Her arm hurt like hell and the streetlights were too bright; she leaned her head back against the passenger's seat of Nick's car and closed her eyes, tried to block out the sight of the city swimming sickeningly past the windows. The last few days were a blur of pain, and grief, and fear, and now that it was over she felt weak and weary, wanting only to rest. SIS had swept them up, again, taken them out of their quiet, comfortable lives and forced them into horror, and they had been powerless to resist, caught up in a swell of violence and terror.
I thought it'd be easier this time, Nick had quietly confessed to her. She'd thought the same thing, thought that now she knew him, Nick and not Wesley, now that they shared so much, now that they were together, after a fashion, sharing the house with him would have been easier. But it was worse, so much worse; the operation had forced them into close proximity but the watchful eyes of SIS meant she could not reach for him when she wanted to, meant she had to choose her every word and gesture carefully, lest they be discovered. And it meant that she worried for him, now, more than she ever had done before. Before he had been a stranger and now he was her best friend, her partner, her lover, and knowing he was in danger had filled her with a new, unbearable sort of terror. The first time around she'd faced the possibility of violence, of disaster, with a level head, knowing it was all part of the job, knowing she and her mysterious Wesley had both been aware of the cost when they signed up. This time, though, forced into the work against their will, the prospect of losing him had kept her awake, staring at the ceiling with a sinking feeling in her heart. What would become of her, if she lost him now?
Of course, Nick hadn't been hurt, but she had. The bullet had grazed her arm, sent her tumbling to the ground; her head ached and the deep laceration in her bicep made it impossible for her to grip anything, made her useless as the investigation raced towards its conclusion. She'd been forced to languish alone in the station, worrying about Nick, worrying about what might happen next, worrying about what this foray into madness might cost her, with no one there to comfort her. He'd come back to her with a bruise on his cheek and a haunted look in his eyes, but he was whole, still, and well, and driving her home.
This changes everything, she thought. For the last few months she and Nick had enjoyed their privacy, successfully navigated the dicey boundaries between personal and professional, spent more nights together than apart and yet never gave their friends any reason to suspect something was brewing between them. When they were already lying about their history it was easy enough to lie about this, too, and she'd started to feel as if maybe, just maybe, she could have it all, the man she loved, the job she loved, the team that supported her. It had been going so well, but everyone knew, now. They knew that Nick and Jen had been lying for over a year, that they had hidden this piece of themselves. Would Allie and Matt and the rest be watching them closely in the coming days, searching for some indication of intimacy they'd previously missed? It wasn't just any job they'd done for SIS; they'd been playing the part of a married couple, had of necessity been closer to one another than any two coworkers had any right to be. Would people wonder, now, what else they were hiding? How much harder would it be to carry on as they had done before, now that a spotlight was shining directly on them, and their relationship?
Nick didn't speak as he pulled the car to a stop in front of his house, as he killed the ignition. But he looked across at her in the darkness, the streetlights reflecting off his warm, gentle eyes, and she could not help but reach for him with her good hand, laced their fingers together while still they sat in silence inside the car, unmoving. The warmth of his palm against her own was solid and steady as an anchor, reminding her that however mad the world might have become he remained, still, unwavering.
"It's cold," he said after a moment. "Come on."
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her skin once, and then he pulled away, stepped out of the car while she did the same. When they met together at the side of the car once more she reached for his hand, and once more he held her, walking slowly beside her as they meandered up the pavement and through his front door. It was a relief, stepping into his foyer, watching him close the door behind them and lock the world away. Inside his house they were safe, and alone, and she sighed again, collapsed against his chest as she dropped her laptop on the floor and he wrapped his arms around her.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, his breath ruffling her hair as he spoke.
With her face buried against his chest Jen just shook her head.
"Take me to bed," she told him, her voice muffled by his shirt.
He didn't need telling twice. They left their shoes by the door with her laptop, and walked hand-in-hand up the stairs, to his bedroom. Inside, she smiled to see his things, everything in its proper place, the dark navy duvet smooth and flat, the bed carefully made as always; even when he was Wesley, Nick had always been fastidious about making up the bed every morning. When she was on her own Jen never bothered, but she found she didn't mind the chore so much, when he was with her. Everything was easier, when Nick was there.
Carefully, in silence, he helped her undress. First he unwound the sling from around her body, and laid it gently on the bed while she cradled her wounded arm against her chest. Then slowly, gently, he unfastened the buttons of her blouse, taking care not to jostle her too much. His eyes were on his work, and so were hers, following the progress of his steady hands, seeing the way his brow furrowed as if some of the tension from the day still lingered inside him. When that was done they were faced with the painful task of peeling the shirt away from her skin; Jen hissed as Nick tugged the sleeve off her wounded arm, and by way of apology he leaned in close, and brushed a kiss against her bare shoulder, his lips soft and warm, the tender devotion of the gesture touching something within her heart. How gentle he could be, with her, this man who was broad and tall and strong, who hours before had come within inches of bashing a man to death for the crime of having hurt her. Those hands were deadly, but when he touched her she only felt healed, and safe.
The bra was next, and that was easier. The trousers she probably could have dispensed with on her own, but Nick had taken this task upon himself, and so she didn't stop him, just held her arm carefully against her bare breasts and laid her good hand on his shoulder, feeling the warm, solid strength of him through his thin shirt. She was exhausted, and everything was terrible, but watching Nick's broad hands so carefully unfastening the button of her trousers, pulling down the zip, watching his fingers catch in the waistband of her knickers and trousers both, feeling the warmth of him where he brushed against the bare skin of her hips, lit a fire low in her belly.
They had come so close to calamity, so close to losing everything, but he was here, now, and touching her. Every brush of his skin against hers, every gentle breath, every beat of her heart made her think how grateful she was, that they had come through their ordeal relatively unscathed, that they still had one another to cling to. The worries and the doubts and the questions would come, but not now, not tonight. Tonight she only wanted him to hold her, to touch her as she wished he could have done while they were in that damnable house, to remind her that they were safe. Nick was always so confident, so certain, and she wanted to steal a piece of that certainty for herself.
With his help Jen kicked her trousers away, and found herself suddenly, starkly naked in front of him. While he undressed her Nick had not pushed her, had not sought to incite her with the touch of his hands, had not tried to kiss her or brush against her breasts, had not done anything to indicate that sex was on his mind. He'd only wanted to help her, she knew, to shoulder some of the burden she carried and make sure she was comfortable, and would sleep easy. Now that she was bare she knew a shower was probably in order, but she didn't want to leave him, just yet, didn't want to walk away from this moment when he was watching her with grief in his eyes, and yet swallowing hard at the sight of her bare skin. Over the last few months they'd spent so many nights tangled up naked with one another that the sight of her bare body must be familiar to him, now, her nakedness itself not an invitation to more. But she wanted more, she realized then, wanted to invite his touch, wanted the heat and the hardness of him above her, around her, washing away the stink of the operation and the memory of Hartono's face.
But she only had one good hand, and she was tired, and so rather than undressing him herself she only leaned in close, and brushed her lips against his, once, softly. Nick followed her as she pulled away, seeking more, and Jen grinned against his lips, relived by the way he responded to her.
"Your turn, now," she told him.
"You gonna help me, sweetheart?" Nick asked her, his forehead pressed against hers, his breath sweet against her lips. Wesley had referred to Trish as sweetheart constantly, in all manner of situations at all manner of times, but Nick did not often use the word for Jen. The endearment belonged to other people, their other selves, but hearing it now Jen only wanted to hear it again, for it was a word that meant love, and devotion, and she wanted those things from him, with him.
In answer to his question Jen shook her head and stepped away from him, went to the bed and stretched herself out there, nestling her head comfortably in the pile of his soft pillows. She'd be no good to him with one only hand, and her legs were tired of holding her; he had strength enough for both of them, she knew.
"Go on, then," she told him, grinning.
It felt lovely to smile, after the fear of the last few days. Nick had that effect on her; he liked to tease her, liked to make her laugh, and just being with him made her heart glad, made her feel as if maybe everything was going to be all right. No one was watching them now, here in his bedroom in his quiet, perfect little house, and they were rostered off work for the next few days, and all the questions and all their uncomfortable answers would wait. For now she was happy to be with him, she decided, and the touch of his hand had made her ache, and she wanted him to sate that ache, now, the way only he could, to take from her the fear and the doubt and replace it all with love.
For a moment Nick watched her, his eyes hungry now, and not sad. She knew that somewhere in his heart he must have been bothered by the way things had gone down with Abbott, by how close he'd come to losing his control - Allie, not understanding the significance of it, had told Jen that she'd caught him bashing Abbott's head on the ground, that they'd had to pull Nick off the man, and Jen knew they'd have to talk about it. Later, though, she told herself. They'd talk about it later, his rage and the danger it might present for them in the future, but not now, because now his dark eyes were watching her unblinking, taking in the sight of her pale skin naked against his navy duvet. Maybe he wanted to forget, too. Maybe he wanted to put aside the fear, and the rage, and be only grateful, as she was grateful, for this second chance they'd been given.
Though she had undressed him many times herself, though she had watched, more nights than she could count, as Nick slid out of his clothes and into bed beside her, it had never been quite like this, her naked, and waiting for him, and him on display for her. It excited her, more than a little, watching as he slowly picked at the knot of his own tie, his eyes trained on her. He liked what he saw, and she knew it; he had kissed and caressed and loved every single inch of her, and she knew he wanted her, longed for her, as much as she did him, and the knowing added a delicious layer of yearning to the waiting. She knew what would come after, but first this, Nick slipping his tie from his around his neck, letting it drop to the floor, Nick reaching for his shirt buttons while tension began to simmer and bubble between them.
He was, she thought, a beautiful man. He had a sweet soft face, a kind face, a good face; when she first met him she'd thought him bland, thought him inoffensive but not remarkable, thought no one would ever look at him twice, but now she knew better. Now she knew him, and that face revealed to her his every thought, his every wish. Beneath that face he had a strong, thick neck she liked to pepper with kisses, and beneath that a set of broad shoulders, strong and steady enough to carry her through any calamity. He peeled himself out of his shirt slowly, watching her; when he looked at her could he see how deeply the vision of his body affected her, how badly she wanted him? If she hadn't been so tired she might have given him a show of her own, might have let her hands ghost over her body and watched him swallow against the rising tied of his own desire, but she had no strength for pretense or seduction. She only lay, still, her legs splayed out across his bed, her hair spilling across his white pillowcases, her arm cradled against her breasts, and watched him.
The vest he dispensed with much more quickly than his shirt, and she grinned when she saw the defined muscles of his chest, the sworls of dark hair around his flat nipples, the trail of hair that drew her eye from his navel down to the waistband of his trousers. Dark hair, tan skin, heavy muscles; he was perfect, she thought, and all the more perfect because he only ever used that strength to shelter her, and never hurt her. For most of her life Jen had no need of someone else's protection, had always stood on her own two feet and taken care of herself by herself, but there was something terribly comforting in the knowledge that she did not have to, if she did not want to.
The sound of his belt buckle softly thumping against the carpet echoed loud in the silence between them, and his eyes caught hers, and held there as he slowly unfastened his trousers, slid them off his hips. At least one weekend a month Nick played rugby with his mates, and he ran nearly every day, and the resultant heavy muscles of his thighs left hands itching to touch them, to reach out and trace every inch of him. Now dressed in only his trunks he paused, just for a moment, let her see the way his cock had begun to swell beneath the soft fabric, the silent evidence of his own growing need, and she let him see the way her eyes traveled over him hungrily, hoped that when he looked at her he saw her appreciation of him, hoped that it made him glad, to think how lucky they were, lucky that they both wanted one another, lucky that they'd found their way together.
The trunks hit the ground and he began to move, then, and Jen welcomed him, held out her good arm to him and caught him in the shelter of her thighs as he slowly stretched himself out above her. As always he was careful, mindful not to hurt her; he planted his hands on the pillows by her head, kept the weight of him away from her injured arm, but let his half-hard cock settle against her own soft folds. He bowed his head, brushed the tip of her nose with the tip of his own.
You know how I feel about you, he'd started to say that morning in the house. So many times he had come close, so very close, to telling her that he loved her, and yet each time she had stopped him. Love, that frightened her; love was a disease for which there was no cure, a tumbling fall into uncertainty that could only end, to her mind, with a sudden, shocking, killing impact. He loved her, and she knew it, and she loved him the same, but saying the words felt like a commitment, somehow, felt like the first step on a journey she wasn't ready to take. If it was love, this thing between them, they could not carry on this fashion indefinitely. Nick's beautiful house had two empty bedrooms and a back garden surrounded by a tall fence he'd built himself, with room enough for a little swingset. Quiet possibility that seemed to linger in the empty spaces of his home like a breath held, waiting for something, and she feared that possibility, feared what it would mean for her, for her future, for them. Jen wasn't ready, yet, for love, but she felt it, still, when he touched her.
"I missed you," she whispered then. I missed you meant I love you, and he knew it, and so did she, and so he smiled, and leaned in to kiss her. He knew what it meant, understood how she could have missed him when they'd spent most of the last few days entombed with one another. She'd missed this, touching him, holding him, and she'd missed him during those terrible hours they were apart, when she was forced to watch him walking away from her wearing a bulletproof vest and a grim expression, when he'd left her to wonder if she'd spend the rest of her life missing him.
"I'm right here, sweetheart," he breathed into their kiss while her good hand drifted across his back, felt the smoothness of his skin and the hardness of muscle and bone beneath. He was here, and she was here, and they had survived, somehow, and that was enough, for now; it had to be enough.
And so she kissed him back, harder, fiercer, lifted her chin and pressed herself against him, slipped her tongue between his lips and smiled, even as he smiled, relieved to be close once again. Nick eased himself down onto her left side, kept his weight off her right to protect her, and slipped his hand between them, cupping her breast gently, not grasping or scratching or plucking at her, only holding her, as if the warmth of her cradled in his palm comforted him, as much as that gentle touch comforted her. His hand on her breast, over her heart, holding her; she sighed, and arched her back, just a little, pressed herself that much more firmly against him. It was beautiful, lying like this with him, holding him, feeling every inch of him pressed against every inch of her; she could have kissed him forever, for all the rest of her days, she thought, and then pushed that thought away. It was lovely, kissing him, touching him, but there was more she wanted, and she knew that his gentleness might just lull her into dreams, send them both to sleep unsated, and she didn't want that, not really. It was lovely, but she wanted to feel him, all of him, before she closed her eyes.
And so she pushed him gently away, rose up onto her knees and watched him flop beside her, easy, comfortable, the way he always was with her. One of his hands rose up, smoothed over the mess of her hair; a shower might have been more prudent than this, but there would be time enough for such concerns later.
I can't lose you, she thought, looking down at him, this beautiful man who meant everything to her, but to lose him she would first have to admit that she had claimed him, and both thoughts frightened her in their own ways, ways she did not want to face. So she leaned over him in silence, pressed a kiss against his chest while her hand found the generous muscle of his thigh, encouraged him to spread his legs so she could insinuate herself between them. Still his fingers brushed through her hair, his touch gentle and assuring, while her eyes raked over his body and her hand rested against the thick muscle of his thigh. What to do, she asked herself, in a moment like this, when both their hearts were ready but their bodies had not yet caught up? There was only one choice, really, and so she smiled at him, and knelt between his legs, caught his cock in her good hand, and almost laughed when he groaned. He was terribly predictable, she thought, for she knew just how to touch him, and she knew that when she did he would fling his head back on the pillows, close his eyes and swear, would tangle his hand more firmly in her hair, would turn to putty in her hands. It wasn't fair to laugh at him, though, and she knew it, because every time his hand slid between her thighs she reacted in exactly the same fashion, suddenly, entirely within his thrall. As nice as that thought was she didn't want that now, or not just yet; first she wanted him.
And so very slowly she bowed her head, let her lips brush against the head of his cock while her hand pumped him slowly, feeling him harden against her grip.
"Fuck, Jen," he gasped, and she grinned, licked a swirl around the very tip of him and lifted her gaze to find his eyes on her, full of heat and longing. There was power in this, holding him, knowing that he trusted her with all the most tender, most vulnerable pieces of himself, knowing that he saved his weakness for her, and did not show it to anyone else. With her hand and her mouth she worked over him, took him into the warmth and wet between her lips slowly, slowly, while his hips rocked idly beneath her and his cock hardened until it was ramrod straight and weeping for her. Still she carried on, pulled away from him with a gasp and followed the heavy vein that ran the length of him from the base of his shaft to the very tip, felt him shudder beneath her. She had long since grown accustomed to the taste of him, just as he had grown accustomed to hers, and the scent and the sound and the sensation of him made a familiar song, a melody she'd never grow tired of hearing.
But within her own body desire had begun to swell; he was beautiful, and hard, and hers, and every time her eyes caught his she saw his need written all across his face, and shivered in expectation. It was nice, taking his thick, heavy cock into her mouth, knowing how much he enjoyed it, knowing that she was bringing him pleasure, but it would be a hell of a lot more than nice to take him into herself, and she longed for it, desperately. He was ready, now, and she knew it, ready to take her any way she chose, but she was lagging behind, too focused on his pleasure to build up her own. If they were ever going to reach their bliss together, she'd need some attention, too.
And so, energized by the adrenaline of his naked body beneath her and his cock against her tongue she took her hand away from him, and let her inhibitions go, let him watch as she took him deeper into her mouth, as her hand snaked between her own legs, and felt no shame. Maybe that was the best thing about being with him, she thought, for she was never more herself than she was when they were together, and she never needed to hide from him, for he had never judged her, or mocked her, or questioned her, and he never would.
He swore again, watching her, and she struggled to catch her breath as her fingertips danced across her own folds, found the first of her desire and began to tease it out. Before he'd walked back into her life Jen had been alone for quite some time, and she had long since learned how to fulfill her own desires, knew exactly how to touch herself and bring about her own pleasure, what worked and what didn't. As her fingertips began to circle her clit slowly, slowly, she sighed around his cock, and Nick's hips bucked up hard against her. She looked up at him, and found in his eyes a wild sort of look she'd only rarely seen there before. Usually he was so controlled, so contained, so careful, but his heart was full of a great, quiet passion, and she wanted to see that passion unleashed, wanted to feel it, bathe in it, bask in it. So she worked herself harder, swallowed against the head of his cock, and felt them both tipping over the edge into madness.
The need to breathe overwhelmed her after a moment, and so she slid her lips up and off his cock with a gasp, pressed kisses against the hardness of him while still her fingertips vibrated against her clit and her belly clenched with need. The blunt edges of his fingernails scraped against her scalp, and every time she looked at him she found him gasping and watching her with hunger in his eyes, and oh, she was close, very close, to the bliss she so desperately longed for. It might have been enough, she thought, to make herself come apart right there, caught in the cages of his thighs, to make him watch, and then with her lips and her own sticky hand pull him from the precipice, too, let him spill himself against her breasts, let them both find their abandon, sweaty and overcome. Just thinking of it left her wet and aching, but she had no sooner slipped her own finger between her dripping folds and sighed at the pleasure of it than Nick began to move.
"Wait," he gasped raggedly, and those strong hands reached for her, caught her just beneath her arms. "Wait."
She wanted to know what he had in mind, and so she lifted her mouth away from him, let him pull her towards him, let him arrange them to his liking. Nick sat up straight, his back propped against the headboard, and shifted his legs. His left splayed out, long and straight, but he bent his right, and helped Jen to sit up, too, until her back was resting against the solid muscle of his thigh. He was holding her, at an angle, his right leg behind her, her legs splayed out along his left. When she leaned to the left she pressed a kiss against his shoulder, let her head rest there against the solidness of him.
"Let me see," he said. "I want to see."
She understood, now; arranged like this she could lean against him, let him hold her steady, but he could see more clearly what she was doing when her hand disappeared between her thighs, and he could reach for his own cock with his left hand, stroke himself while he watched her, if he wanted to. She was surrounded by him, his body curving around her, and they could both see. Jen took a breath, trying to process his request and her body's response to it, her heart racing at the thought of him watching her doing such a thing, touching herself for his pleasure as much as for her own, and Nick used her momentary stillness as an excuse to lean in low, to brush his lips against the curve of her shoulder.
"Only if you want to, sweetheart," he whispered against her skin. His head still hung low by her shoulder and she turned her head, kissed his forehead sweetly, thinking how much she loved him. What a wonderful man he was, she thought, powerful enough to pick her up and move her wherever he pleased, passionate enough to ask this thing of her, but tender enough to leave the decision always, always, in her hands, never asking for more than she was willing to give.
"I want you to see," she told him, and they watched together as her left hand snaked once more down her body, her fingertips playing across her sex for both their benefit, now.
Behind her Nick drew in a ragged breath, and she matched it with a soft gasp of her own as she found herself hot and wet and ready for him. Slowly, teasing them both, she circled her fingertips round and round her clit, leaned back against his bent leg and canted her hips, allowing her easy access to herself. Nick leaned forward, looped his arm around her waist, his hand settling heavy and warm against her hip, and watched eagerly, breathlessly, as she slowly slid her middle finger into her own heat, her thumb still vibrating against her clit.
A soft, keening sort of sound left her; she supposed if he wanted to watch her then he wanted to hear her, too, and she let herself go, followed the rising tide of her own pleasure with her face still pressed hard to his shoulder. She panted against his skin, gasping; she wanted to watch, but she could not keep her eyes open against the pleasure of it. What did he see, when he looked down at her like this, wanton and willful, chasing her own release because he asked her to, because he wanted to watch? The thatch of dark curls between her legs, the increasing frenzy of her movements, the soft, panting gasps that left her; did it enthrall him, entrance him, leave him desperate for her, as she was for him?
"Do you remember," he whispered, his warm breath washing over her hair, "that night? When you were touching yourself like this, just for me?" A whimper left her, overcome as much by the memory as by his voice recounting it now; Nick was not much of a talker, in bed or out of it, and the frank, heady words he spoke shocked her and inflamed her in equal measure. "I couldn't stop thinking about you like this, so desperate for me you couldn't stop."
Any other time, any other man, she might have protested, might have bristled at the arrogance of the very idea of it, her needing anyone, but this was Nick, and he was right; she needed him. But he needed her, too.
"I kept thinking," she whispered against his skin, sliding a second finger into her dripping heat and shuddering against him. "About you, wanting me."
Behind her eyelids she could see it, the photograph he'd sent to her, could remember the thrill that lanced through her when he told her he'd spilled himself against his sheets, because of her. She was not the only one who'd lost control, was not the only one who yearned, and there was a blessed, blissfully symmetry in their need that made it something beautiful, rather than a source of shame.
Nick groaned, and reached for himself with his left hand; his cock was hard by her hip and she felt it, tilted her chin and opened her eyes, watched him close himself in his own fist. His need shot straight through the heart of her, left her rocking desperately against her hand, a steady stream of gasps passing her lips as he groaned. Watching him, watching her, hands working in tandem, the soft sound of her own fingers thrusting in and out of her wetness, the soft sound of his needy gasps; the room was redolent with them, a sanctuary for the pair of them, tucked away from the world. Sweat beaded on her brow and she licked it from his skin, both their hands sticky with need, now, his cock leaking with want of her, her own folds slippery with want of him; onward they went, circling higher and higher, preparing themselves for the freefall.
"I want to see you come apart for me," he growled. "And then I want to make you do it again."
So that was to be the way of it; before she could have him, fully, finally, he wanted this first, and she was more than happy to oblige him, trembling with expectation. She drove her fingers deep inside, curled up hard against the spot that always made stars explode behind her eyelids, vibrated her thumb against her clit and breathed him in, while still he pumped his cock in his fist, eager, ready. Desperation sank its teeth into her; she was close, so close she could hardly breathe, her whole body wound tight as a spring, poised to break free, if only, if only she could push herself hard enough, high enough, and he wanted to see, wanted to watch her shatter, and she wanted it, too, so much she could have wept. She had no control left over the sounds that left her, the rocking of her hips, could feel the slide of his leg against her sweat-slicked back, still holding firm despite the strain of it, but somehow, somehow it wasn't enough.
As if he sensed her growing frustration, as if he understood its cause, as if he could read her very mind, Nick shifted and joined his right hand to hers, let her focus on thrusting her fingers in and out of herself while he rubbed her clit quickly, furiously, matching the tempo of her gasps, and pushing, pushing, pushing, until at last, with a wail, she snapped, felt her inner muscles clamp down hard on her fingers while his shoulder muffled the sound of her cries.
And in the frenzy of her release the tears came, the last of her restraint broken; she wept and shuddered in his arms and he only held her, his hand covering hers where it rested against her sex, comforting her while she tumbled through her relief and her abandon. She had been so afraid, for days now, had been so bloody scared of losing him that she could not sleep, desperate to protect him, to keep him safe, to save this joy, this love, this peace they shared between them. If any one of a dozen moments had ended differently, she could have lost him, and the knowledge had grown from a seed of doubt in her belly into a terrible twisting vine, constricting her lungs, choking her, damning her. She was afraid to love him, she was afraid to lose him, and she was beginning to suspect that she knew already which was worse.
"I'm right here, sweetheart," he reminded her gently.
"I want," she gasped, raggedly. "I want…"
What did she want? She wanted to hold him, always. She wanted to take his hand, and never fear. She wanted them, safe, and whole, and she didn't want to sacrifice anything else in pursuit of that dream. She didn't want to be afraid, she wanted -
"I've got you," he whispered. He didn't need the words from her; he never did.
With his two strong hands he caught hold of her hips, and lifted her easily, and she moved with him, let him settle her upon his lap, her legs straddling his hips, his legs bent behind her, his cock caught against her dripping folds. When she was settled he reached for her, cradled her face in his hands, his dark eyes searching her face, looking for the answer to a question he couldn't bring himself to ask. The tears had stopped, for the moment, though she could feel them slipping down her cheeks, melding with the sweat of their exertions, painting her skin.
"Say it," she said, still panting for breath. She knew, she knew, and she was afraid of it, but in this moment she needed to hear it.
"I love you, Jennifer," he said.
Her heart burst within her chest; he loved her, as she loved him, and the words had been spoken, their love let loose at last, and though she had no idea what would happen next she would not let uncertainty stop her. Not now, not tonight.
So she leaned in and kissed him, hard and messy, seeking to draw him into herself, and he met her with equal fervor, helped her rise above him, and in the next breath she sank down on him, drew his cock inside her as deep as it would go, and gasped into his kiss. Oh, but he felt good; every time, every single time, he felt good, felt right, felt like coming home, and when he held her like this, surrounded her like this, their faces on the same level, lips brushing as they moved, she could open her eyes, and look into his, and see the heart that loved her. She had never felt closer to any other living soul than she felt to Nick, and she had never felt closer to him than she did now, holding him. Her right arm pained her too much to move it, and so she kept it cradled against her chest, but she looped her left arm around his back, clung to him, and began to move, rocking, gently, gently, feeling the hot, hard slide of him inside her, felt her nerves sparking with every movement of their bodies.
They were restricted, like this; he would not pound up into her for fear of jostling her arm, and she could not find the leverage she needed with only one hand. They could only grind and twist and rock against one another, finding a rhythm that worked for them, slowly building up their desire once more. His hands smoothed her hair back from her face, and he smiled at her so sweetly she could have wept, were her tears not already spent. The affection, the love in his gaze was nearly too much to bear. How could she have ever thought she could live without him? What would become of her, if she lost him now?
"I love you," she whispered. "I love you."
His lips found hers again, and in the meeting of them she found peace. His hands traced the slope of her back, down, and down, until he caught her bum in his hands, holding her, guiding her, and together they raced for release. The warmth of him, the taste of him, the sound of his needy groans, overwhelmed her, and she joined her voice to his, encouraging him, begging him, feeling the endless press of him inside her, deep inside, so deep as if he could have reached into her very heart, and held it safe. The drag of his cock against her already sensitive sex left her reeling, and she ground down into him, want sparking through her veins, and he held her, moved her, guided her through until her need reached a fever pitch, and this time she did not hesitate, only tumbled into bliss with his name on her lips.
He had what he'd wanted, now, had watched her come apart on her own hand and watched her come apart on his cock, and he let himself go, held her down hard against him, thrust up into her spasming sex until relief came for him, too, until he spilled himself inside her with a groan and at last they both were still.
She was still afraid. She was still afraid that she couldn't give him what he wanted, couldn't fill the empty spaces in his heart, in his house, without shattering her own spirit. She was still afraid that the revelation of their past would spell the end of their present, would unravel the private, beautiful world they'd built and lay them bare to be picked over by the vultures. She was still afraid that she could not have him and the job both, and she was still afraid that without the job she would cease to be herself. She was still afraid, but she could not deny that she loved him, now. For now, just for this moment, this breath, this one night, she clung to him, and he held her close, and she knew no harm would come to her, so long as he was near.