Page 9 of Jason Bourne
We toreaway from the ship. Spotlights swung wildly overhead. Too late. We were gone.
Lane clung to me, coughing up seawater, half-laughing, half-sobbing into my throat.
I pressed my lips to her hair, rain and salt and the taste of something I hadn’t dared hope for in five damn years.
“Got you, sweetheart,” I breathed against her ear. “Got you. Not losing you ever again.”
She just squeezed me tighter — and for the first time since this nightmare began, she let herself cry.
9
Jason
The safe house wasn’t much — just four walls of battered drywall, a single bed that smelled like dust and salt air, and one flickering lamp that buzzed like an angry bee. But I wasn’t taking a chance they would come back for Lane.
Didn’t matter. I could’ve laid her down on a concrete floor and it wouldn’t have changed a damn thing.
I kicked the door shut behind us, still dripping seawater, my shirt clinging to my ribs where the bullet had grazed me. Lane stood in the middle of the room, bare toes curling into the faded rug, eyes wide, breathing so hard her chest heaved.
Neither of us spoke. We didn’t have to.
Five years of questions. Five years ofwhat ifs. Five years of wanting.
Gone.
I crossed the room in two strides, grabbed her face, and slammed my mouth to hers. She made a sound — half moan, half sob — and it undid me.
Her hands clawed at my wet shirt, dragging it up over my head, nails scraping my skin. I hissed when the fabric tugged the fresh graze. She froze.
“Jason— your side—”
“Shut up,” I growled against her mouth. “I don’t care. Not now. Not when you’re here.”
She laughed, breathless and broken, then shoved me backward. I hit the edge of the bed and sat. She climbed into my lap like she’d never left it. Her legs locked around my hips, fingers fisted in my hair, kissing me so hard my jaw ached.
I dragged my mouth down her throat, tasting salt and tears and the rain still trapped in her hair. She arched under my tongue like she’d been waiting years to feel it again — because she had.
“You smell the same,” she whispered, voice cracking. “God, I hate that you smell the same.”
“Don’t you dare hate it,” I rasped, yanking her soaked tank top over her head. It hit the floor. So did her bra. She didn’t flinch, didn’t cover herself. She wanted this as bad as I did.
My palms covered her breasts, thumbs brushing rough circles that made her breath hitch and her hips grind into mine.
“Five years,” she gasped. “Five fucking years, Jason—”
“I know. I know, baby.” I bit her collarbone, tasting the truth there. “Never again. Never.”
Her hand dropped between us, fumbling at my belt. I caught her wrist — held her still just long enough to make her look me dead in the eye.
“You want this?”
She laughed — hoarse and vicious. “If you stop now, I’ll shoot you.”
I flipped her under me before she could finish the threat. She hit the mattress with a grunt, legs still locked tight around me, heat and slick skin and the ragged sound of her wanting me filling that cheap little room.
I pressed my forehead to hers, grinding my hips down until she gasped.
“Say it,” I demanded.
