Page 59 of Enemy Within
Never had he been this consumed, this wholly enraptured by another person. The kind of feelings he had for Sasha were different than what he’d had for his wives. They were more intense, and burned hotter, like he’d uncovered a new layer of love, something he hadn’t known existed. Had he not truly loved his wives? He truly thought he had. But, set against the enormity of his overwhelming feelings for Sasha, it made him wonder. Was this just another part of what he’d banished, hidden from even his own soul for his whole life? Had he never opened himself up? Had he never found what he actually wanted? Did he, in fact, not know what loving another honestly was?
Was that what these crazy, fucked-up feelings were? The need to grab Sasha and never let go, shake him until tears ran down Sergey’s own cheeks, never let him sacrifice his life again, and wrap his arms so tight around Sasha and bury his face in his neck. Kiss him, over and over. Explore his body, learning how to love another all over again, and in a brand-new way.
Sergey scowled into the rearview mirror. Sasha was still sleeping, slumped in the backseat. Still snoring. Still adorable. He wanted to crawl into the back with him and pull him into his arms again, like he had on the drive to Ust’Ilga. When they’d arrived, he had vanished from the jeep before Ethan braked, tumbling from the still-moving vehicle instead of facing Sasha when he woke in Sergey’s arms. What did that say about his courage?
He sighed and propped his elbow on the windowsill, resting his head in his hand as he glared at the road. A rusted road sign ahead showed the miles to Vladivostok. Six hours away. They weren’t going that far. Maybe half the distance.
If only he could speed up time. Anything to get out of the jeep, and get away from Sasha. If he couldn’t go to him, then he’d run in the opposite direction, as fast as he could.
HOURS LATER, THEY FINALLY arrived at Sakhalin Island. The bridge had been bombed, but the tunnel was open, if jammed with cars. They plowed through, shoving abandoned cars out of their way when necessary and winding through the lanes.
They stuck to the northern half of the island, navigating between the tiny village of Nysh and the ghost town of Neftegorsk, decimated decades before in an earthquake and never rebuilt. Oil had hit Sahkalin big, but with the turmoil and the insurgency, Sergey told the others to stay to the narrow, rural mountain roads and keep away from the bigger cities. When disaster struck Russia, opportunists always crawled out of the woodwork. There would be oil smugglers and illegal drilling on Sahkalin. He could feel it in his bones.
On the east coast of the island, they found a cove and an old fishing boat tucked away for the winter. The jeeps had served them well, hauling them across the continent, but it was time to say goodbye. They hid the vehicles and siphoned the fuel out, pumping it all into the boat’s tanks, and then into the spare canisters. They carted their weapons, food, and supplies onto the boat.
They worked fast, trying to stay out of sight. Jack and Sergey wore Ethan and Scott’s borrowed balaclavas, but they were still taking a large risk being out in the open. It was the closest they had been to civilization since Volga.
In a few hours, they were ready to set out.
Sergey insisted on navigating. He sent everyone else away, down below to the main deck, except for Jack and Ethan, who disappeared with twinkling eyes and wandering hands to the forward cabin. He couldn’t begrudge them their happiness, even though they were insufferable. All soft smiles and kisses.
In the main cabin, Vasily heated water for coffee, and Anton broke out two bottles of vodka. They were in high spirits, giddy with the conclusion of their drive, and still celebrating Sasha’s return.
When they had arrived back at Ust’Ilga, Sasha alive and well in the jeep, their team had been elated. Joyous. Celebrating in the best Russian traditions, with cheers and shouts and long, emotional declarations from every man to Sasha. He’d been a favorite of the men, a steadfast and reliable right hand to Sergey. The perfect executive officer for an insurgency. Sergey let them celebrate, and skulked off alone to review the map and finalize their route.
The celebration of Sasha was still ongoing, apparently. That was good. Sasha deserved it. They would celebrate better without him, anyway. He stayed on the deck as the sounds of his men roared into the night, laughter and toasts and cheers, and Sasha’s low rumble all mixing with the crash of black waves against the hull and the hum of the motor, churning on. Every time he caught Sasha’s voice, his deep cadence, his heart sped up, aching for more, and he strained to hear what was said. And then, he chastised himself, furiously bullying his heart back into line. He was far too much of a coward.
It would never be more than what it was—a fractured dream.
IN THE FORWARD CABIN, Ethan slowly undressed Jack, peeling back each layer, dropping kisses to each exposed bit of skin. He pulled everything off, until Jack was naked, gleaming by the light of the moon shining through the porthole.
He washed Jack, dipping a rag in water warmed by Vasily and scrubbing at every inch of his body. He stroked every part, massaged Jack’s muscles, and covered him in kisses until Jack was a writhing mess of overwrought nerves, his body loose and warm. He ran the rag over his own body quicker, focused and efficient, and then went to Jack on the bed.
He took his time loving Jack, worshiping him with his mouth. His tongue. He opened Jack leisurely, reveling in the taste, the feel of his lover. The connection, their love rebuilt through touch and breath and gasps, hands clasping for one another and fingers tangling in hair.
When Jack was ready, Ethan lay back on the flat, narrow bed, and Jack climbed on his lap. Lowered himself down, taking Ethan within his body with a sigh and a breathtaking smile. Ethan watched him move, watched the lines of his throat, his neck, his chest. Held his hips and stroked his waist, his back, his ass. Felt them connect, inch by inch, until there was nothing separating them at all any longer.
Jack moved slowly, rolling his hips and his ass over Ethan, until Ethan took over, moving deep within him, from root to tip with every stroke. He wanted tofeelJack, feel every micron of him. Press in and in until their skin let their souls slip within each other, merge, and become one.
He sat up, pulling Jack close as he thrust within his body. Kissed his chest, open-mouthed, as Jack’s eyes rolled back in his head and his breath faltered, gasping Ethan’s name with every press and rock of their bodies as he clung to Ethan, his fingers scratching up his lover’s back, his cock rock-hard and pressed between their bellies.
Hands stroked, caressing skin and committing each other to memory. New marks. New bruises. Ethan’s scar from the stitches Sergey had given him. Jack’s bruises from the fall through the ice, mottled over his ribs. His faint black eye, courtesy of Leslie’s blast at the CIA, just a week before. Old marks. Jack’s star-shaped scar on his shoulder, the legacy of Ethan’s shot fired to save his life. Their lives, as entwined as their bodies, as their legs stroking together, slipping together, wrapping around each other as they kissed and kissed, making slow love for hours.
When they came, Jack lay on his back, open completely to Ethan as Ethan pressed into him, holding his legs wide. Jack’s arms wrapped around Ethan’s back, around his neck, one hand sliding through his hair as he pulled Ethan close and kissed him through his orgasm, pouring his love, his ecstasy, into the meeting of their lips, the swipes of their tongues.
Ethan gripped Jack’s ankles, drove deep into him, deep enough to touch the bottom of Jack’s heart, and emptied his own heart into Jack’s body, whisperingI love youover and over.
Spent, they curled together, sweat and their fluids cooling on their skin, arms and legs intertwined, fingers laced together as they gazed into each other’s eyes.
Neither said a word. They didn’t have to. Their love said it all.
25
Washington DC
“THANK YOU FOR COMING DOWN, Madam President.” General Bradford stood as Elizabeth strode into the Situation Room. Director Mori rose beside him, nodding to Elizabeth.
“News on the Chinese fleet?” She stopped behind Jack’s chair, resting her elbows on the headrest. Levi shadowed her, standing almost too close, as if he’d have to jump in front of a bullet at any moment.
