Chapter Seventeen #2
I took my time there, reading every sound, cataloguing all of it, because I was leaving in the morning and these pieces of information—the exact pressure that made Jackson swear, the specific rhythm that made his thighs tense—were the kind of intel that kept men alive through situations where the margin for error was measured in seconds, not minutes.
Jackson’s sleep pants came off with a single decisive motion—his hand reaching for the waistband, pushing them down his thighs, kicking them off.
I ran my hands over him slowly—the curve of his belly, the heat of his skin, the way his cock was already hard and flushed against his stomach.
I wrapped a hand around it, stroking him in long unhurried pulls while Jackson’s jaw dropped and his hips rolled up into the friction.
His eyes closed, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder—not pushing, not pulling, just the physical fact of us connected in a way that made everything else irrelevant.
“Jesus, Cruz,” he said, his voice gone low and rough. “Stop making me wait.”
I didn’t stop. Worked my mouth down his stomach instead, careful and deliberate around the swell of the pregnancy, and got my lips around the head of his cock until Jackson’s thighs were shaking and his knuckles were white in the sheets.
His breath came in sharp pants, his hips rolling up in the way that meant he was close.
I pulled off before he could finish, ignored the curse that followed, and reached for the lube on the nightstand. Jackson watched me with careful attention, his eyes tracking each movement.
I worked a slick finger into his ass slowly, watching his face, giving him time to adjust. Jackson’s head tipped back against the pillow with a low sound that did something permanent to my chest. His hand came to rest on my forearm—not pushing, not pulling, just the physical fact of us connected in a way that made everything else irrelevant.
I added a second finger, scissoring him open carefully—I was thick and had never once been careless with Jackson’s body even when everything else between us was rough and urgent—and Jackson pushed back against my hand, his jaw tight and his breath coming in controlled measures.
“I’m ready,” he said, his voice gone low and unsteady. “Come on.”
I added a third finger anyway, stretching him fully, watching the flush spread up his throat. His hand tightened on my arm—not enough to leave marks, but enough that I could feel the pressure of his fingers against my skin.
I pulled free when I was satisfied, stripped off my clothes, and reached for the lube again to lather myself up.
Jackson watched me with careful attention, his eyes tracking each movement.
I lined up and pushed in slow, giving Jackson every inch in long deliberate increments, my forehead dropped to his temple, my breathing controlled where his was not.
Jackson exhaled hard through his nose, one hand gripping my arm and the other fisting in the sheets, taking the stretch and the fullness with the same focused endurance he brought to everything.
I held still once I was fully seated, feeling Jackson’s body adjust around me, and pressed my mouth to the side of his head.
“Jackson,” I said, just his name, low and rough.
He turned his face and found my mouth and kissed me hard. His hand came to the back of my neck, holding me exactly where he wanted me, and the honesty of that choice—Jackson wanting me exactly where I was—landed somewhere behind my sternum like something with an edge.
The pace built steadily from there—my full weight behind every thrust, one hand braced on the headboard and the other gripping Jackson’s hip to hold him exactly where I wanted him.
Jackson took all of it, met me, his nails dragging lines down my back, making sounds that belonged to a man who had stopped managing his reactions, which was the thing I wanted most and got rarely.
I got a hand around his cock and stroked him in time with my own rhythm, and Jackson swore at me and did not ask me to stop. His hand came to my face, thumb brushing across my lower lip, eyes tracking the movement in a way that meant he was filing it away for later.
What broke me open was not the physical heat of it, though that was considerable—it was the way Jackson looked at me, once, in the middle of it, with his guard fully down and nothing managed and nothing held back, the specific look of a man who had stopped protecting himself from wanting something.
I drove in deep and held there, watching Jackson’s face, and he reached up and pulled me down by the back of the neck and kissed me with an openness that I felt in my sternum.
His legs wrapped around my waist, holding me exactly where he wanted me, and the truth that had been growing between us for four months suddenly too present to ignore.
“I’ve got you,” I said, the words coming out before I could stop them. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Jackson nodded once, his eyes on my face, and pulled me down for another kiss.
I finished with my face pressed into the curve of his throat, teeth grazing the skin there, Jackson still shaking through the aftershocks beneath me.
His hand was warm against the back of my neck, his breath coming in controlled measures against my temple.
Afterward, we lay tangled together in the low lamplight, my hand moving in slow absent patterns across Jackson’s side, careful of his stomach. Jackson’s eyes were half-closed, his breathing gradually evening out, one hand resting on my chest directly over my heart.
I stared at the ceiling and thought about the morning, about the bag by the door, about three weeks that would feel like three months. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called—a sound that meant full dark had finally arrived.
The baby moved against my palm—a small, insistent pressure that meant growth rather than trouble—and I pressed back gently, the way Jackson had shown me.
“I’ll be back,” I said, the words coming out before I could stop them. “Whatever happens with this mission. Whatever comes through that door. I’m coming home to you.”
Jackson nodded once, his eyes still closed. “I know,” he said, his voice level. “Coffee’s on the counter if you want more.”
It wasn’t “I’ll wait for you” or “this is permanent” or any of the clean statements that would have made the next conversation simpler, just “coffee’s on the counter”.
It was enough. More than enough, from a man who’d spent thirty years building his life around the absolute certainty that no one would be there to catch him if he fell.
Jackson’s breathing evened out slowly, his hand gradually going slack against my chest. I lay beside him in the low lamplight and watched his face—the careful way he was holding himself together even in sleep, the methodical attention he brought to everything—and tried to make sense of what was happening.
The promise I’d given him sat between my shoulder blades like something with an edge—not quite physical, but present enough that I had to look down at Jackson’s sleeping face to hide whatever had just happened to mine.
I didn’t sleep for a long time. Lay beside him in the low lamplight and watched his face and turned over the truth that had been growing between us for months.
When Jackson woke, I was already gone—and on the nightstand, where the lube had been the night before, there was a folded note in my handwriting: “I’ll be home soon.”