
“I got it.” I brush his hand away.
I undo his belt. The button. The zipper.
He’s hard. Painfully hard. He springs free, heavy and thick against his stomach.
I take him in my hand. He jerks, his hips bucking upward involuntarily. A guttural sound tears from his throat.
“Three years,” he grits out, his head falling back against the sofa. “God, Talia. Be careful. I’m on a hair trigger.”
“I have you.”
I stroke him once, twice. He hisses, his hand clamping on my thigh to stop me.
“Not yet,” he says. “If you keep doing that, this will be over in ten seconds.”
He guides my hand away, and slides his between my legs.
He finds the wetness there.
“Good,” he whispers. “You’re ready.”
His fingers slip inside me.
Jackson is a virtuoso with his hands. He doesn’t just touch; he learns. He finds the rhythm instantly, curling his fingers, hitting a spot that makes my vision blur.
His thumb finds my clit. He works me, relentless and precise.
I rock against his hand, a moan escaping my lips.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, watching my face. “Let go.”
“I want you,” I gasp. “Inside.”
“You’ll get me.” He withdraws his hand, slick with me. He rubs his thumb over the head of his cock, slicking it.
I lift my hips. I position myself.
I sink down.
Slowly. Inch by inch.
He fills me completely. It’s a stretch, a fullness that borders on pain before settling into a deep, heavy ache of rightness.
When I’m fully seated, Jackson shudders. A tremor runs through his entire frame. He grips my hip so hard it will leave a bruise. He buries his face in the valley between my breasts, inhaling sharply against my skin.
“Jesus,” he whispers against my skin. “You feel—”
“Real?”
“Inevitable and perfect.”
He lifts his head. He doesn’t move his hips—he can’t, not without tearing his stitches. But he doesn’t need to.
He brings his hand back up to my clit.
His voice drops to something dark and molten.
“Ride me.”
My pulse stutters. Not from fear. From recognition.
He isn’t asking—he’s giving me the reins.
I slide onto him slowly, deliberately, owning every inch of the movement. His breath punches out hard, hands clamping on my hips, but he lets me choose the rhythm.
“Set the pace,” he growls.
I do.
I move with intention, with hunger, with a confidence I didn’t know lived in my bones. Heat blooms through me as I find the rhythm that makes his jaw clench, his fingers dig harder, his control fray.
Every roll of my body against his sparks another answering shudder from him. His muscles lock beneath my hands. The sound he makes—low, broken—is nothing like polite bedroom noises. It’s raw.
His eyes drag up my body, hot enough to burn.
“Look at you,” he rasps. “Not holding anything back.”
I don’t. I lean into the pleasure, into the pressure building between us, into the rhythm that turns my breath into sharp, uneven pulls. My hands slide over his chest, his shoulders, anchoring myself as the heat coils tight.
The world dissolves—no servers, no AI, no danger. Just the slick heat of skin against skin and the way he meets my movement with a hunger that matches mine beat for beat.
His hands rise along my spine, guiding, urging, but never taking control unless I give it.
“Faster,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Only if you want it.”
I do.
God, I do.
I move again—harder, deeper, with a confidence that would make Nathan choke on his words. Jackson’s head falls back, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as he grips my hips like he’s holding on for survival.
There is no analysis now.
No hesitation.
No shame.
Just heat.
And hunger.
The two of us, burning through every inch of space between our bodies.
Jackson helps me, his hand anchoring my hip, guiding my rhythm. He watches me with a focused intensity that makes me feel exposed and protected all at once. He kisses my chest, my throat, his jaw clenched tight as he fights for control.
“Look at me,” he growls.
I open my eyes.
“You’re mine,” he says. “Right here. Right now. You aren’t analyzing this. You’re feeling it.”
“I feel it,” I gasp. “Jackson, I—”
He changes the angle of his hips, just a fraction, hitting deep.
I shatter.
It hits me like a wave, crashing over my head, drowning out everything. I cry out, my back arching, my muscles clamping down around him.
The sensation of me tightening triggers him. He can’t hold back anymore.
He groans—a deep, animal sound of release. He thrusts upward, just once, hard and deep, burying himself to the hilt.
He shakes apart beneath me. I feel the pulse of him inside me, the warmth, the absolute surrender of a man who has held himself in check for a thousand days.
We stay there as the tremors subside. Me collapsed against his chest, him holding me with his good arm, his face buried in my hair.
The silence in the room is heavy, but it isn’t empty. It’s full.
Eventually, the cold air of the room starts to register on my sweat-slicked skin.
“We should move,” I whisper, not moving at all.
“Not yet.” He kisses the top of my head. “Give me a minute. My brain is still rebooting.”
I smile against his skin. “System critical?”
“System overloaded.”
Carefully, painfully, we disentangle. I help him stand, and we make our way to the bed. We don’t bother with clothes. We crawl under the heavy duvet, skin to skin.
I curl into his good side. He wraps his arm around me, pulling me tight against his chest. His leg hooks over mine.
He runs his hand down my spine, tracing the vertebrae one by one. He seems fascinated by the texture of my skin, the curve of my hip.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m perfect.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest into my ear. “You know—for someone who worries about being clinical …”
I tense slightly. “What?”
“You don’t fuck like any nun I know.”
I look up at him. He’s grinning—a lopsided, exhausted, thoroughly satisfied grin.
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s the highest compliment.” He kisses my forehead. “Nathan was an idiot. You’re heat and fire. You’re combustible chaos. And you fit me perfectly.”
The last knot of insecurity in my chest loosens. The voice that has whispered you’re too much for three years finally goes silent.
“We fit,” I agree.
“Package deal,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting shut. “Me and you.”
“You and me.”
I lay my head on his chest. I listen to his heart. It’s slow, steady, and strong.
I close my eyes. No nightmares tonight. No calculations.
Just us.