Page 17 of Jason Bourne
We hit the water hard.Cold shock punched my ribs, swallowed the burn in my lungs. I surfaced fast — saw her break through the chop, laughing and coughing at the same time.
Forest’s roar carried over the fire:“Come on, come on — before they figure out how to swim!”
Nate dragged Lane out by the straps of her vest, tossing her into the boat like a sack of diamonds. I clambered up after, half blind with seawater and relief.
She rolled into my lap, sputtering salt, grinning at the firestorm we left behind.
I cupped her face, forehead pressed to hers. “Hell of a date night.”
She laughed — wild and breathless. “Next time, dinner first.”
Forest slammed the throttle. The zodiac tore away from the docks just as the final charge cracked the compound spine to tailbone, sending flames and splintered steel howling into the night.
Behind us, the empire that stole my girl and nearly killed her loyal hound sank beneath black water — and we didn’t look back.
17
Jason
We didn’t even make it to a bed this time.
The hotel room was barely more than four walls and a bed. Didn’t matter. By the time the door slammed shut behind us, Lane already had my shirt balled in her fists, dragging it over my head like it offended her.
She pressed me against the door, kissing me so deep I forgot my own damn name. I growled against her mouth, hands sweeping down her ribs, skimming the fresh bruises hidden under that tactical hoodie. She winced — just a breath — then yanked my belt open like she didn’t feel a thing.
“You’re gonna hurt tomorrow,” I rasped, lips tracing the shell of her ear.
She laughed, breathless and wild. “I’ll hurt now. I don’t care. I want you, Jason —all of you.”
God help me, that mouth. That voice. I’d fought wars for less.
I hooked her thighs, lifted her straight off the ground. She gasped — a sound that ripped the air right out of my lungs — and locked her legs around my hips.
“You think I’m letting you walk after this?” I murmured, teeth dragging down her neck.
She panted against my jaw, voice shaking. “Big talk, Bourne. Prove it.”
I carriedher through the tiny living room — our boots thudding the floor, the lamp rattling when my shoulder clipped the table. She was laughing into my neck, half moan, half mischief, all Lane.
I dropped to my knees, laid her flat on that battered couch. Her eyes found mine — pupils blown wide, lips swollen from my teeth.
“Off,” she demanded, tugging at her hoodie.
I stripped it, and everything under it, off her in one sweep. She lay there — bruises and old scars and perfect skin I’d kissed a thousand times in my head every night for five years.
“Damn,” I whispered, kneeling over her, palm spread on her belly like I could hold her whole world together with my hand alone.
She grabbed my wrist, dragged it up to her mouth, pressed a hot kiss to my pulse. “Don’t worship. Just fuck me.”
I laughed — rough and low. “Careful what you wish for.”
Then I gave it to her — slow first, dragging every filthy sound out of that smart mouth she’d used to bark orders at an entire rescue team an hour ago. She clawed at my back, nails raking old scar tissue, gasping my name like a confession.
When she came apart under my hands, her back arched clean off the couch, a sob punched out of her throat so raw it made my vision blur.
I wasn’t gentle after that. Neither was she.
Later,the world drifted back into focus — the hush of the ocean through a cracked window, her heart hammering against my ribs, the taste of salt and sweat on my tongue.
