My throat tightens. Uncle Martin's name still carries a particular ache. Hearing it from Uncle Robert on this porch, with the cedar break rustling behind us, makes the world feel very small.
"Be smart tomorrow," Uncle Robert says. "Be careful. And come home."
He walks to his car without looking back, and the engine turns over and carries him down the gravel drive toward town. I watch until the dust settles and the sound fades, then go back inside.
Jesse is still at the island, but he's stopped working. He's watching the doorway I just walked through, and the look on his face is one I recognize but have rarely seen directed at me. Possession and satisfaction, stark and unashamed. The expression of a man who just confirmed what he already knew but needed to hear anyway.
"How much of that did you catch?" I ask.
"Enough." His voice is quiet.
I cross the kitchen to where he's standing and press my hands flat against his chest. His heartbeat is steady under my palms, the rhythm of someone who has trained himself to stay calm under any circumstances. But the muscle beneath my fingers is taut, coiled with everything he's holding back.
"When this is over," I look up at him, "I don't want to plan or strategize or run contingencies. I just want you."
His hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone with a gentleness that's startling from a man whose hands have done what his have done. The calluses on his fingertips catch against my skin, and the contrast between his capacity for violence and this careful tenderness makes my breath hitch.
"Then you have me," he says.
He takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom, and the walk feels different from every other time. No urgency driving us. No adrenaline or anger. Just his hand warm around mine and the quiet click of the bedroom door closing behind us.
The light filters through the curtains in soft amber bands, painting the room in shades that make everything look gentler than it is. Jesse turns to face me, and instead of reaching for my clothes or pulling me against him, he just looks at me. The way he did that first morning on the porch when I asked if he'd thought about me during Shadowland.
He pulls my shirt over my head and unhooks my bra in the same motion, tossing both aside before his hands close over my breasts. His thumbs drag across my nipples, slow and deliberate, and the sound I make earns a low, satisfied noise from deep in his throat.
"Take mine off." The words land somewhere between request and command.
I reach for the hem of his shirt and push it over his head. My palms find his torso, tracing the scarred terrain of his ribs, and when my fingers brush a raised white line on his rib, his breath catches. I lean in and press my mouth to it. His hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back.
"What do you need?"
"Tell me this is real." The vulnerability in my own voice catches me off guard. "Tell me that when this is over, whenHarlan is in handcuffs and Alvarez is behind bars, you'll still be here."
His grip tightens, holding me so I have no choice but to meet his eyes. "You're mine. That doesn't change."
Then his mouth comes down on mine, and whatever softness was in it lasts about ten seconds before he takes over completely. He walks me backward to the bed and pulls my jeans and underwear down my legs, then steps back long enough to strip off his own boots and jeans before following me down. His weight settles over me with the authority of a man who has decided exactly what he wants and intends to take it. He pins my wrists above my head. "Keep them there."
His mouth works down my throat, my collarbone, the curve of my breast, teeth grazing each spot before his tongue soothes it. By the time he reaches my stomach I'm already arching off the bed, and when he hooks my thighs over his shoulders and puts his mouth on me, the sound I make is nothing resembling dignified.
He doesn't rush. He takes his time with a thoroughness that borders on punishment, his tongue working slow, steady circles while two fingers curl inside me. Every time I get close he eases off just enough to drag it out further. My hands stay where he put them, fingers twisted in the pillow, thighs trembling against his shoulders.
"Jesse." His name tears out of me, half plea, half warning.
"I know." His voice vibrates against my skin. "Ask me nicely."
"Please." The word comes out wrecked. "Jesse, please."
He gives me what I asked for. His tongue relentless, his fingers driving deep. The orgasm breaks over me in a long, shuddering wave that pulls a cry from my throat loud enough to echo off the cabin walls.
He lifts his head while I'm still trembling, his pale eyes dark and satisfied in the fading light, and the look on his face is as close to undone as I've ever seen him.
I reach for him and pull him up. He comes willingly, his mouth finding mine so I can taste myself on his tongue. My hand wraps around his cock, and the groan he gives me is low and raw, his hips driving forward into my grip.
"Inside me." I stroke him slowly, deliberately. "Now."
He takes my wrist and pins it to the mattress, shifting his weight until he's settled between my thighs. "Look at me."
His gaze locks onto mine and holds there as he pushes inside, slow and deep and absolute, not stopping until he's fully seated and I'm gasping beneath him. He stays still for a moment, his jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving mine.
