Chapter 11
GWEN
Sunlight filters through the blinds when I wake, warm and disoriented. Thatcher's side of the bed is empty, sheets cool to the touch. I stretch, feeling the pleasant ache of muscles well-used, and catch the smell of coffee drifting from the kitchen.
He's at the counter, already dressed in tactical pants and a t-shirt that does nothing to hide the muscle underneath. Mugs sit waiting, steam curling up in the morning light.
"Morning," I say, padding across the floor in his shirt from last night.
He turns, eyes tracking down my bare legs and back up. "Morning. Coffee's ready."
"You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep." He hands me a mug. "Kept thinking about Briggs and Garrison still being out there."
I take a sip, lean against the counter beside him. "Rivera will find them."
"Maybe." His jaw tightens. "Or they'll make another move first."
"Which is why you have a team and NCIS backing you up." I set down the coffee, turn to face him fully. "And why Nox's coming in today to track down whoever's pulling the cyber strings."
"Speaking of which." He glances at his watch. "Nox should be arriving soon. Rivera wants us at the briefing."
"What time is it now?"
"Early."
I process that. "So we have time."
"For what?"
"Shower. Breakfast. Getting ready without rushing." I trace a finger down his chest. "Maybe other things."
His hand catches mine, brings it to his mouth. "Other things?"
"If you're interested."
"Always interested." He pulls me closer, mouth finding mine in a kiss that tastes like coffee and promise. When we break apart, his eyes are dark. "Shower first. Then we'll see about those other things."
The bathroom fills with steam while I strip off his shirt. Thatcher's already in the shower when I step under the spray, water cascading over both of us.
"This is ridiculously luxurious," I say, tipping my head back. "Military housing should not have water pressure this good."
"Perks of being a captain." His hands slide into my hair, working shampoo through with surprising gentleness. "Close your eyes."
I do, letting him wash my hair with the same methodical care he applies to everything. Strong fingers massage my scalp, work the soap through, rinse it clean. When I open my eyes again, he's watching me with that focused intensity that makes my breath catch.
"Your turn," I say, reaching for the shampoo.
"I can wash my own hair."
"I know. But I want to."
He dips his head without argument. I work the shampoo through the short strands, feeling the tension in his shoulders start to ease under my touch. When I rinse it clean, he straightens and pulls me against him.
Water streams between us. His mouth finds mine, the kiss deepening from gentle to demanding in seconds. My back hits the tile wall, his body pressing me there, one hand sliding between my thighs.
"We don't have much time," I manage between kisses.
"I can work fast." His fingers find me already wet, circling my clit with deliberate pressure. "The question is whether you can be quiet."
"I can be—oh god—perfectly quiet."
"We'll see about that."
He drops to his knees, throws one of my legs over his shoulder, and puts his mouth exactly where his fingers were. I bite back a moan, one hand bracing against the wall, the other tangling in his hair.
Thorough doesn't begin to cover it. His tongue and lips and the edge of his teeth work me with the same precision he brings to mission planning.
When I come, gasping his name despite my promise to stay quiet, he doesn't stop.
He just gentles his touch and works me through the aftershocks until my legs shake.
He stands, kisses me hard enough that I taste myself on his tongue. "Still think you can be quiet?"
"Shut up and get inside me."
"Bossy." But he's already lifting me, positioning me against the wall, the tile cool against my back. He enters me in one smooth thrust and I gasp, head falling back as he fills me completely. The angle is different like this, deeper, and every nerve ending lights up.
I wrap my legs around his waist, nails digging into his shoulders as he withdraws and drives back in. The rhythm he sets is hard and fast, exactly what I need, and I can't hold back the sounds building in my throat. Water streams between us, making everything slick and hot and perfect.
"God, you feel good." His voice is rough against my ear, one hand braced on the wall beside my head, the other gripping my hip hard enough to leave marks. "So fucking good."
I try to answer but all that comes out is a broken moan as he hits that spot inside me that makes my vision blur.
My fingers dig into the muscle of his shoulders, feeling every flex and shift as he moves.
Water runs down his face, drops catching in his lashes, and I pull him into a kiss that's more teeth than anything else.
His mouth finds my neck, teeth scraping sensitive skin while his hips drive forward with relentless precision. I'm already close again, wound tight from his mouth earlier, my body coiled and desperate. When his thumb finds my clit, circling with just the right pressure, I shatter.
The orgasm rips through me and I cry out his name, probably loud enough for the neighbors to hear, my body clenching around him. He doesn't stop, just keeps moving, prolonging it until I'm shaking and gasping against his shoulder.
"Gwen—" His rhythm breaks, becomes erratic, and then he's coming with a low groan, forehead pressed against mine, breathing hard. His hips still but he stays deep inside me, both of us trembling under the spray.
We stay like that for a long moment, just holding each other, water cascading over us. My heart pounds against my ribs. When he finally pulls out and sets me down carefully, his hands linger on my waist, making sure my legs will hold me.
"We're going to be late," I say eventually.
"Worth it." He sets me down carefully, makes sure my legs will hold me. "Though we should probably actually get clean now."
We manage it, barely, with only minimal distraction.
Back in the kitchen, Thatcher makes scrambled eggs while I toast bread. We eat standing at the counter, stealing kisses between bites, and I think about how normal this feels, how right.
By the time we're heading to the base hospital, we barely have time before Nox's scheduled arrival.
The conference room is already occupied when we walk in.
Rivera stands at the head of the table with a woman I've never seen before.
She has short blonde hair cut in a stylish, spiky pixie, wearing flowing layers and statement jewelry that scream high-end bohemian—completely at odds with the military setting and clearly giving zero shits about it.
Sharp green eyes assess me in one quick sweep before returning to Rivera.
"Dr. Abernathy," Rivera says. "This is Lennox Bradshaw. She'll be handling the cyber investigation."
"Nox, please." Her British accent is crisp and precise. "Ms. Bradshaw makes me sound like a schoolteacher, and..." She shudders at the thought, then flashes me a wicked grin.
I shake her offered hand. "Gwen. Thanks for coming in."
"Thatcher made it sound intriguing and lucrative." She glances at him. "Though he failed to mention you'd be quite so competent. The documentation you provided is exceptional."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. I haven't actually found anything useful.
" She turns back to Rivera. "Now, about access to your systems. I'll need administrator privileges, unrestricted network access, and someone who can walk me through your security protocols without wasting my time explaining why I can't have what I'm asking for. "
Rivera's mouth twitches. "I'll have IT set you up."
"Brilliant. And I'll need an office. Something quiet, away from foot traffic, with a door that locks."
"We can arrange that."
"Excellent." Nox pulls out a laptop. "Shall we begin?"
The briefing lasts hours. Nox tears through the cyber forensics reports, asks pointed questions that make the NCIS analysts look uncomfortable, and generally treats everyone like they're wasting her time if they can't keep up.
She pulls up the database code on the main screen, pointing at specific sections with a laser precision that borders on aggressive.
"This intercept layer your hacker built?
It's not just sophisticated. It's elegant.
They understood exactly how your systems talk to each other and exploited the gaps with surgical precision. "
"Can you trace it?" Rivera asks.
"Given time, yes. Given unlimited time and money? Absofuckinglutely." Nox zooms in on another section. "But they covered their tracks well. Multiple VPNs, proxy servers routing through at least six countries, spoofed MAC addresses. This person knows operational security."
One of the NCIS analysts speaks up. "We tried tracking the access points—"
"And hit dead ends, I'm sure." Nox doesn't look away from her screen. "Because they're using rotating entry vectors. Different access points on different days, never the same pattern twice. It's textbook advanced persistent threat methodology."
"How long to break through?" the analyst asks.
"Depends on whether they're still active in the system or if they've pulled out completely.
" Nox finally turns to face the room. "If they're still in, I can set traps, watch for activity patterns, narrow down their operational signature.
If they've gone dark, I'm digging through historical logs and hoping they made a mistake somewhere. "
"What are the odds they made a mistake?" I ask.
Nox's smile is sharp. "Everyone makes mistakes eventually. The question is whether they made one I can find before they do something else stupid."
She tells a full Colonel that his password is "embarrassingly predictable" and should be changed immediately. The Colonel sputters. Nox doesn't even bat an eye.