18 March 2005

Jen felt as if she'd gone mad, as if the world as she knew it had shattered like glass, a thousand brilliant shards slicing her skin and sparkling bright as diamonds all around her. Everything was sharp, and tense, and terrible, every inch of her body prickling with electricity, with heat, with a terrible urge to run. Horror had come for them, but before that she'd felt almost safe, standing with Wesley, watching as the container was opened. SIS had placed surveillance around the container and they'd organized a dozen such rendezvous in the past, and after the first memorable flash of violence Hartono had not shown any further interest in bloodshed. The appearance of Mr. Prakoso was surprising, but not sufficient to put Jen and her Wesley off the plan entirely; it was not the first time he'd stood in Hartono's stead. But then everything had gone to shit, and she was left reeling and shaking.

She knew those boys, Davis and Howard. She'd talked with them, laughed with them, broken bread with them, cut their paychecks every fortnight. One minute they'd been fine, walking, talking, breathing, and the next the world had exploded, and they were dead in the dirt, and Wesley was holding her tight against his chest, doing his best to protect her. The speed with which he'd reacted surprised her; she'd spent time in uniform before transferring to Fraud, but she'd never actually been involved in any kind of a firefight. Never felt so small, so vulnerable, never had the blood of men she knew sprayed across her back, never watched as silent men picked up their bodies and carried them off, never to be seen again. Nothing like this had ever happened in Fraud and she found herself wondering for the thousandth time what the bloody hell she was doing, working for SIS, caught up in intrigue and murder. She had not been prepared for this, and maybe that was shortsighted on her part, but the SIS trainers had spent a great deal more time talking about logistics than about her personal safety. Had they know how great the danger would be? They must have done, and sent her in anyway, green as grass and unprepared. Why? Because she looked the part? Because she was the only one foolish enough to agree?

Wesley, though, he'd reacted differently. Like a man who'd been trained, who'd been in that situation before. Maybe he had been a soldier, once; maybe that accounted for his quick reflexes, his instinct to protect her. Maybe some other, more primal motivation had driven him to seek to shelter her, and leave himself exposed. He'd held her like she was precious, then, and now he knelt in front of her, bare from the waist up, watching her with pleading eyes.

They were on dangerous ground, and she knew it. Adrenaline had left her weak and restless, itching for something to do, some way to occupy her hands, her mind, to distract her thoughts from the memory of that terrible violence, some way to remind herself that she was alive, and not alone. Grief had left her heartsick and desperate for connection, and Wesley must have felt the same, she thought, for as he knelt in front of her he kept his hands resting on her knees, as if he could not bear to stop touching her. I'll be your net, and you be mine; they'd promised to catch each other, if they fell, but what were they supposed to do when they were both of them falling, spiraling into madness, plummeting towards the abyss? He'd only cast off his shirt because it was soaked with blood and worse, but it had left the full of expanse of his chest, his broad shoulders, his strong arms on display. She could see the outline of every muscle, hanging heavy on his bones, the light dusting of dark hair around his nipples, trailing down the center of his stomach to disappear beneath the waistband of his trousers. There was just so bloody much of him, strong and hard and powerful, and yet gentle, too, with her, seeking to protect her, offering her the shelter she dearly longed to accept from him. Jen's own shoulder blades itched uncomfortably beneath the stiff weight of her blouse. She wanted it off her, wanted to fling it aside, wanted to put as much distance as she could between herself and the events of this terrible night. But if she did such a thing now, when they were alone in the only room in the house without cameras, when he was already half-naked and watching her like he wanted nothing in the world more than to kiss her, she knew they would not be able to stop themselves. The potential for disaster hung heavy in the air; she wanted him, he wanted her, no one was watching, they had come so close to losing one another entirely, and she was tired of playing by SIS's rules. Tired of the way they ran her life, tired of their lies, tired of the cockups and the endless promises that the job was nearly done, while eternity stretched out before her. How much longer would they be here, trapped in this make-believe life? How much longer could she deny him, deny herself? And what was the point, anyway, when they could die at any moment? She'd much rather die knowing what it was like to hold him.

The second that thought occurred to her a shudder traveled through her body, and her resolve shattered. With trembling hands she wrenched at her own blouse, tugged it free from her smart skirt and all but ripped it off her back, casting it aside to land atop Wesley's in the corner. His eyes went wide as dinner plates, taking in the sight of her in just her skirt and her plain bra, her chest heaving. Tears welled up in her eyes, unbidden; she was so bloody angry, and so bloody scared, and she didn't know what to do, or what he'd think, now that she was bare, too, and she didn't-

"Hey," Wesley said, very softly. He reached for her, cradled her cheek in his palm, forced her to look into his eyes, full of worry, full of affection, for her. "I've got you," he told her earnestly.

It was the only reassurance he would ever be able to give her, but it was enough. It was enough, to know that he was there, that he would always be there, that no matter how bad things got she could always cling to him. Jen took one slow, ragged breath, and reached for him, ran her fingers softly through his hair, felt the softness of it, felt the warmth that traveled up the length of her arm from that briefest of connections.

"I'm so tired," she whispered, wondering if he knew what she meant, that she wasn't talking about physical exhaustion, but was instead weary of carrying this burden, trying to be someone she wasn't. "I don't want to think any more." I don't want to worry and I don't want to be afraid and I don't want to remember all the reasons we're not allowed to do this.

"What do you want?" he asked her. The shower was loud, but he was close, and his soft voice carried easily to her ears, and no further. Even now, in this moment when they were a hair's breadth from falling apart, when she had all but told him that she was ready to throw caution to the wind, still he wanted to hear her say it, wanted to know for a certainty that she was ready, and willing. She loved him for it, for his hesitation, for his care, for the way he held his own desires in check just long enough to be sure that hers ran the same course.

"I want you," she whispered, her hands catching in his hair.

She gave a gentle tug, and he came forward at once, his hands sliding along her thighs as he lifted his chin, and she bowed her head, and in the next moment their lips brushed together, softly, fleetingly. Jen didn't want soft, or gentle; she wanted him to overwhelm her, to take her over, to make her forget, but he did no such thing. He pulled back from her, his breaths short and sharp, let their foreheads rest together for a moment, their noses slotting into place against one another, lips almost touching.

"I don't want you to regret this," he said.

Nothing could have made her more sure of her decision than hearing those words from his lips, than seeing how much he longed to make her happy, how desperate he was not to hurt her. He worried that she'd regret it, and things would feel different in the morning, but she knew in that moment that whether she came to regret it or not he never would.

"I'll regret it more if you don't kiss me again," she told him, and she felt him smile against her mouth, and knew then that the battle was over. In the next heartbeat he was kissing her again, eagerly, hungrily, his hands sliding over her thighs while her own remained rooted in his hair, holding him tight to her. This position must have been hell on his back, but he did not protest, or try to rush things along; he just kissed her, as if kisses alone would be enough to satisfy him, his lips soft and sure, his tongue tangling gently with her own. There was something tender in his kiss that left tears spilling down her cheeks, but she could not stop now, not for anything. Desperation began to well up inside her; her hands traveled down to the broad expanse of his shoulders, testing the heat and the hardness of the muscle there, and when she turned her nails against his skin he groaned, and hauled them both upright.

The shower was still running, hot and fierce, and steam had begun to gather above their heads, fogging up the mirror over their vast vanity, but Jen paid it no mind. The only thing that mattered to her, in that moment, was him, the way he kissed her, the way his hands reached for the clasp of her bra. Taking that as permission, then, Jen reached for his belt, and they began to tug at one another, peeling off the last remnants of their clothes between wet, hasty kisses until at last they were both of them bare, and panting. It was in her mind to look at him, to study him, the heavy, hairy muscles of his thighs, the weight of his cock, the points of his hip, but Wesley never gave her the chance; the moment they were both naked he caught hold of her bum and hoisted her up to sit on the counter, claiming her lips once more in a desperate kiss while he stepped up close between her thighs.

There was no mistaking his intent, and Jen locked her legs around his hips at once, pulled him tight against her and ground her tender heat against his hardening cock, wrapping her arms around his back so that she could feel the delicious slide of her breasts against his chest. Their faces were almost on the same level, for once, and it was easier to kiss him, like this, to suck on his tongue and make him groan, to nip at his lip and earn the edge of his teeth against hers in response. Deftly Wesley snaked one hand between them, caught hold of her breast, palming her gently, and she broke their kiss with a gasp, drew his head against her neck so he could kiss her, so she could drown in the sensation of being fully, completely enveloped by him.

"Christ, you feel good," he moaned softly against her neck, and Jen ground herself that much more firmly against him, the friction between them slowly awakening her own desire, teasing out the first rush of her wetness and promising so much more.

"So do you," she told him. "You feel so good, sweetheart."

And he did, oh, but he did. She could feel the heavy weight of his cock against her, nestled against her clit and sending shockwaves running through her, could feel the scrape of his work-hardened palm against her tender nipple, could feel the heat of his mouth at her neck, the warm, smooth skin of his back soft as silk beneath her hands, raspy with hair just above the rise of his ass. He felt a hell of a lot better than good; holding him like this, feeling him touch her like this, felt like relief, like the reminder she'd been looking for, the reminder of the life that still flowed in her veins, the reminder of the connection they shared. She was not alone, but more than that, she had him, this sweet, steady man whose kindness had so radically altered her life over the course of the last few months that she could no longer remember who she had been without him, and never wanted to again.

His teeth scraped gently against her pulse point and she shivered, eager, hungry. Perhaps sensing that a long, slow shag was not in the offing Wesley kept hold of her breast and rested his forehead against her shoulder as he watched his free hand slide between them, watched his fingertips brush through the curls at her center, exploring her softly, reverently, seeing for himself the effect he was having on her. Jen couldn't see, with the bulk of his body in her way, but she pressed her cheek against the softness of his hair and whined, softly, as his fingertips brushed against her clit.

"There?" he asked her, taking his direction from her panting breaths.

"More," she whispered against his ear.

Wesley had always been quite good at taking orders, and now was no different. He set to with a will, pressed his fingers hard against her, giving her the friction she needed to send her spiraling off into bliss. Soft, needy sounds of want left her lips, though she did her best to bite them back, mindful that the sound of the shower alone would not be sufficient to drown out a cry. What was happening in this place was meant for them alone, was not to be shared with the eyes and ears of SIS. Onward he went, building her higher and higher, panting against her skin while she mewled and shivered beneath the weight of him, doing her best to follow the movement of his hand with her hips. Close, she was getting closer by the second, need winding tighter and tighter within her, her thighs trembling with the strain of holding him so tightly.

"Want," she gasped. It was too much effort to both keep her voice down and form full sentences at once, with his hands on her like that, tight at breast and hard at her clit. "Want you inside me," she tried again, and he exhaled against her shoulder, a shiver running through his body at the thought. "Please."

"Yeah," he grunted, taking his hand away from her. "Yeah."

The sudden loss of his touch was nearly enough to make her weep, nevermind that she was the one who'd asked for a change in their position; the strength of those clever fingers had left her on the brink of pleasure, and her body rebelled against any further delay. Her heart knew better, though, and in a moment he proved her right.

Wesley took a step back from her, his eyes so dark and full of want she could not help but reach for him, pull him back to her for another kiss. The taste of him, the wet heat of his mouth, the softness of his lips, left her almost drunk with need, and she ran her palms over his back, desperate to touch him everywhere. His hands moved, too; with one he caught hold of his own cock, and she broke their kiss with a gasp to look down at him, to see the length of him hard in his hand, thicker, longer, harder, than she'd imagined and enough to send another rush of wet desire flooding through her, but with his other hand he reached for her, caught a handful of her ass and dragged her to the very edge of the countertop.

"Are you sure you-"

"I want you," she cut him off at once, her hands travelling lower on his back to clutch at the firm swell of his ass, drawing him towards her. "Please, god, I want-"

He cut her off with a bruising kiss, which was all for the good, for even as she spoke he surged forward, the head of his cock sliding between her slippery folds, and they groaned together, each of them swallowing the sounds the other made while slowly, slowly they fell into one another. Ever the gentleman he didn't push too hard, not at first; he rested, for a moment, barely inside her, panting against her lips, waiting. Frustrated and eager Jen bucked against him, used her hold on his ass to urge him closer, and he laughed, drew his hips back and plunged forward again, a little deeper this time, enough to make her mewl. Again and again he slowly withdrew, slowly surged forward, let her feel him, every inch of him, deeper, and deeper still, until she was clawing at him, shivering, until she forgot everything but the way it felt to hold him inside her. Driven by her rising desperation the movement of his hips increased, and Jen just clung to him, pressed her face hard against his neck to muffle the sound of her breathless moans as he rolled into her again and again, the movement of his hips steady, and powerful, the way he always was, encouraging her to madness.

"Don't stop," she gasped against his skin. He'd showed no signs of stopping but she said it anyway, needing him to know how good it was, how much she wanted him.

"Never, sweetheart," he panted back at her, and then he loosed the fury of his passion in earnest, and she was lost.

With his hand still clutching her ass hard enough to bruise he held her in place, and set a feverish pace, pounding into her there against the counter while she trembled and shook beneath him. The sweat-slicked skin of his back provided her no purchase and so she flung her hands out behind her, caught them against the foggy mirror and held them there for leverage. The change in angle between them drew a strangled groan from both their lips, and Wesley bowed his head at once, placed wet, heavy kisses across her heaving breasts, breathed the heat of his desire across her tender nipples while his cock drove relentlessly into her, the angle of their bodies catching her clit in just the right way, left stars exploding behind her eyelids.

"Gonna," she managed to gasp.

"Come for me," he answered. From anyone else those words might have sounded crass, or possessive, or smug, but she knew him, and she knew better. He didn't seek to own her, or stoke his own ego with her pleasure. He wanted to bring her to bliss because that was what he did, sought to make her happy, to protect her, to care for her, always, and now was no different. Though his cock was hard and heavy and soaked with their combined desire he wanted her to find her pleasure first, put her before himself, the way he always did, and when he scraped his teeth across her nipple she shuddered, and fell apart, holding her breath and biting her lip to stifle the sound of her crying out for him. Bliss burned through every inch of her, hot and wet and brilliant, left her weak and shuddering, her mind all but blank and at peace, for the first time in months.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he groaned, the tempo of his hips stuttering as her inner muscles fluttered around his length, drew him in deeper and deeper.

"Come on," she whispered, relieved and oversensitive and full of yearning for him. He had done this thing for her, had heard her pleas and given her everything she wanted, and she wanted to do the same for him in turn. "Come on, sweetheart," she urged him breathlessly.

Wesley knew very well that she was on the pill, as they'd collected her medication more than once on a Saturday afternoon trip to the shops, and so when she asked for him he did not hesitate. He thrust into the last spasms of her release like a man possessed, and she shifted, wrapped her arms around him and held him tight until at last he was tumbling, too, groaning against her shoulder and spilling himself inside her.