The orgasm crashes through me fast and hard. My back arches off the bed, thighs trembling against his shoulders, his name tearing from my lips. He doesn't let up, working me through every pulse until I'm gasping and oversensitive and pushing at his head.
Only then does he pull back, pressing one last kiss to my inner thigh before sliding up to kiss me. I taste myself on his tongue and it makes me want him all over again.
"I love you," I manage between gasps.
"I love you too." He pushes inside me in one smooth stroke, and we both groan at the familiar perfection of it.
Morning light and lazy pleasure, taking our time because we can. When I come again, he follows right after, my name rough against my shoulder.
After, we lie tangled together, catching our breath. Sunlight streams through the window, and he's watching me with an intensity that makes me shiver.
"We really do need to get up," I say eventually. "Rivera will have our heads if we're late."
"Worth it." But he rolls out of bed, offering me his hand. "Shower?"
"Only if you behave."
"I make no promises."
We make it to NCIS with fifteen minutes to spare, both freshly showered and trying not to look like we spent the morning in bed together. Rivera takes one look at us and smiles but says nothing, just gestures us into the conference room where her team has assembled evidence boards and case files.
"Morning, Dr. Abernathy. Captain Caine." Rivera nods to the boards. "I wanted to brief you on where we stand before the formal close-out." She pulls up a report on the screen. "Garrison's lawyer reached out earlier. She's willing to cooperate in exchange for a reduced sentence. Naming accomplices, providing documentation, the works."
"And Briggs?" I ask.
"Lawyered up immediately. Not talking." Rivera's expression hardens. "But between Garrison's cooperation, the evidence weseized, and Dr. Abernathy's documentation, we have enough to prosecute."
Nox enters the room, tablet in hand, looking satisfied. "Morning. I finished tracing the cyber component overnight."
"And?" Rivera prompts.
"The third party was good, I'll give them that. But they made mistakes." Nox pulls up code on the screen. "I tracked the database manipulation back to its source. A freelance hacker operating overseas. No military connection, just hired talent. I've already flagged them for FBI Cyber Division."
"So Garrison hired outside help for the technical work," Thatcher says.
"Exactly. She had the logistics access, Briggs provided muscle and intimidation, and the hacker covered their digital tracks." Nox closes her laptop. "A classic division of labor. Smart, but not smart enough."
Griff enters carrying a tablet. "Finished the equipment reconciliation. Every stolen item's been accounted for in the seizure or traced to buyers through the shipping records."
"All medical equipment," Rivera adds. "But the methodology they used—insider access combined with cyber manipulation and enforcement—could have been adapted for far more dangerous targets."
"Weapons. Explosives. Classified materials." Griff's expression is grim. "They proved the concept worked. That's what concerns Command."
"But they stuck with medical equipment because it was lower-risk, easier to move, and harder to trace," I say. "Greed, not ideology."
"Which is why Garrison's willing to cooperate," Rivera says. "She's not a true believer. She's just someone who saw an opportunity and took it."
The word "closed" should feel like relief, but instead I'm left with this strange hollow sensation. The threat is gone, but part of me mourns the end of the legitimate reason Thatcher has to be in my life every day.
Rivera's watching us with that knowing look. "Excellent work, both of you. Dr. Abernathy, your documentation was crucial to building the case. Captain Caine, your tactical support was invaluable." She pauses. "Though I suspect you'll both find reasons to continue working together."
Thatcher's hand finds mine under the table. A brief squeeze that says more than words could.
By the time we finish the debrief and sign off on final reports, it's late afternoon. Thatcher drives us back to his house, and I'm surprised to find Sullivan's truck already parked in the driveway along with two other vehicles I recognize from the base motor pool.
"What's this?" I ask.
"The team wanted to celebrate." He kills the engine, turns to face me. "They've been invested since day one. Hope that's okay."
