Page 50 of Avenging Jessie
When he finally pushed inside her, it wasn’t gentle. It was a surge, a claim, a promise that he was done pretending he didn’t want this.
She met him thrust for thrust, her fingers clutching his back, her breath coming in broken gasps.
“J…” His voice cracked on that letter, that nickname, the sound enough to unravel her completely.
The rest was heat and motion, the kind of connection that burned through every wall they’d built. “Come for me,” she demanded.
He did, taking her with him. The height of pleasure gave way to a deep dive into an abyss. It had been so long—too long—and she never wanted to come out of it again.
When it was over, she lay tangled in his arms, her cheek on his shoulder, his heartbeat pounding as hard as hers. Neither of them spoke.
Jessie closed her eyes and ignored the voice nagging at her. Nothing between them would be the same after this.
She could only pray it would be better.
That she could be better.
She wanted to be the partner that Spence would be proud of.
Twenty
Spence
The apartment wasquiet except for the faint hum of distant cars carrying early commuters and the muted click of his left index finger on the trackpad. Jessie was curled on the couch across from him, one knee hooked over the blanket, hair mussed from sleep. She’d kicked the quilt half off somewhere between their lovemaking and now, leaving it tangled around her legs.
An hour ago, she’d been warm in his arms, her breathing ragged against his ear. Now she was still, chest rising and falling in slow rhythm, lashes resting on bruised cheekbones. She looked peaceful.
He wished he could make it last.
Shifting in the chair, the cushion springs creaked under his weight. His right wrist continued to ache, wrapped tight in bandages and tucked against his chest. Hen-pecking with his left hand was slow, sloppy work, but he’d take that over sitting here doing nothing.
His screen was a mess of open tabs—encrypted news feeds, dark web boards, back-channel chatter. He was hunting for any hint about the Data Center North fire.
So far, nothing concrete. Local media were referring to it as an “industrial incident.” One outlet mentioned “possible arson” but had no details. No mention of Hastings. No mention of a firefight.
Spence wasn’t naïve enough to think that meant they were in the clear. Silence just meant whoever was cleaning it up was doing a damn good job.
Hastings? Brewer?
He glanced at Jessie again. She’d survived things most operatives wouldn’t walk away from. Still, every instinct in him wanted to keep her like this—out of the line of fire, breathing easy.
Neither of them was built for easy.
Three knocks came at the door. A pause. Two more.
Spence’s head jerked toward the entrance. His hand stilled on the keys.
Jessie stirred, muttering something in her sleep.
The knock came again—three, pause, two—sharper and more deliberate.
His pulse kicked. It was a code.
He’d sent instructions hours ago in a scrambled text to Tessa and Tommy, along with the facts of their situation.Abandoned target. Safe house secure.Meet there.
If they were here, it was faster than he’d expected.
Jessie’s eyes cracked open, blinking against the dim light. “Spence?—?”
