A/N: Thank you for the sweet comments about the last chapter's A/N. I didn't mean for it to cause you to comment more...I appreciate you whether you review or not :) I just wanted to explain what was going on inside this little head of mine, and how sometimes writing can be an outlet and sometimes it hurts more.
I also just want to say to Deb, specifically, that your comment reminded me of why I write anyway even when sometimes it's hard for me to do so. H&E remind me of my own parents, their love, though my dad also has passed. I'm glad the stories I write bring you a little joy and remembrance, and I am so thankful that you gave me that glimpse into your life.
I so appreciate all of you. This fandom has really been a joy to be apart of after being part of one that was a bit messy when I was a teenager. You make me want to write. And I thank you all for that.
Hope you enjoy this chapter!
Elizabeth | Post-Extraction – 188 Hours
She hadn't had that much energy and stamina since before the kidnapping.
Before Conrad had called last night, she wasn't sure what had overtaken her to start kissing his neck on that couch. But he smelled so enticing, and the longer her nose was tucked into his chest, the harder it was for her to resist pressing her lips anywhere on him.
She knew that she shouldn't have done it—she shouldn't have started this because, in the car, the statement still stood. Even though they admitted to each other they lied, she still knew that this was messy, that this isn't something she should be pursuing. She certainly shouldn't have taken her shirt off, stripped down to her bare chest, and told him to come here. She definitely shouldn't have told him how much she needed him, knowing that it would either break her heart if he denied or open a can of something they wouldn't be able to put back.
But on that couch, the way he brushed over her scar with his fingers so gently—it made her feel like she'd been touched by all the wrong people. She'd shut her eyes for a long time when they laid there, before she ever kissed him, and relived everything that happened in London and Kuwait those nights.
The worst part was that she knew she was lucky. She knew what could happen to spies, especially female ones, when being tortured and in captivity like that. She knew that the touches could've been worse than punching and whipping, slapping or yanking.
So she had melted into his body, let her senses overtake her, and she knew when she felt his thigh between her legs that she was too far gone. When his hips rolled against her the first time, she felt his excitement, too, and she knew he was too far gone. But then the phone call with Conrad interrupted them, though she could see the heat on Henry's face and the obvious outline in his sweatpants (oh how she was beginning to love those sweatpants for telling secrets like that). Her mind had been swimming the entire call, trying to keep it on the fact that her life was in clear danger, and so was his, and Conrad's and now even Isabelle's.
But all she could think about was how badly she wanted him to touch her again; to be the one to touch her body last and replace all the pain and hurt she'd experienced in the last few weeks.
And now, as she lie awake listening to the storm, she felt his touches everywhere on her body as though they were imprinted forever. Even the lightest, gentlest of kisses on her temple—it was no longer the trickle of blood running down her face that she felt, it was his kisses.
The way his mouth had traced the column of her throat, down the curve of her shoulder while she felt the heat of his breath and listened to the wrecked, rawness of his voice breathing "Elizabeth" while he moved inside her. She could still hear the groan he made when she'd told him he didn't need to go slow—it was the groan that poured gasoline on her already-burning body. She'd needed him—it wasn't just a case of wanting anymore by then.
He'd ravished her—the first time. But the second time, he took his sweet time, and Elizabeth felt like she was shaking from the inside as he explored her body. He tracked every inch of the inside of her thigh with his lips, knew exactly where her hips bones were as he splayed his rough hands across them and wrapped his fingers around her hip to draw her into his face, his tongue waiting to map new territories. The darkness in the room added to the excitement—neither one could see each other well at all, yet they weren't fumbling around. Her fingers had twisted and writhed in the sheets before she finally found her voice again, the one that could form real words other than "fuck" and "Henry," and she said she wanted him—needed him inside her.
That time, the way his eyes never left her made her feel like she was the most important woman in the world. And maybe not to everyone she wasn't, but she was to Henry, and she got shivers down her body when she realized that's all she wanted anyway.
He barely kissed her, and she barely kissed him—they wouldn't leave each other's gaze long enough. It was as though they were communicating something with their eyes, their bodies as they moved in a slow, practiced rhythm. Somehow, with him, there was nothing awkward about this—they moved as though they'd been doing this, with each other, for years. Elizabeth couldn't ignore that, and she wondered if Henry noticed it, too.
They'd stopped after the second time—both tired and frankly exhausted. She wasn't sure who had initiated the second round anyway. Maybe it was mutual. But after lying there, wrapped up in each other's arms once he'd helped her go to the bathroom and get cleaned up for sleep, she noticed that he couldn't sleep either.
"What are you thinking about?" she'd asked, her eyes coming back to him after glancing at the clock and seeing it was 1:21 in the morning.
She could hear him swallow more than she could see him since it was so dark, and she immediately felt a panic rise up into her throat. He's going to say we shouldn't have done this, she thought, knowing his track record already too well for lying. But maybe we shouldn't have, maybe he'd be right.
"You," he whispered, and she felt the chills run down her entire body, her toes curling up even in her cast.
She caught a glimmer in his eyes, from what light she wasn't sure, and she breathed out, "Oh."
The silence had stretched out between them, and she thought maybe the storm was about to die down, too, since she hadn't heard any thunder rumbling. His hand had been wrapped around her waist, her legs tangled up in his as much as they could be with the big, bulky cast, and she felt his lips on hers again. She moaned a little, letting him know how welcome this was as if he couldn't feel the chills popping up on her skin, and writhed in his arms.
He pulled away, "I'd better stop," he whispered, "We're not going to have any energy to—"
"Please don't ever say that again," she interrupted him, closing her eyes and feeling his breath in the darkness, "Please don't ever say you should stop. I never want you to stop, Henry," she said, and it sounded so desperate that even she wondered whose voice was speaking.
But his hand was tracing circles along her back and she was already lit up again, and she looked at him once more. "We'll go slow," she whispered, the prospect of a third time causing her body to feel like mush.
"Are you sure?"
"Henry…" she whispered, just wanting him to stop asking questions, stop second-guessing.
And now it was 4:12, and she'd woken up when the thunder rumbled again so loudly that it shook the walls. Her eyes flew open to his face, and he was still asleep, but his arm was wrapped over her waist tightly and every inch on the front of her body was pressed against his.
Her body went rigid—something felt cold, though she felt nice and warm in this bed. The air felt different, more charged again, and not with the excitement of sex this time. You're paranoid, she told herself, trying to take a deep breath of relaxation.
She allowed herself to be paranoid, though, upon thinking about her apartment being turned upside down when they tried to go in. But she didn't want to wake Henry over a gut feeling. She probably wasn't in any heightened danger, other than laying in this bed with Henry and being naked.
She watched him sleep, his shoulder rising and falling as air filled his lungs. He snored, and she held back a little smile because even though it was kind of loud, it was also kind of silly to see her strong, protective Marine snore like this inches away from her face. The thunder rumbled again, and her body tensed, Henry shifted a bit, but he stayed asleep.
Biting her lip, she realized she maybe shouldn't have done what she did—undressing like that and enticing him into the bedroom. She never should've let him lose himself in her, just let him be the good man he was trying to be. But she felt his hand twitch against the back of her hip and she knew she didn't actually regret it because for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—she felt like herself again.
Not a broken, fragile version of herself that people worried over. Not a victim with bruises fading on her skin. Not a spy running for her life. Not Eleanor Morgan.
She felt like Elizabeth Adams, and that was partially because Henry had looked at her like she was whole again.
After telling herself once more that she was paranoid, that there was no real chill in the air, she snuggled her face into his chest and breathed in, closing her eyes. She ignored the thoughts telling her this was the last thing she should be doing, the ones saying she should move away from him and not closer. But she loved being this close to him, loved the way his body felt against hers, and loved…well…no, this is just your imagination, Elizabeth.
She'd just started to get rid of the irritating feeling that she was being watched when her eyes flew open, hearing the faintest crunch of gravel. She tapped Henry on the side and he startled awake. She immediately wished she wouldn't have because he looked so confused, so tired. "What's wrong…" he mumbled, trying to make himself aware.
"Shh…" she whispered, "I think someone is outside."
His eyes looked down at her and they locked in on each other's for a few silent moments, both listening for more signs of someone being out there. And both, maybe, searching for regret that didn't seem to exist in the other's eyes. The thunder rumbled again, shaking the house, and it made Elizabeth close her eyes and tense up. He pulled her closer and rubbed her back, but then it was unmistakable this time—they both heard the gravel.
He turned over immediately and grabbed for the gun on the bedside table. He'd laid it there last night after stripping from his pants, her having to remind him breathily that it fell from his waistband. He'd been so focused on her that he forgot all about it.
He switched the safety off, and she watched him slowly roll out of bed, making absolutely no sounds as she watched the outline of his body in the darkness pulling pants on. "Stay here," he whispered, coming to her side of the bed and handing her the other gun. It felt cold and heavy in her hands, and she just wanted Henry back in the bed to be her warmth.
She watched him until she couldn't see him anymore, consumed by the darkness of the hallway and her eyes not being able to make out his shadow anymore. When he entered the living room, there was enough light—she assumed from the high windows in the kitchen, somehow—that she could just barely see the outline of him again. He was inching toward the door, moving so that his head was near the peephole. Before he could get a good stance, a knock on the door scared her.
She yanked the blankets over her chest and pulled her knees up protectively, her hand fumbling with the gun in her lap and finally finding the handle and trigger. Her thumb switched off the safety and she let out a heavy breath, unsure of how the hell she'd even shoot someone in this pitch black darkness.
She saw Henry look back for a quick moment, back down the hall toward her, and he moved his hand as to tell her to lie down. So she did, and she covered the blanket up over her head and tried to keep her chest from rising and falling too much.
Hearing the doorknob, she then heard the door squeak.
"Captain McCord," she heard a voice. It wasn't booming like a major's would likely be doing, but it was firm. Elizabeth also registered that it sounded young, that there was even maybe a little crack in his voice. "I'm First Lieutenant Robert Freeman, United States Marine Corps, and I'm assigned to retrieve you immediately on orders from Major Grayson, sir."
There was a stretch of quiet, and Elizabeth almost popped up from her hiding place to help, but then she heard Henry clear his throat.
"That so?" he asked.
"Yes sir," the other voice said, this Freeman kid.
"And what does Grayson think he's bringing me in for?" Henry asked.
Elizabeth was sliding out of the bed slowly, moving toward the edge of the bed without sitting up. Her good foot made it down first, but then her cast almost hit the floor with a thud, and she clenched her jaw and her eyes shut and held extra still for a moment while Freeman was speaking. She put her shirt over her head and worked to get her pants over her cast, but now out of the view of the doorway at least.
"You've been marked absent without leave. Major Grayson has given strict orders that you be escorted back to the base."
Elizabeth heard more gravel and she felt the panic come back again, and she pulled her waistband up finally and slowly climbed to her feet. The burning sensation that shot up in her leg told her she shouldn't be walking on it, but she couldn't use the crutches, certainly.
She grabbed the gun again and slowly padded toward the wall, pushing her back against it and taking a deep breath, telling herself that she can move quietly because she needs to. She thinks about the phone in the kitchen—if she can just get down the hall without them seeing her, she can call Rawlins, call Conrad.
But when she reached the bedroom door, she realized she'd be better off on her hands and knees. She tucked her gun in the back of her pants and crawled almost silently through the dark of the hallway, watching Henry's back carefully as his body shielded Freeman from seeing inside. She was just a few feet away from the kitchen when she finally heard Henry say, "And them?"
There's more than just Freeman, she realized, freezing for a moment before pushing herself on toward the phone.
"They're security detail for the woman inside," Freeman said, and Elizabeth felt the breath exit her mouth as though she'd been hit on the back. She crawled up to the counter and reached blindly for the phone, her hand finding nothing the first few tries, then finally touching the receiver. She quietly dragged the whole phone down and put her back against the cabinet.
"The hell they are," Henry said, her blood still cold. She turned the phone upside down to look for the number Rawlins said was on the bottom of it, and she memorized it quickly before turning it back over and pressing the buttons.
But with each button, there was a beep, and she felt desperate to just get it over with before someone managed to hear her.
"You tell me right now, Freeman," she heard Henry saying, scrambling to speak it seemed. She assumed he heard the phone beeps and now the ringing. "Who gave those orders? Because I sure as hell know it wasn't Conrad Dalton, and that's the only person who should be giving those orders for her protection."
"The orders came from higher up, sir," Freeman said.
Elizabeth heard a click on the other end, and then she heard Rawlins' voice, but a groggier version. She didn't answer, but instead held the phone out for him to hear Henry's conversation.
"Higher than Grayson?" he asked.
But then there was silence, and Elizabeth's hand started to shake as she held the receiver out.
"Freeman," Henry barked, "You need to think real hard about who you're standing here with."
She peeked around the corner of the cabinet and saw him standing in the doorway with his hand resting on the gun in his waistband, and she saw the way his fingers were gripping the doorknob. Then she heard a click on the phone and immediately turned back to it in her lap, dialing Conrad's number.
She had that one memorized.
"What the—sir!" she heard, and her eyes went wide when she realized Freeman's voice was scared, but the phone was ringing and keeping her attention away from what was happening at the door. The door slammed shut and she heard it lock before she heard something slam up against the door, her breath uneven as she waited desperately for Conrad to pick up.
"You've got exactly five seconds to tell me who gave you those orders and who those men really are before I decide whether or not to put a bullet in between their eyes when they try to break that door down."
A thud came against the door, then another, and Elizabeth realized it was a mix of Freeman's feet dangling on the door and the men from the outside. Finally she heard the click, and then she heard Conrad's voice.
"Sir—I—I—don't…" Freeman was stuttering, causing enough noise that Elizabeth felt she could safely put the phone up.
"We have visitors," she whispered into the receiver, barely loud enough for her to even hear. But she knew it would get the message across, and she knew Rawlins had already been alerted, too.
Another loud bang hit the door and Elizabeth froze, her eyes filling with tears. Her back was pressed against the cabinets, but she felt the cold of the cinder block wall seeping into her—the cinder block wall from the closet. She gripped the phone, trying to keep herself from slipping into those terrible memories.
"Open the door, Captain," she heard from outside. "Or we'll blow the windows out."
"You know damn well I didn't go AWOL, Freeman, and you better decide right now whose orders you're really following."
Elizabeth thought she heard a strangled noise coming from Freeman, but she was fighting her own mind now, the phone laying in her lap long after the tone had come back from Conrad hanging up.
"Tell me you're not dumb enough to think that they're here to protect a CIA asset, Freeman!"
The door rattled again, "I don't know sir!"
Her head thudded against the cabinet and she closed her eyes, the corners of her lips hurting from the gag, the spot in her back burning where they'd tased her in London, her ankle throbbing from when she'd broken it that night. She couldn't hear anything anymore, just a screeching in her ears.
The only sound that she was able to hear was a gunshot, one that splintered the door. She immediately turned around and cried out, "Henry!" Her head was poked around the cabinets to see Henry crouched down below the couch on the floor, but a body sprawled on the floor with blood leaking out everywhere.
She assumed that was Freeman—dressed in his Marine uniform.
She gasped and felt the tears rush to her eyes—too thankful to see Freeman lying there dead instead of Henry. She shut her eyes for only a moment before she heard the door thudded on again, and she looked at him across the room desperately.
He was cocking his gun and crawling to the edge of the couch, ready to start shooting. She knew she should also be in position, too—if there were more than one of those guys out there, he'd need backup. But she couldn't move.
She startled again when she heard a gunshot from outside, but it didn't come in this time. She heard screaming, she heard a man's voice yelling to stop, and then she heard another gunshot.
Henry had gotten to his feet by the time the second one rang out, and he was having to move Freeman's body out of the way. Elizabeth saw the bullet wound in his head and looked away, turning and throwing up to the side of her lap on the kitchen floor. She'd seen people dead before, of course, and she'd seen people be shot before. But nothing quite like this.
Henry ripped the door open and Elizabeth heard Rawlins' voice, "Only two of them?"
"Third in here," Henry said, "But he's gone—they shot into the door and killed the wrong guy."
Henry's voice was shaken, and Elizabeth couldn't make herself move from behind the cabinet to look at him, to help, to do anything. She was frozen in place, battling with her mind to keep it from taking her back to that Kuwaiti warehouse.
"They were tryin' to kill you," Rawlins said as if it needed to be said, and she heard footsteps coming in the house. "Shit, a young buck."
"Yes sir," Henry said.
She heard the door close.
"Where's Elizabeth?"
"She's in the kitchen," Henry said, "She called you?"
"I guess so," Rawlins said.
She heard footsteps coming closer, and then she saw a flashlight shine in the kitchen before she saw Rawlins himself. She looked up, her body shivering uncontrollably, and he reached a hand down. But she turned her face away, her mind telling her how ashamed she should be of herself—she's a CIA spy for God's sake, not some fragile—
I am fragile, she realized, I'm just as fragile as Henry was telling me I was.
"Hey," Henry's voice caused her to look back in Rawlins' direction, and before she knew it he was down in front of her on his knees. "Hey…it's okay. They're gone."
"He's dead," the words tumbled out of her mouth too quickly.
He nodded, the glow of Rawlins' flashlight on the side of his head. She saw the glimmer of sweat on his forehead and she took a sharp breath. "He is," he whispered, his voice tinged with sadness. "He was following orders."
Elizabeth felt her body wrack once, and that's when he touched her knee. She looked at his hand and shied away from his touch.
"Elizabeth…" he whispered.
She shook her head, "I just…I need a minute."
"Give her some space, kid," Rawlins said.
Though she wasn't looking directly at Henry, she could tell he had been wounded—not by the gunfire, not from anything with those three men, but from her. The flashlight still shined toward her, but not directly on her, and Rawlins was saying something quietly.
She couldn't bring herself to care.
She heard a car pulling up outside the cabin, though, and her body went stiff again. The two men hovering over her from a short distance immediately looked up, and they went over toward the door. Elizabeth couldn't make herself follow their gaze—her body was too on fire with pain, anyway, from walking on her ankle. Only now that the adrenaline of danger was starting to wear off was she able to realize that.
"It's Conrad," Rawlins announced.
"How'd Conrad know?" Henry asked immediately.
"I called him," Elizabeth squeaked.
There was silence, then the car door and Conrad's voice, "Is everything al—" he stopped, and Elizabeth didn't hear anything for a moment. "Who the hell are these guys, Chuck?" he asked Rawlins.
"Visitors," Elizabeth said, crawling out from behind the cabinet.
Rawlins turned his flashlight toward her but it shined right in her eyes, and she shielded her face while she crawled toward them. Henry rushed over, but she pulled herself up with the help of the barstool before he could reach her. She leaned against the counter, off her ankle, and looked over toward Conrad.
"They turned to shoot at me so…" Rawlins said, shining the light down on their bodies outside on the porch.
Elizabeth swallowed thick. They were in suits—they looked like security agents. Maybe they were real security agents, or maybe they weren't.
"And him?" Conrad asked, nodding inside at Freeman's body.
"Shot by the two guys," Henry said, "I was holding him up on the door, trying to get some information out of him when the guys were trying to bust the door down. They finally just shot through, I'm guessing they were aiming for me."
"You're probably guessing right," Rawlins said.
Henry looked back at Elizabeth and swallowed thick, and she looked away with tears rising up and overflowing. If Rawlins shined that damn flashlight over here, everyone would know she's crying, and she couldn't have that.
"Whoever they were," Elizabeth croaked after the silence had flooded the house, "They were after more than just you, Henry," she said, "They want me out of the equation."
"Whoever sent them will be expecting a report soon," Henry said, swallowing hard and looking at Rawlins.
The older man looked over at Conrad and nodded, "We need to get them out of here before anyone else comes looking," he said, "We're runnin' out of time."
"I know," Conrad breathed, his hand running through his hair as he set the other hand on his hip, turning around and surveying the damage once more as though it wasn't real the first time.
Rawlins turned and laid eyes on Elizabeth, then turned back to Henry, "Get her out of here," he said, "We'll handle the clean-up."
Henry looked down at Freeman and realized his feet were standing in his blood. He immediately moved outside onto the front porch and wiped his feet on the rug. Elizabeth realized he wasn't wearing a shirt and she pulled her eyes away from him as though it were burning them to look at his bare skin in the glow of Rawlins' flashlight.
A reminder that she was fragile. That she'd been the cause of what happened last night. That she couldn't help Henry because she was sitting on the floor in a different country, feeling the binds on her wrists and the gag cutting into her mouth.
"Where are we going?" Elizabeth asked, her voice sounding like not her own again.
And all the work Henry had done—the work to make her feel like Elizabeth Adams—felt like it was suddenly undone. She couldn't separate herself from Eleanor Morgan so easily.
Conrad's keys jingled in his pocket and he looked at Rawlins, "You brought wheels?" he asked.
Rawlins nodded, "It's parked over behind the bushes," he said.
Conrad nodded once and looked down, taking a shaky breath and handing Henry his car keys. Henry took them and looked down confused. "You need to get her farther away from here," he said, "I have a place on The Chesapeake Bay—down in Cape Charles."
Elizabeth swallowed thick, knowing that's his vacation home. He proposed to Lydia there, and she felt leery about using his personal home—though she supposed maybe she shouldn't have felt any differently than using Rawlins' personal vacation home that was now shot up and blood stained.
"Keep her safe, Henry."
"I will, Director Dalton," Henry said, and it struck her that he used his title for once. He'd always called him Conrad.
The keys jangled in Henry's hand as he walked over to Elizabeth, "We need to get going," he said.
"I'll go get my bag," she said, pushing off the counter.
"I'll get it," Henry said.
"No I will," she stood firm and looked at him.
The silence washed over the room again, and Elizabeth realized they were making a scene—she was, in particular. "I'm not fragile."
Henry's jaw tightened and she saw the muscles in his neck poke out more, then finally she heard Rawlins whisper something, then Conrad took a deep breath and entered into the house. "I'll go," he said.
"No!" Henry and Elizabeth said in unison, both shouting and looking at Conrad. Elizabeth heard Rawlins chuckle from over to her left, but she didn't even pay him any attention.
She knew that if Conrad walked in and saw her bra on the floor, his boxers still on the floor with her underwear somewhere close by, and his shirt…he'd know.
"I'll get everything," Henry said, and this time Elizabeth didn't argue.
He pushed past Conrad and the thunder rolled in the distance again, moved out of the way enough now to not be so frightening. She felt Conrad's gaze on her, though, and she looked up at him.
"Bess," he whispered, and she felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She was about to defend herself, tell him that it was never going to happen again—that she's already told herself all this time how stupid she was to let Henry's guard come down and let him be Henry, not the Marine. But he put his hand up when she opened her mouth, and she stopped, "I know what you're doing…trying to blame yourself for something that was never your fault." He stopped, shifting his weight but still keeping his eyes on her while she heard Henry rustling through things in the bedroom, "Whatever happened last night—don't do this to yourself." His voice was firm, and she imagined for a moment that this is what having a big brother would feel like—what it would feel like if she weren't the oldest. "If anything, you both needed something real, something to ground you. You've both been through hell and back, and I can't blame you for anything you chose to do to—"
"Sir," Elizabeth tried.
He shook his head, "You're human," he said, and she swallowed thick. I don't want to be reminded. Henry came in holding her bag and the bag Rawlins had given him with a bunch of clothes for himself. "Don't beat yourself up for that."
She looked down at her cast and was reminded, again, of her humanity—of how she wasn't superhuman at all. Her arms tucked more tightly around her body.
"Keep her safe," she heard Conrad's voice saying, but when she looked up, he was looking at Henry this time. "And I don't just mean physically safe, either."
She had never seen Henry freeze like that, the way his eyes had gone wide and then tried to normalize but overcorrected and squinted. He looked like he was malfunctioning, standing there with two duffle bags in his one hand and her crutches in the other. "Yes sir," he said.
Rawlins shifted, "Keep each other safe," he said, looking at Elizabeth and then over at Henry, "And take that note off the bottom of the phone there and keep it—I'm a call away, even though I'll be a few hours, too."
Henry nodded and Elizabeth reached for the phone, her fingers shaking as she did so, and ripped the note off the bottom. She shoved it into her pants' pocket and Henry reached over, handing her the crutches. They felt cold against her armpits and her palms, and she just wanted to be in Henry's arms again, being carried out.
"Call when you get there," Conrad said to Elizabeth as she hobbled toward the door, "Hopefully I'll have new intel by then."
"Yes sir," she said, not looking back, focused on getting down the steps and into Conrad's 4Runner.
Henry's hand was on her back as she took a shaky step down, and she knew he'd catch her if he needed to. She made it down the steps and turned around to see Conrad and Rawlins standing in the doorway, the two dead bodies sprawled on the porch on each side of them, and she took a shaky breath before turning back toward the car. Henry opened the door for her and made sure she was in alright, then he put the bags in the back and got in the driver's seat.
Once all the doors were shut and the car was on, he looked over at her, "You made it clear last night you didn't want the Marine, Elizabeth," he breathed, turning away from her and putting the car in reverse before skidding away on the gravel. He looked forward at the dark path, "You wanted me. And now you have me." His voice was firm, there was nothing to indicate that he was even the slightest bit nervous. "All of me," he added, and her fingers gripped the seatbelt over her lap. "I told you once we crossed that line, that there was no going back. And I'm not walking away from this…no matter who knows, no matter what happens." He took a sharp breath and his hand rested on the wheel more comfortably, loosening his grip a little as his other hand slid across the center of the car and reached for her thigh.
She looked down at it resting there, and she felt like she wasn't going to come floating out of the seat anymore and be transported back to that closet. She felt grounded into the leather now, more secured than this seatbelt was even making her feel.
"Last night wasn't a mistake," he said, startling her a little. She looked over at his jaw, then his eyes, watching him as he drove carefully and came to a stop. He looked over at her and dragged his tongue over his bottom lip as though he were choosing his words carefully, then he took a deep breath and exhaled, those words tumbling out, "You got exactly what you wanted from me, and I got exactly what I wanted from you."
With his next words, he was staring into her eyes, and she already was wanting to just lean in and kiss him because, yes, she got what she wanted.
But at what cost?
"It's messy. But I refuse to let either of us get hurt."
The car idled there at the intersection of the little path and the main road, and she felt herself leaning forward, leaning over the console and ignoring the painful stab in her side from the buckle of the seatbelt, and she kissed him on the lips like she'd not been telling herself for the past hour that all of this was a mistake.