They had a week.
They were adrift, Tom but a rogue agent with a group who still believed in his worth. Though the crew still executed duty, they were given R&R. A time to reset. For reprieve before committing action toward recapturing a semblance of home. And betrayed by his own, Tom was just a man clinging to hope that the country he loved could rebuild itself again.
It was in these moments he saw his addiction to her. This. The game in which they engaged. From first meeting, he hadn't the strength to withdraw—then or now—and though he'd vowed in the past not to act on fixations, she had. The door had been broken since. They ate every meal together: breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Devised reasons to visit between shifts. Craved her presence, and replayed her touch in the loneliness of night. If she entered a space, his gaze followed and he'd found in this limbo a new mission, a personal one: make her smile every day. It made him happy when she smiled at him.
That was a dangerous word, happy.
Something he hadn't believed possible in the wake of Darien. He was playing with fire. He'd get burned—of that, he was sure, but that never stopped him before… not with Sasha.
She was mid-book when the knock came. A glance toward the clock confirmed its owner—beyond emergency, there was only one person who'd seek her counsel past zero hundred hours.
"It's open."
Tom stepped through, precise when he closed it.
Oh.
She knew this expression; it was exactly how this had started, after all. It zipped through her body... heavy gaze intense, lips gently parted, and low orange light casting shadow against an impossibly handsome face. Slowly, she rose from the bed, wordless and waiting, wondering if this was it—the moment there'd been simmering beneath the crisis they faced.
With perfect clarity, Tom found his choice: he wanted to live. To feel. To need. In two purposeful strides, he was toe to toe with intent. A second later, cradling her face and bringing her lips to his, angling her jaw up and to the right so he could kiss deep—just as he liked.
Into him, Sasha melted, body responding like it hadn't in years—not since the last time there'd been Tom. The surge in her heart was unbearable. Why? Why did she still love him so much? She felt one of his hands move from her face to the back of her head, fingers caressing through her hair. Ran hers over his chest and the hard muscle under his t-shirt. Wider now. Stronger. Familiar.
Already he was drowning—enough that a missing decade dissolved; like this had never been gone. The kiss turned fervent. Harder and faster than the languid one he'd approached with. He demanded her taste; remembered it. The drug of her mouth and body taking his. She was firmer now than before, more confident in her passion, and alluring as only a woman could be. Beautiful and intoxicating. It was getting out of control; it bolted. Deeply. A yearning to be filled and released from unsatiated desire, but there'd be no 'undo' if they crossed the line.
She was scared.
He was terrified.
But why try if not to live?
The back of her knees hit the mattress. She faltered. He caught her, lowering them in a controlled manner while kissing her senseless. His weight over her body felt right, his hips between her legs and rigid thickness pressing friction through their clothes. Her body was molten under his touch—everywhere now—in her hair, at her waist, on her chest, and when she ground against him, a strangled moan slipped from her lips.
It ushered Tom's loss of control.
"Fuck, Sasha," he hissed between feverish kisses. His heart pounded, blood rushed, hands trembled; body humming like a magnet to adhere. The v-neck she wore became a barrier to the perfection of her breasts. Lifting them both upright, he tugged at the hem—a simple request—she lifted her arms; quiet permission. God, she was stunning. Kissed his way down her neck, grazed a collar bone, before taking the supple flesh in his mouth.
She shuddered. Overstimulated and getting desperate. The ache of missing him was unbearable, the knowing of what they had been and all they could be. She wanted to cry. "Tom, please," she breathed, fumbling at his sweatpants. His skin flushed cool in the momentary separation—seconds which felt like minutes to remove the rest of their clothes—but then there was contact again, skin to skin, and he pressed over her once more, slick hot moisture against his tip and uneven breaths filling the room. When he finally slid into her, it was like coming home. His groan of relief muffled by her lips, so good and so right it welled in his eyes.
He started moving within her, steady and slow, drawing sensation as far as it could go. He toed the line. Tantalizing between ecstasy and oblivion. Now, she was everything. Tightening around him, legs like a vice, hand on his ass driving him deeper, while hot breathy gasps tickled his ear. God, she was so beautiful; that emotion he'd suppressed sprung free in his chest, and the precise, methodical rhythm faulted, hips rutting beyond his control.
She gasped; eyes now open. She'd already been close, but when their gazes locked, she fell apart. It started low in her belly, salacious needy pressure coiling, then bursting and ricocheting from spine to toe. There was nothing greater. Wished she could tell him, but all she could do was muffle her cry with his shoulder while she stiffened and shook.
Contracting wildly around him, Tom reached the point of no return. Their bodies were flush again. Groans ripped from his throat. He needed to pull out, but her legs were locked tight and quivering, his fingers urgent where they clenched at her rear, holding her firm as he thrust frantically in a primal, fervid way. She did something that changed the angle ever so slightly, and he was coming hard before he could help himself. He grunted as he spilled into her, each pulse accompanied by a deep snap of his hips, then stayed that way—buried—while she fluttered around him, and understanding of their surroundings slowly returned.
Tom rolled them to the side and kissed her forehead. Started smoothing her hair.
Tears stung her eyes.
He was still inside of her, and he didn't want to leave. It was a tight squeeze on the mattress for one. Neither of them could be defined as short, but it worked.
Happy. There was that word again. Home. Things he both yearned and feared to have.
The aircon hit, and she shivered, goosebumps marring bare skin. Reluctant as he was to end this connection, Tom shifted, retrieving the blanket from the foot of the bed and tucked it around her. Against his chest, she dozed, satiated, and soft, and he stole. Stole the moment to commit things to memory, like the feel of her cheek where his palm cupped and thumb caressed. The warmth of her hand where it lay on his abdomen. The soothing rhythm of her breaths expanding and collapsing.
This was how they were always supposed to be, he thought. Even after everything, she still felt right; fit with his body and heart as if by design. Tom closed his eyes, surrounded by the scent of her hair, and he let himself follow her to that place in this peace.
They could have this night.