Chapter 2 — James #3
"God," she breathes. "You feel so good."
"You feel fucking perfect." I pull almost all the way out and thrust back in, hard. "Like you were made for me."
She moans and I do it again, setting a hard rhythm that makes her breasts bounce with every thrust. I can't stop watching them, can't stop watching the way her body moves, can't stop watching her face as she takes every inch of me.
"Harder," she demands. "I'm not going to break."
So I give her what she wants.
I grip her hips, those gorgeous, soft hips I've been thinking about all day, and I fuck her hard enough that the truck rocks. The angle is deep, hitting something inside her that makes her gasp with every thrust.
"Is this what you wanted?" I ask, slamming into her. "Is this what you've been thinking about?"
"Yes. God, yes. Don't stop."
I have no intention of stopping. I want to make her come again, want to feel her clench around my cock, want to watch her fall apart.
I slide one hand between us, finding her clit, and she cries out.
"That's it," I tell her, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves. "Come on my cock. Let me feel it."
She's close, I can tell by the way her breathing has gone ragged, the way her inner muscles are starting to flutter around me. I thrust harder, work her clit faster, and lean down to bite her neck.
That does it.
She comes with a cry that I swallow with my mouth, her whole body shaking, her pussy clenching around me so hard it's almost painful. The feeling of her coming while I'm buried inside her is enough to pull me over the edge.
I thrust deep one more time and let go, filling her, marking her, making her mine in the most primal way possible.
For several long moments, neither of us moves. We're pressed together in the back seat of my truck, breathing hard, skin damp with sweat, and I want to stay here forever.
I want to do this again. And again. Until neither of us can move.
But reality is already creeping back in.
The cramped space of the truck. The fact that we're in the station parking lot where anyone could walk by.
The fact that I just had sex with the investigator who's conducting my station's assessment.
The fact that I promised myself fourteen years ago I wouldn't do this again, and I lasted approximately nine hours.
Tess shifts beneath me, and I pull back enough to see her face. Her hair has come completely loose from its ponytail, spread across the seat in dark waves. Her lips are swollen from kissing. Her neck has marks from my mouth that are going to be visible tomorrow.
She looks thoroughly debauched and absolutely beautiful and I want to do this again immediately.
She also looks like she's already starting to regret it.
I can see it in her eyes, the way the softness is fading, the way her walls are starting to rebuild.
We separate reluctantly, and I immediately miss the feeling of being inside her. We dress in silence that gets heavier with every second, putting ourselves back together, and it feels like we're putting distance between us with every button and zipper.
When she's smoothed and buttoned and back to looking almost professional except for the marks on her neck, she reaches for the door handle.
"Tess, wait."
She doesn't look at me. "I should go. Finish the assessment tomorrow."
"We need to talk about this."
"I know. But not—" She takes a breath, and I can see her building walls in real time. "Not right now. Okay?"
I want to argue. I want to tell her that we can't keep doing this, can't keep having these intense encounters and then walking away before we say anything real. I want to tell her that I've thought about her for fourteen years and I'm tired of pretending I haven't.
But she's looking at me with something like panic in her eyes, and I remember that I'm the one who let her go the first time.
I'm the one who convinced her the timing was wrong, that the age gap mattered, that we couldn't make it work.
I don't get to demand anything from her now.
"Okay," I say. "Tomorrow."
She nods, opens the door, and she's gone.
I sit in the back seat of my truck for a long time after she drives away, trying to figure out what the hell I just did and why it feels both like the best decision and the worst mistake I've made in fourteen years.
My phone buzzes. A text from Rhett: You good?
I stare at the message. The honest answer is no. I'm not good. I just had sex with the woman I've been half in love with for fourteen years in the back seat of my truck like a teenager, and she left looking like she was already regretting it.
I type back: Fine.
It's a lie, but it's the only answer I have.
Eventually I get out of the truck, smooth my clothes, and walk back into the station like nothing happened.
The crew is in the common room, dinner in progress. Someone's made pasta. Declan and Murphy are arguing about something that sounds sports-related. Anthony is laughing at something Travis said.
They look up when I walk in.
If anyone notices that I've been gone longer than a quick decompression should take, no one mentions it. If anyone notices the scratches I can feel on my shoulders under my shirt, no one says anything.
I grab a plate, sit down, and participate in the conversation on autopilot.
But I'm not really there.
I'm in the parking lot, in my truck, with Tess Holt in my arms again after fourteen years of empty space. I'm thinking about the way she felt, the sounds she made, the way she said my name when she came.
I'm thinking about the way she looked when she left.
Like she was already running.
Like history is about to repeat itself.
And this time, I'm not sure I'll survive it.