CHAPTER 65
Jameson
Messini, Greece
Present Day
The door had barely closed behind us before Brynn grabbed the front of my shirt.
I looked down at her fist, then back at her.
“I’m going to need you to forgive me for the next five minutes,” she said.
“For what?”
“For being extremely pregnant, violently hormonal, and apparently incapable of processing complex emotion until I get you inside me.” She released my shirt and ran her fingers down my chest through the fabric.
I stopped moving.
For one second, all I could do was stare at her.
Then the number registered.
“Only five?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Was that confidence or a challenge?”
“An objection to the estimate.”
“Good.” Her fingers found the first button of my shirt. “So, can we do this backward? I ride you first, and then we sit down and discuss trauma, international conspiracies, and the last six months like emotionally mature adults?”
Her gaze remained fixed on mine, entirely serious beneath the absurdity of the request.
“Why do I feel like a tool you’ve selected for a specific function?”
“Because you’re very perceptive,” she said.
“That wasn’t reassurance.”
Her fingers moved to the next buttons on my shirt.
I caught her wrist. “Brynn.”
She looked up at me. “Oh my God.” She pulled back slightly. “I’m sorry. This is too much. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
One of my brows lifted.
A breath left me that came closer to a laugh than I intended.
“There is already a baby inside you,” I said. “Whatever has gotten into you appears to be escalating.”
Brynn stared at me. “Did you just call me a cat in heat?”
“I was trying not to.”
She sighed and turned away. “Excellent. Good reunion. Very dignified.”
I caught her around the waist before she took a second step and pulled her back against me.
“I wasn’t disagreeing.”
Her breath caught when she felt the evidence of my answer pressed firmly against her. “Oh.”
“I needed a moment to recalibrate.” I swept her hair over one shoulder and lowered my mouth to the exposed curve of her neck. “This has been a considerable amount of new information in a very short period of time.”
Her head tipped slightly as I kissed beneath her ear.
“But,” I said against her skin, “I will absolutely give you pleasure first if that’s what you want.”
Her fingers closed over my forearm. “It is.”
I kissed lower, following the line of her neck toward her shoulder.
“Where is the bedroom?”
She didn’t answer with words. She took my hand and pulled me toward a room off the main space, her steps quick and purposeful.
The bedroom door stood partly open. I pushed it wider and followed her inside.
Whitewashed walls surrounded a wide bed beneath gauzy curtains. Late sunlight stretched across the floor in narrow bands.
I registered all of it and retained none of it.
She turned toward me.
Her fingers returned to the open buttons of my shirt.
I caught the hem of her dress and paused. “Arms.”
She lifted them without argument.
I drew the fabric over her head and let it fall beside us.
For several seconds, I only looked.
Her body had changed. Her breasts were fuller. Her stomach carrying evidence of the months I had missed.
My daughter was beneath that skin.
The thought still failed to settle into anything manageable.
Brynn shifted under my attention. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like I’m a classified object you haven’t figured out how to approach,” she said.
“That isn’t what I’m doing.”
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Learning what changed.”
Her expression softened.
I lowered myself in front of her and slid her underwear down her legs. She braced one hand against my shoulder as she stepped free.
My mouth found the skin beneath her navel.
Her breath caught.
I kissed the curve once, then again, unable to stop confirming that both of them were real.
“Jameson.” The strain in my name redirected my attention.
I looked up.
Her thighs had parted slightly. Her breathing had already changed.
“You said pleasure first,” she reminded me.
“I remember.”
“Good.” Her thighs opened farther.
I guided her backward until she sat at the edge of the bed, then eased her onto her elbows.
“Comfortable?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Any pressure?”
“Only the kind I asked for.” She held my gaze.
I held it for another second.
She lifted one brow. “Do you need written authorization?”
“No.” I removed my glasses and set them on the bedside table.
“Then come here.” Her fingers curled into the bedding.
I spread her thighs and lowered my mouth to her.
The first stroke of my tongue pulled a broken sound from her.
Her body responded immediately, hips shifting, stomach tightening, one hand catching in the bedding.
I followed each reaction.
Slower when she tried to rush the movement. Firmer when her thighs began to tense. My tongue circled her slowly until her breath fractured, then I drew her between my lips.
“Fuck.” Her hand found my hair.
I slid two fingers inside her and paused long enough to feel the way she tightened around them.
She lifted her head. “Don’t you dare start recalibrating now.”
I curled my fingers.
Her complaint disappeared into a cry.
That angle was the one she needed.
I repeated it, keeping my mouth over her while her hips pressed harder against me. Her grip tightened in my hair. The muscles in her thighs began to tremble.
“Jameson.” My name left her on a strained breath.
I maintained the pressure.
Her body drew taut beneath my hands, her cry carrying through the small room as her thighs closed around me. Contractions moved through her in quick succession. I slowed only when her grip loosened and her breaths dissolved into uneven gasps.
I pressed one final kiss against the inside of her thigh before standing.
She watched as I removed the rest of my clothes.
Her gaze lowered. “That explains the objection to five minutes.”
“It was an inaccurate estimate.”
“I’m willing to admit my mistake.” She kept watching me.
I sat beside her and drew her upright.
She turned until her back rested against my chest, then shifted across my thighs.
My length pressed hard against her.
For one second, I hesitated.
The pregnancy, the months apart, and the fact that less than an hour earlier, I had believed the child belonged to someone else crowded into the same thought.
Brynn covered my hand with hers. “I won’t break.”
“I know.”
“Then what is it?” Her fingers tightened around mine.
“I just found you.”
The impatience left her face.
“I’m here,” she said.
I lowered her slowly.
She took me inch by inch, her breath catching each time her body adjusted. I stopped before I was fully inside her.
“Good?”
“Yes,” she said as she pushed down the rest of the way.
The answer pulled a groan from me.
Brynn’s head dropped back against my shoulder. Her body closed around me, hot and tight enough to strip every coherent thought from the next several seconds.
“Fuck,” I said against her skin.
“I’ve been trying.” Her mouth curved against my cheek.
She began to move.
Slow circles at first, learning the altered angle. I held her hips and let her set the pace until I understood what her body could manage comfortably.
Then I matched her.
Her breathing grew louder. One hand braced against my thigh while the other covered mine where it rested low across her stomach.
I swept her hair over one shoulder and kissed the exposed line of her neck.
She turned her head, searching for my mouth.
I caught her jaw and brought her closer, kissing her while she continued. Her movements became less controlled, each roll of her hips dragging me deeper.
“I missed you,” she said against my mouth.
My hand tightened at her hip.
“I know.”
“I mean all of you.” Her breath caught between the words.
“I understood.”
She gave a breathless laugh. “You sound smug.”
“I’m inside you. The conclusion is supported.”
Her laugh broke into a moan as I thrust upward.
Her body clenched around me.
I repeated the movement.
Her hand closed around my forearm. “Again.”
I gave her exactly the same angle.
Her head fell back against my shoulder.
I kissed beneath her ear while my other hand moved between her thighs.
The first touch made her jerk around me.
“Too much?”
“No.” Her fingers dug into my arm. “Don’t stop.”
I worked my fingers against her in time with the movement of her hips. Her breath came faster. Her muscles tightened around me in short, involuntary contractions.
Every response narrowed my attention further until there was only her body, her voice, the ring flashing on her hand, and the curve of our daughter beneath my palm.
Nothing existed beyond the bed.
She cried my name against my mouth as her body locked around me, dragging me past the point where restraint remained possible.
I held her against my chest and thrust into her through the last of it.
My release followed hard enough to empty thought from the room.
A small movement pressed beneath my palm.
I went still.
Brynn gave a tired laugh. “Apparently, she has notes.”
“She has poor timing.”
“She gets that from you.” Her cheek rested against my shoulder.
“That is demonstrably false.”
She turned carefully in my arms until she could look at me.
Her hair was disordered. Her lips were swollen. Tears still lingered at the edges of everything we had not discussed.
Then her face changed.
The humor disappeared first.
Her mouth trembled, and the control she had maintained since opening the door finally gave way.
I lifted one hand and worked my fingers carefully through the damp strands clinging to her cheeks and neck, drawing them back from her sweat- and tear-streaked face.
“There you are,” I said.
A sob broke out of her.
She pressed her lips together as though she could force it back inside.
She couldn’t.
“I believe your emotions have decided it is time for the conversation.”
A wet laugh caught beneath the next sob. “That’s a terrible way to say that.”
“It remains accurate.”
Her forehead dropped against my shoulder.
I shifted us toward the head of the bed, pulled back the covers, and guided her beneath them. She curled into my chest the moment I settled beside her, one hand fisting in the fabric of the sheet between us.
I wrapped both arms around her.
Then she cried without restraint, without any attempt to stay quiet.
Months of grief came out against my skin in uneven breaths and broken sentences. She told me about Poland. Whitaker. Watching me get shot. The first night in the cottage when she had lain awake thinking I was probably dead.
I listened without interrupting, even when the account fractured and started again somewhere else.
I told her about Serpens and Tomar. About the gunshot wound that had become infected and the weeks I had lost to a hospital bed. Then the months I had spent searching for her after I could stand again, while being told there was no one left to find.
Somewhere between one confession and the next, her breathing steadied.
Then broke again.
We talked until the light disappeared from the windows and the room went dark around us.
Later, she kissed me more slowly.
There was no panic this time. No urgency disguised as humor.
We found each other again beneath the covers, her body turned toward mine, the pace unhurried now that neither of us was trying to outrun what came next.
Then we talked more.
By the time sleep found us, Brynn was tucked against my chest with my hand spread over the curve of her stomach.
I stayed awake long enough to feel our daughter move once beneath my palm.
Then again.
Only after both of them had gone still did I let my eyes close.
***
I woke before Brynn.
For several seconds, I remained still beneath the unfamiliar ceiling, one arm beneath her neck and my other hand resting over the curve of her stomach.
Morning light pressed through the shutters in narrow bands.
She slept against my chest, her breathing deep and even. Sometime during the night, she had turned toward me and hooked one leg over mine.
I extracted myself carefully.
My pants were near the foot of the bed. I pulled them on but left them unbuttoned, then crossed the main room toward the kitchen.
The coffee was already ground. I found the kettle, filled it, and set it over the flame.
The front door opened behind me.
I turned.
A woman stepped inside carrying a covered basket.
She stopped.
So did I.
Her gaze moved over my bare chest, the unfastened waistband, and my hair, which I had not yet attempted to correct.
Then she looked toward the open bedroom door.
“Brynn!” she called.
Something struck the floor in the bedroom.
“Are you aware there is a half-naked man in your cottage?” the woman asked.
A second sound followed, this one less identifiable.
“Yes,” Brynn called. “Very aware.”
The woman looked back at me.
I looked at her.
Brynn appeared in the doorway several seconds later, wrapped in the sheet, her hair in worse condition than mine.
Her gaze went from the woman to me, then dropped to my pants.
“Marina. Oh my God.” Brynn tightened the sheet around herself.
Marina continued toward the table as though none of this required explanation. “I brought breakfast.”
“You didn’t knock,” Brynn said.
“When do I knock?” Marina asked.
Marina set the basket down and began unpacking bread, cheese, fruit, and something still warm.
Her attention settled on Brynn.
“You have clothes,” Marina said.
“I’m aware.” Brynn closed her eyes.
“Then why are you wearing the bed?” Marina asked.
“I’m moving,” Brynn said.
“You love it here,” Marina said.
Brynn opened her eyes again. “Then I’m installing a lock.”
The kettle began to whistle.
I turned back to the stove and removed it from the flame.
When I looked back, Marina was studying both of us.
Her gaze moved from Brynn to me, then lowered to the curve beneath the sheet.
She nodded once, apparently satisfied. “That baby is going to be gorgeous.”
Brynn’s face went pink.
I considered the statement.
“It is statistically likely.”
Brynn stared at me.
Marina nodded again. “He can stay.”
I had not asked for permission, but the approval settled somewhere I had not expected it to matter.