Sydney, five years earlier…
The house lay all in darkness, and in the stillness there was no sign of movement, no creaking floorboards, no hushed whispers, just the sound of her, breathing slowly and steady beside him. Nick breathed in time with her; in, hold, out, hold, in, hold, out, hold, over and over, his hands clenched in fists down by his side.
The clock was ticking; Muhammad Hartono's days were numbered, this trip the final nail in the coffin SIS had built just for him, with help from Nick and his Trish. When tomorrow's deal was done and they all went back to Melbourne, the sharks would be circling. The next morning Nick and Trish would meet Hartono at the docks, and SIS would come in guns blazing, arresting everyone in sight, including Nick and Trish. It was all part of the plan; make sure Hartono never knew they were plants, make sure he thought the Claybournes were as dirty as he was, that they'd gone down just the same as him. If he thought they were in prison for helping him, he'd have no need to come looking for vengeance.
If they lived that long.
There was a chance, Nick knew, that Hartono was on to them. The business trip to Sydney had been a last minute proposition, and Hartono wasn't ordinarily a spontaneous sort of fella. The announcement of the last minute getaway had sent Adbul into fits. Away from their house, away from the cameras and the mics and SIS backup, Nick and Trish would be vulnerable, easier to lose track of, and easier to kill. It would be easy, for Hartono to send a few of his men into this room, to murder Trish and Wesley Claybourne in their bed and then disappear forever. If he were onto them, Nick knew Hartono would want them dead; he always dealt with betrayal swiftly, mercilessly, thoroughly. And this was a betrayal like no other, lying about who they were and tracking his every movement and reporting it all back to SIS.
"Do you think they're coming?" Trish asked, very softly. They had grown rather adept at that; they'd known from the jump that their house was bugged, monitored 24/7 by SIS operatives. At first that hadn't bothered either of them too much; they didn't have anything to hide from the cameras or the mics. As the days turned into months, however, everything seemed to change. Trish, beautiful, brilliant, capable Trish, had wormed her way into his heart, become everything to him. They had secrets to whisper to one another in the stillness now, thoughts they longed to share but needed to hide from SIS. Their doubts, their fears, the silken threads of affection that bound them together; these things they had learned to share in voices so soft the microphones would never pick them up. There were no mics in this room - or at least, Nick didn't think there were, he'd done a sweep but anything was possible - but she still whispered, softly, and he answered her in kind.
"No," he said. It was after 2:00 a.m.; the party had broken up before midnight, and while he knew that Hartono would want to give them time to fall asleep before attacking them - if indeed attacking them was his goal - he rather thought the window for potential violence was rapidly closing. If Hartono meant to kill them, have his men dispose of them, and then disappear, he'd need time; oh, murder only took a moment, but the cleanup was rather more labor intensive. If they aren't here by 3:00, Nick thought, they won't be coming at all.
"And even if they do, we'll be ready," he reminded her. To buy them some time he had dragged the heavy dresser in front of the door; Hartono's men wouldn't be able to open the door without a great deal of effort, and they'd make enough noise in the process to rouse Nick and Trish if by some miracle they fell asleep. He had also taken the time to open the window, letting a fresh breeze fill the room and providing he and Trish with an easy means of escape, should it come down to it. It was about a ten foot drop out the window; if they were careful, they'd make it easily, and from there they could run, fast and hard, hail a cab, get the hell out of dodge. Nick had laid down for bed wearing a pair of track pants with his wallet in the pocket, just in case. They'd thought of everything.
Hadn't they?
"I'm so sick of this," she whispered.
Nick was sick of it, too. Sick of the lying, and the fear, sick of the constant balancing act between what he wanted to, and what he was allowed to do, sick of the weight of Wesley Claybourne sitting on his chest, slowly crushing every piece of him into dust. He hardly knew who he was, any more. He wasn't a Homicide detective who lived alone and went out with his mates on a Friday night, but had instead in some ways become this man, a shipping magnate with a penchant for golf and a beautiful wife he loved more than anything. She was the only thing that made his life bearable, now, but in two days' time she'd be ripped away from him, and he'd never see her again. What would he have left, then?
"Run through it again," she said when he didn't answer her.
"If they come, we go to the window," Nick said. "I'll go down first. Once I'm down, you'll toss me the go bag, and I'll help you. We'll run east, away from the water. We'll hail a cab if we can find one. If we can't, we keep moving. There's a mobile in the bag, we'll ring SIS when we've got some distance between us and this place. Let them organize the pickup. If you get separated from me, and you don't have the bag, get to the internet cafe by the library, and ping Abdul. I'll meet you there."
It was the best they could do under the circumstances. They'd only had a day to get ready for this trip, to study the maps of the city SIS had procured for them and set up possible escape routes. Even in the dead of night, Hartono would be a fool to chase them into the part of the city; the risk of being discovered was too great. If they could just get away from the house, they stood a chance. Maybe.
"And what happens after that? What happens when we get home, and they pull the plug on us?"
What happens when I never see you again, that's what she was really asking. It was a question Nick didn't have the answer to.
"SIS will pick us up. They'll separate us for a debriefing. And then we'll go home."
Beside him Trish sighed, softly. Over the past year he had learned to identify every little sound she made, to interpret every sigh and every scoff and every chuckle, and he knew what this one meant. They should have been happy to go home, to put all this behind them, to get back to their real lives, but she wasn't, and neither was he, not really. Oh, it would be a relief to not spend every waking moment under observation of one sort or another, to not spend every second wondering if his life was in danger, to never play golf again. But he'd grown accustomed to the adrenaline, and the warmth of her beside him as he slept; would real life, his life, seem boring and unfulfilling compared to this? Would he be happy, truly, to be home again?
"What's the first thing you'll do when you get home?" she asked. For a moment Nick tried to picture it, returning to his quiet little flat, to his little bed without Trish beside him. He'd asked Si to look in on the place from time to time, to make sure it didn't fall into disrepair; maybe that had been a bad idea. Simon wasn't the most dependable of his mates, but Nick knew he was the one who'd ask the least questions. I should have asked Matt, he thought glumly.
"Take a shower," he said. When he thought about it, the debrief with SIS and then the long journey home, he imagined he'd be tired and grimy and ready for a rest. "Put fresh sheets on the bed. Sleep for a week."
Trish laughed; the plan was a bit dull, and he knew it, but he'd told her the truth, because he always did.
"What about you?"
"The same, I think," she said. "I just want to feel like no one's looking at me, for once. I just want to be alone."
They hadn't been alone, not once, from the moment they met until this one. Even when they were in the shower, or sleeping, they were close to one another, keenly aware of one another, with SIS listening, watching, always, and every time they stepped out of the house Nick experienced a crawling sensation down the back of his spine, as if he could feel dozens of pairs of eyes turning on him all at once. There were no eyes in here, in the guest bedroom of Hartono's Sydney house, this room where they lay side-by-side on their backs beneath a white duvet, their heads almost touching on the pillows, but still, they were not alone. They had each other; they always did.
"You'll get to see your cat again," he reminded her gently, casting about in search of a more cheerful thought. She'd told him about that, early on, that she'd had to leave her cat with a friend and that she missed him, wondered if he'd even remember her when she was finally able to reclaim him. What if he doesn't want to come home with me? She'd asked him once. What if he decides he's better off where he is? Nick had told her that he was certain her little cat would be ecstatic to see her, but the thought had festered; what if Nick got home, and found that he missed this life, missed the way things were now? What if he no longer belonged in his own life?
"And you'll get to sleep without me hogging all the blankets," she said. Perhaps she'd meant the comment to sound lighthearted, but it fell flat; Nick thought he could be cold for the rest of his life and count himself a happy man, so long as she was still beside him.
It wasn't allowed, this thing between them, this steadily growing current of desire and fondness and whatever the bloody hell else it was that had pulled them both under. SIS had been painfully blunt, on that score - you don't fuck us, and you don't fuck each other, Abdul had said. They weren't meant to tell one another anything personal, weren't meant to blur the lines, were meant to be professional, always. Their composure had snapped somewhere back around Christmas, and their dedication to maintaining boundaries had crumbled away into nothing. One desperate shag in the car after a terrible day had turned into a game of sorts, trying to find a moment to themselves, in the shower, in the car, tearing down the walls between them with trembling hands. Touching her brought him peace, when nothing else did; she was his only constant, his compass, the still point of a madly spinning world. They never compromised the operation, never snuck away to dark corners when they should have been working, but in the quiet moments, in the few precious minutes when they had nowhere to be and no one to please, they had one another.
Only he wouldn't have her much longer. He checked his watch in the darkness, saw it had just gone 3:00. The clock was ticking; the night was fading away, but so too was his last chance to hold her. No microphones, no cameras; he'd never get another chance to have her all to himself like this, for hours, without interruption or worry.
And so he turned to her then, rolled onto his side, and she did the same, and they met in the middle of the bed, facing one another. He raised his arm and she shimmied closer, let him wrap her in his embrace while she buried her face in the crook of his neck and her leg slipped between his, pulling him in close.
He knew, somehow, that she knew already what he was thinking, why he had reached for her, and she had not hesitated to draw near to him, to seek from him the same comfort he was trying to find in the warmth of her lithe body cradled against his own. Trish was just like that; she understood. She always did. With other women he was always having to explain himself, forced into endless conversations and a swirling mass of interpretations and petty little fights about nothing. Not with Trish, though. She didn't need the words; she already knew.
"I don't know what to do," she whispered, her lips brushing against his neck.
There was nothing to be done. They couldn't stop this train barrelling down the tracks, couldn't forestall the inevitable end of the operation, and the end of them with it. From the moment they met, they knew they were destined to part, to go their separate ways and never see one another again. Star-crossed, that was the old phrase, two lovers who were not destined for a happy ending, whom fate itself had turned its will against. They were the same, he thought. They were fated only to end. There was nothing left to do now but wait. Wait for Hartono's goons to break down the door, wait for dawn and the drive back to Melbourne, wait for SIS to tear them apart.
Like hell, he thought.
"Tell me your name," he whispered. "Tell me your name, and I'll find you when this is through."
It was a desperate gamble. They could be told off for shagging, pulled off the operation, maybe, but if he willfully, wantonly disregarded the contract he had signed with SIS and tracked her down afterwards, they could well be brought up on charges. Oh, an accidental run in, maybe that could be excused, but if they ever found out Nick had done this thing deliberately, thumbed his nose at their carefully laid regulations, said fuck national security and gone out in search of this woman, they could crucify him for it. If they wanted to, if it suited them. They could make sure he never worked in law enforcement again, end his career and bring his whole life to a screeching halt.
I could make it look like a coincidence, he told himself as he waited for her to answer him. He wasn't stupid; he knew he couldn't just turn up at her door the day after the operation ended. But if he laid low for a few months, maybe he could make it work. They could set up throwaway email addresses, arrange to meet in six months time, in a year, bump into each other in a coffee shop one day out of the blue. It could be done. But to what purpose? Would she still want to know him six months from now? A year from now? Would she get back to her own life and be so relieved that she'd choose instead to pretend it had all been a dream?
"I want to," she whispered, and he knew then that whatever she wanted she wouldn't give him what he'd asked for. It was her choice; he would respect it, even if he felt his heart breaking in his chest at the very idea of losing her. "But if I do they might come after us, and I can't take that risk. I can't let you take that risk."
"You're worth the risk," he told her earnestly. She was; she was the only thing he'd ever wanted more than his career. Just the thought of it was mad, though, and he knew it. It was the operation making him mental, making him clutch at things that weren't meant to be, making him search for meaning where there was none at all. Once the adrenaline had leached from his system, once he'd had a chance for a beer and a catch up with Duncan and Matt and all the rest, maybe he wouldn't think of her at all.
Trish laughed, a bit wetly, and kissed his neck gently just beneath his jawbone in a way that had him tightening his grip against her in a moment. She had insinuated herself so perfectly into the cage his arms and legs, had both her legs wrapped one of his thighs, now, and she was soft, and warm, and beautiful, and when he let his hand drift low down her back over the soft vest she wore he could feel the shifting of her delicate muscles beneath his fingertips in a way that made his heart race. As many times as they had fallen together now it had never been like this, soft and warm in a bed, with several long hours stretching out before them, hours in which they could do whatever they liked, and the possibility inherent in such unexpected freedom was nearly enough to leave him breathless. Never before, and never again; this was the only chance he'd ever have.
And by God, he was going to make it count.
He caught her hips in his hands and began to turn her slowly, and she let him, unfolded herself from around him and laid back against the pillows, her blonde hair spilling all around her beautiful face, her lean thighs reaching up to clutch at his waist, holding him close against her while he rested his palms on the pillow by her head and looked down at her in wonder. Those bright sparkling eyes, those pale pink cheeks, those delicate lips; the beauty of her left him breathless. What would become of him, when she was no longer beside him? Would he ever find another woman he cared for as much as he cared for this one, a woman who understood him, sheltered him, made him feel whole? Would he spend the rest of his life chasing this feeling, or would it all fade into dreams, become no more than a memory?
"You won't forget me, will you?" she asked, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair in a tender gesture of affection that left him choking on regret.
"Never," he whispered, and then he bowed his head, let his lips hover just over hers, giving her the choice, letting her decide whether to accept him, or turn him away. The chances of their being attacked were growing smaller by the second, but the risk still remained; it was madness, to fall into one another instead of maintaining their watchful vigil, but he wanted her, longed for her, and he knew he would not ever have another chance to hold her like this. Not when they got back to Melbourne; not ever again. This was it; this was the end of all things.
After a moment Trish smiled in the darkness, and lifted her chin, just a little, just enough for her lips to brush against his, and he sighed, relieved, and pressed himself harder against her.
She knew what this was. He was scared; she could feel it in the tension of his muscles beneath her hands as they drifted down his back. But he wasn't scared of death so much, not anymore, and neither was she; the clock was ticking, but no one had come, and with each passing second she became more convinced that they wouldn't. They were safe in this place, Jen and her Wesley, protected, for however brief a time, from the darkness of the world beyond their bedroom door. In this cocoon of privacy they could do anything, say anything they wanted. What he wanted, she knew, was to know her name, to cling to some shred of hope that they might see one another again. And while she couldn't give him that, couldn't risk throwing both their lives away on the faint chance that this thing between them might survive once they returned to their real lives, she could give him this, the weight of his body sinking into hers, the grasping of her thighs at his hips, the soft slide of his tongue against her own.
There were so many things she didn't know about this man, so many things she'd never get the chance to learn, but one thing she knew was that, when given the chance, he liked to take his time. Wesley was never in a hurry, and he was not easily distracted, and on those rare occasions when they had the luxury of time he liked to indulge himself in the little pleasures. Little pleasures like this one, kissing her long, and slow, pulling back just to see if she'd follow him, chasing after her when she did, one of his thighs sliding between her legs to give her the faintest hint of pleasure, a promise of things to come. His hands remained planted firmly by her head, but she touched him enough for both of them, her own hands roaming beneath his t-shirt, sliding over his skin and pulling him down into her while still he kissed her and desperation began to build between them.
This is it, the thought kept coming back to her. This is the end. In just a few days she'd be back in her little house, would collect Jerry from Lisa's and throw out a year's worth of old newspapers. She'd clean the place from top to bottom and make sure that no little creatures had made their home in hers, and she'd talk to her bosses at Fraud and see if they still had a place for her. She'd go back to work, eventually, to Friday nights at the pub with the girls and Saturday mornings jogging through the park and she would never, ever, see him again.
A sob welled up in the back of her throat at the thought, and she choked on his kiss, turned her head and tried to catch her breath. Wesley let his head hang low over her, his lips trailing gentle kisses against her neck while he gave her the chance to gather herself. No doubt he could see it, feel it, the way she was falling apart beneath him, but he didn't ask, didn't try to offer her any reassurance other than the warmth of him, wrapped around her. He was waiting, she knew, waiting for her to tell him what she needed, waiting the way he always did, never making demands of her, leaving the choice in her hands, always.
"I don't want to think any more," she whispered, her head still turned away from him. Jen just wanted it to stop, the endless swirling of worry and regret, the breaking of her heart in her chest, the fear that filled her, fear that Hartono might still try to kill them, fear that SIS might botch the raid, fear that they might not and she'd lose Wesley anyway. It was too much; she couldn't bear it.
"All right," he whispered, his breath warm against her neck.
Did he understand? She wondered. Jen hardly understood herself, didn't know, really, what she was asking of him or how he might give it to her, but then he began to move, and she realized that he understood better than she could have dreamed.
Wesley rose up on his knees, there between her legs. Her eyes had long since adjusted to the darkness, and she could see him, his dark hair fluffy and mussed from the touch of her hands, his dear face serious and determined, his shoulders broad and strong enough to carry her through any calamity. Deftly he tugged his t-shirt up and off him, revealed to her the defined muscles of his chest, the faint smattering of dark hair that ran from his navel down beneath the waistband of his track pants, but she had only a moment to admire him for in the next breath he had tossed his shirt away, and reached for her. Without hesitation Jen lifted her arms above her head, let him slide her thin cotton vest away from her skin and toss it aside to join his t-shirt on the floor. The moment she was bare his hands sought out her skin, his palms sliding from her belly up, and up, and she arched her back, drew in one shaking breath as his hands settled over her breasts, kneading them gently while his eyes watched her, dark and inscrutable. Gentle was the last thing she wanted, right now, but before she had the chance to admonish him he tightened his grip upon her and surged forward, his strong hands clutching at her even as his lips descending on her neck, sucking hard at the sensitive skin just behind her ear.
Just like that, every worry, every doubt, every question seemed to fade from her mind; a desperate little sound tore from her lips as she pressed herself hard into the grip of his hands and wound her fingers through his hair, holding his head against her skin. Let him mark her, if he wished, with teeth and lips and desperate need; she could hide such a mark from SIS, and if Hartono saw it he would only smirk, and perhaps believe the lie of their marriage. It would take days for such a mark to fade, a reminder she could carry with her back to her life, a reminder of him.
Their limited experience with one another had been sufficient to teach him exactly what she liked, and he did not hesitate, his fingers plucking at her nipples until she shivered, until she could hardly catch her breath, while his mouth worked against her neck and she shifted restlessly beneath him. Perhaps he would have been content to simply tease her for hours, to build her up, higher, and higher, until she was nothing more than a mass of need and begging for him, but Jen had other things in mind. There was so little time; a few hours left until sunrise, and then the game would be on again, and they would be forced to leave this place, and she was through with waiting. Without hesitation, then, she reached for his left hand, and guided him down her body at once, pressed his fingers firmly against her sex above the thin shorts she wore and grinned when he swore against her neck. Wesley needed no further encouragement; he teased her through her shorts for a moment, fingertips pressing against her, tracing the shape of her folds through her clothes, coaxing out the first of her desire, but then he ducked his head, captured her neglected nipple with his lips and sucked hard at her while his hands reached for her shorts. Jen lifted her hips and let him pull of shorts and knickers both, let him guide her legs until she was bare and his hand was grinding against her sex without any barrier at all, his lips still fastened firmly to her breast.
"Yes, sweetheart," she sighed, flopping back against the bed, still winding her fingers through his hair. His hair was soft and thick and every time she touched him like that his eyes would flutter closed in bliss, and she wanted only to hold him, now, and make him happy, as happy as he had ever made her. But tension was building in her, his touch setting her nerves alight with need, and another whimper left her as one of his long fingers slid slowly, slowly into her tender heat and his mouth trailed kisses across the curve of her breast. Beneath him she rocked her hips, felt his palm grinding against her clit as his finger curled inside her, teasing out her wetness and drawing a curse from her lips, this time.
"More," she whispered, the pace of her hips increasing, and Wesley did exactly as she asked, joined a second finger to the first and thrust them into her with increasing fervor while her belly clenched with need. Skin-on-skin they ground together, pleasure coursing through her veins like electricity, the coil of need swirling tighter and tighter within her. The breath left her lungs on panting gasps, harsh and quiet in the darkness, and he made no sound at all save for the wet suction sound of his hand between her thighs, his mouth against her breast. Her skin would be scored with blotchy red marks come morning, and she loved him for it, for the need he felt to claim her, knowing she needed the same, just this once. Ordinarily she thought such behavior childish and possessive, but now, when they stood on the brink of losing one another, she understood what it was she was trying to tell her, and accepted it.
"Please," she gasped as her desire built to a fever pitch, his fingers hot and wet with her now and driving out her every thought save for him. She wanted to feel it, to feel him push her from the brink, to feel herself fall apart beneath his hands, and she wanted him to feel it, too, to know that he had done this thing for her. Seconds passed, minutes, a lifetime in which his breath blew hot against her flushed skin and sweat slicked the slide of their bodies against one another and his hand thrust within her, against her, found the place where she ached for him and made its home there. Jen could do nothing but whimper and lift her hips to meet the plunge of his hand, rocking in time to the rhythm he had set, seeking out the friction and the power and the heat of it, and then her lungs seemed to freeze, her soul hanging suspended on the very edge of bliss while her body moved feverishly, desperately in time to his, and her blunt nails scraped against the bare skin of his back and his teeth scraped over the tip of her nipple and oh -
Oh, she burst, a high, needy whine exploding out of her while her sex clenched down hard on his hand and her thighs tightened around his forearm, holding him in place while she trembled, and nearly wept with the relief of her release burning through her. She could not move, could only gasp for breath while she felt every muscle in her body fluttering, seizing, and then relaxing, weak as a kitten and relieved. It was exactly what she needed, for he had found the only possible means to stop the endless churning of her mind, but it was not enough, for she knew, still, that this was their last chance, and that there was so much more he could give to her, and more she could give to him besides.
Still, though, Wesley was in no hurry; he lifted his head and licked the sweat from her neck while he kept his hand tight between her trembling thighs, teasing out the last of her desire and waiting, as always, for her. He was still wearing his track pants, and Jen knew that beneath them surely he must have been hard, now, and she wanted to feel it, the heat of him in her hand, the driving length of him inside her, wanted to feel him come apart for her, as she had done for him. Clumsily she reached for him, and he laughed, that gentle, easy laugh she so rarely heard from him.
"Here," he said, and caught her hand in his, his fingers sticky with her own need, painting her skin. "Here," he said, and dragged her hand beneath his track pants, let her curl her fingers over his rock-hard cock and groaned when she held him. So often he kept his thoughts, his needs, his wants to himself, did not speak more than was necessary, did not give into whatever emotion he felt, but she knew that when she touched him like this he would lose all restraint, and she would see him as no one else ever did; he would not hide from her.
"Yeah?" she asked, because her mind could hardly muster the energy to form a whole sentence. Instead she pumped his cock in her fist and felt him rutting into her grip, needing it, needing her, the way he never seemed to need anything. In moments like this he belonged to her, and she felt closer to him, then, than she ever had to anyone else. As good as it felt, though, the slide of his cock against her palm, the desperate little groans that left him, she wanted more, wanted to see him, wanted to feel the length of him driving inside her, wanted them to come together and fall apart, as one.
"I want you inside me," she managed to gasp, and he shuddered above her, made desperate by the very idea.
From the moment they met she had seen that he was a big man, a strong man, taller and broader than she, but he had never used his size to intimidate her, or anyone else. Once he started talking people seemed to forget about the latent danger of the heavy muscles beneath his suits; it was hard to imagine that a man so quiet and so calm could be powerful. But he was, oh, he was, and the thin veneer of his reserve snapped as she touched him. He rolled away from her and shucked off his track pants, and she heard the soft thump of his wallet hitting the floor as he threw them away. But before she could appreciate the sight of his hard, heavy cock bobbing against the hairy muscles of his heavy thighs he caught her hips in his hands and lifted her, flipped her onto her belly as easily as if she weighed nothing at all. Knowing now what it was he wanted Jen fisted her hands in the sheets and lifted her ass towards him invitingly, and he was on her in a moment.
With those strong hands he caught hold of her ass, clutched at her hard, his fingers digging in almost hard enough to bruise. Almost, but not quite; he gave her as much of his strength as she needed, and never hurt her. While his hands maintained their firm grip on her ass he stretched himself out above her; she felt the head of his cock, weeping with want of her, settle between her thighs while he bowed his head and pressed a gentle kiss to the curve of her shoulder.
"I'll find you," he whispered, and Jen shuddered beneath him, not because of the words but because of the building desperation within her own heart, knowing how close he was, knowing what was to come, teetering on the brink of pleasure and yet not falling, not until he let her.
"Please," she whispered, rocking back against him, and in the moment she wasn't sure what it was she wanted more, for him to sink himself inside her then or for him to make good on his promise, and find her later. Maybe it was both.
He kissed her shoulder again, and then shifted behind her, encouraged her to draw her knees up under her, preparing them both for what was to come. At the sight of her swollen sex suddenly revealed to him he groaned, and she laughed, but that laugh turned into a whine of need in a moment as she felt the head of his cock slide slowly, slowly between her dripping folds.
"Tease," she gasped against the pillow when he hovered there, just barely resting inside her, forcing them both to linger on the precipice of bliss. She could feel him, just there, could feel her body clutching at him, trying to draw him in deeper, trying to pull them both down into their pleasure but he was making her wait for it, breathing raggedly against her neck while she shuddered beneath him. Wesley laughed, no doubt enjoying the way she squirmed beneath him, and, nudging her hair aside with nose, he leaned in close to whisper in her ear.
"Just making sure you won't forget me, sweetheart," he whispered.
"Never," she panted out at him, and with that he began to move, suddenly, shockingly, drew his hips back and then slammed himself hard against her, his hands clutching her hips, holding her tight to him as again and again he plunged within her. When he held her like this, behind her, filling her, surrounding her, there was nothing for her to do but clutch at the bedsheets and rock against him, overwhelmed with the feeling of it. Maybe he'd made that choice on purpose, wanting her to get lost in the sensation of them together, and if he had he'd been right, after all, because nothing else in the world seemed to exist for her, save for him, and she knew then that no matter what happened next she would never forget this, him, them, together.
God, but he meant everything to her. She lost herself in him, in the bruising grip of his hands at her hips, in the endless press of his cock inside her, filling her completely, the drag of him against her creating the kind of friction that made her whole body quake with longing. She arched her back, pressed herself hard against his chest, pressed her ass hard against the warmth of his skin, felt him driving into her even as he panted and gasped there by her shoulder. He moved, dropped his hands down beside her to hold him firmly in place above her, and on impulse she reached out, rearranged herself so that her hands covered his, their fingers interlocking as still he drove within her. Again, and again, as if he meant to take her like this for hours, and never stop, as if he meant to spend the rest of his life lost inside her, and god, but she would let him, if he wished.
Where their hands were joined her knuckles had gone white from the strain of clutching at him, and each time he crashed into her a desperate little whimper tore from the back of her throat as she felt him stretch her, take her, overwhelm her. She could hear the wet slap of their bodies and the hitching sound of his breath close by her ear, quiet, the way he always was, powerful, the way he always was. She dropped her hips, changed the angle between them and drew a ragged cry from them both as the head of his cock hit that spot deep inside her that made her see stars.
"Fuck, Wesley," she gasped. The name felt wrong in her mouth, but she didn't know what else to call him, had no other name for him, and even as it passed her lips she felt her desire stumble, for a moment, as she wondered what he was really called, who he really was, who he would be when he wasn't with her.
"Nick," he panted back at her, "my name's Nick."
Earlier in the night he had asked for her name and she had not given it to him, too terrified of what might become of them if he was mad enough to track her down when their time with SIS was through. He hadn't pressed, or demanded it from her, or begged her to change her mind, had accepted her refusal graciously, the way he always did, but now he had given her his name. This piece of him, to cherish, to hold, not enough to risk their futures but enough for her to know that he cared for her too much to let her go without her knowing his name.
"Nick," she gasped, and he slammed into her again, "Nick."
His name was Nick, and she loved him, and that was all the truth she had to cling to.
Onward he moved, heavy and intent, and she mewled and shivered and pressed her face into the pillow to keep from crying out too loudly as she felt herself begin to fall from the brink. It wasn't that she was worried about getting caught - in truth, if Hartono knew they were shagging it would probably only help strengthen their legends - but rather that she wanted to keep this secret, this moment of shared bliss, private, just between them. What was happening now, their hearts entwining as surely as their bodies were, was a precious gift she did not want to share with anyone else. The weight of him pressed her hard into the mattress and she could hardly breathe, but she didn't care; she never wanted it to stop. Never wanted him to stop moving, to stop the endless plunge of his cock into her molten heat, never wanted him to release the grip of his hands around hers, wanted to hear, always, the sound of his soft, yearning groan in her ear, but the needs of her body would not be ignored indefinitely, and nor would his. She knew him now, the sounds that he made, what they meant, and she could feel that he was close, too, close to coming undone.
And so she moved, dropped her shoulder and tugged on one of his hands, and once more their hands journeyed down her body, both of their fingers slipping messily against her clit, his breath warm and wet at the crook of her neck, and with each fervent thrust of his cock inside her she could feel him, and her, and their joining together, and it was enough, at last, enough. She broke, the sound of her voice muffled by the pillow, and he swore there close to her ear and thrust into her release like a man possessed, pounding into her until at last he found his own relief, and spilled himself inside her, trembling and sweaty and carried away by what they had just shared between them.
For a few minutes she rested there beneath him, his chest hard at her back, the fingers of their right hands still intertwined against the sheets, the fingers of their left still buried between her thighs, his slowly softening cock caught within her still trembling heat, their legs tangled together until she hardly knew which was which. She turned her head, tried to catch her breath, and he feathered kisses over what parts of her he could reach, her cheek, her eyelashes, the curve of her ear, and with every piece of her heart she wished they could stay like that, bound up in one another, always.
But such dreams were not meant to be; he pressed one final kiss to her shoulder, and then rolled away, caught hold of his t-shirt and used it to clean them both up a bit before tossing it aside. Jen rolled onto her back and he collapsed beside her, rested his head on her belly with one of his arms flung out over her hip. Idly Jen ran her fingers through his hair, and watched his eyes flutter closed, the way they always did when she touched him like this.
"I'm going to miss you, Nick," she told him. There were not words, she thought, to adequately describe how much she would miss him, that ache like a cleaving, that grief for a man not dead, the lifetime of uncertainty that stretched out before her, endless years in which she would wonder whether any of this had ever been real, wonder where he was, wonder what might have been, if only. It would be a bereavement unlike any she had ever known.
Without opening his eyes he turned his head and kissed her stomach once, gently.
"I'll find you, sweetheart," he whispered, sounding already on the verge of sleep. There was only an hour or two left until Hartono would wake - damn the man, he never slept much later than 6:00, always had to be up and moving with the sun - and Jen wanted to spend every minute of that time just like this, holding him. It was all the time that they had left, her last chance to touch him as much as she wished, and she intended to savor every second of it.
"I know you will," she told him, letting her fingers drift through his hair, down his neck and back up again. There was no way he would, or ever could; she knew she would never see him again, but it was a beautiful dream, and she was not ready to let it go just yet.
"Sleep, Nick," she whispered, but his breathing was already deep and even, and so she lay, quietly, touching him, and thinking only how lovely he was, and how much it would wound her to be parted from him. Her Nick - Wesley no more, now that she knew his true name - had changed the course of her very life, and opened her heart to the kind of love she had never really believed in, before. Soon, very soon, she would have to let him go, but for now, these precious minutes, she held him; it was enough. It had to be enough.