He kisses me deeply, his hands everywhere—my breasts, my ribs, the curve of my hip, the inside of my thigh. Each touch is deliberate, intentional, designed to build pleasure graduallyinstead of racing toward release. This is him learning my body, cataloging what makes me gasp and shiver and beg.
When his fingers finally slide between my legs, they find me wet and ready, I can't suppress the sound that escapes—half gasp, half moan, entirely need.
"Already?" he asks, and there's satisfaction in his voice.
"Always ready for you." I arch into his touch, chase the friction I need. "When you look at me like that, when you touch me like I'm—"
"Like you're mine," he finishes, and his fingers press inside me with confidence born of familiarity. "Because you are. Not owned, not possessed, but chosen. Mine because you decided to be."
The distinction matters. Gabriel tried to own me, tried to turn me into property he could control. Jax chooses me, and I choose him back, and that mutual decision transforms possession into partnership.
His fingers work inside me with skilled precision, finding the spot that makes me tighten around him, building pleasure in waves that threaten to overwhelm. I'm climbing toward release faster than expected, my body responding to his touch with the kind of trust that only comes from safety earned through confession.
"Not yet," I gasp out, because I want him inside me when I come, want to feel that connection when pleasure breaks over me. "Jax, please—"
He understands immediately. His fingers withdraw, leaving me empty and aching, but then he's positioning himself between my thighs, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance with the kind of pressure that makes me whimper.
"Look at me," he says, echoing his command from last night. "Stay with me."
I open my eyes, hold his gaze while he pushes inside with aching tenderness. The stretch and fullness is perfect, overwhelming, exactly what I need. He fills me completely and then stills, giving me time to adjust, letting me feel the weight of him inside me.
"I love you," I tell him, because the words feel necessary in this moment.
"I love you too." He starts moving, finding the rhythm that works for both of us, and the couch beneath us creaks with each thrust in ways that feel domestic and perfect.
His hands slide up my body, cup my breasts with possessive warmth. His thumbs circle my nipples, teasing them into hard peaks before he pinches gently—just enough pressure to make me gasp and arch into his touch.
"Jax—" His name breaks on my lips as he does it again, this time rolling the sensitive buds between his fingers while maintaining that perfect rhythm inside me.
The dual sensation—the fullness of him moving inside me combined with the focused attention on my breasts—builds heat that threatens to consume me. Every thrust drives me higher, every caress of my nipples sends electricity straight through my core.
"You're so responsive," he murmurs, watching my face as he continues the torment. "I love watching you come apart."
One hand stays on my breast, continuing its work, while the other slides down between us. His thumb finds my clit, circles it with perfect pressure timed to match his thrusts. The combination of sensations—him inside me, his hand onmy breast, that grinding pressure—pushes me toward the edge faster than I expected.
I'm climbing toward release now, my body responding to him with complete trust. The tension coils tighter, every nerve ending alive with sensation, and I can feel myself getting close.
"Come for me," he says, his voice rough with his own approaching climax, and the command combined with everything he's doing to my body is exactly what I need.
Pleasure crashes through me in waves that steal my breath, make my whole body tighten around him. I cry out his name, hands clutching his shoulders, riding the sensation until I'm trembling and spent.
He follows me over the edge moments later, his body going rigid as he comes inside me with my name on his lips.
We collapse together on the couch, hearts racing, bodies slick with sweat, both of us trembling with aftershocks. The mid-morning light coming through those floor-to-ceiling windows paints patterns across our tangled limbs, illuminating the space we've just claimed together.
We lie there until our breathing normalizes, until the sweat cools on our skin, until reality starts creeping back in with reminders of therapy appointments and FBI calls. Eventually Jax shifts, pulls me up with him, and we navigate toward the bathroom with the kind of comfortable intimacy that comes from choosing each other repeatedly.
The shower is large enough for two—another selling point of this apartment—and we wash each other with gentle efficiency, reclaiming domestic routines through touch. This is what partnership looks like: helping each other clean up, stealing kisses under hot water, existing together in mundane moments that feel sacred precisely because they're ordinary.
By the time we're dressed and ready to leave for Dr. Cross's office, I feel more settled. Still anxious about what's coming, still scared of federal investigation and protective custody, but grounded in the knowledge that whatever happens next, I'm not facing it alone.
"Ready?" Jax asks, his hand finding mine.
"As ready as I'll ever be." I take one last look at the apartment—the boxes, the furniture, the home we're building together. "Let's go."
The therapy session is productive in ways I needed—Dr. Cross helping me separate guilt from responsibility, preparing me for the kinds of questions federal investigators might ask, giving me frameworks for talking about Gabriel's death clearly and factually without the emotional weight making me seem evasive or suspicious.
When we're done, we drive back to the apartment where Agent Reeves is expecting our call.
