by Unknown
He laughs. "If you'd been there for any other reason but the right one, you'd have gone along with it. But you left. You proved to me where your heart is."
I close my eyes. "I don't know if I can do this."
He rests his forehead against mine. "I say that to myself every night."
"Who are you, Jack Deckard?"
"I'm what you see." His voice sounds almost sorrowful. "A fucked-up, broken man. I tried to warn you, back in the beginning. Don't get close to me. Don't let your walls down. But you didn't listen. Now you're here. You're starting to understand the world I live in. A world where the only thing of any value is trust."
"Trust," I say.
"Trust." Our foreheads are still touching. My eyes are closed. We stand there. He pulls back at last. "Come on. Come back to my place with me." He reaches down and takes my hand.
"All right." I feel hollow. Light on my feet.
He takes the keys from my hand and leads me back to my car. Gets behind the wheel and drives me to his high-rise. We don't speak, but we hold hands all the way.
We take the elevators up, and when we reach his place he drops my keys on the counter and pulls me into a hug. I cling to him like he's the only thing that makes sense.
Then, still not speaking, still not turning on the lights, he leads me into his bedroom. For a moment I think he's going to take me to the bed, but instead he leads me to the bathroom. My feet are dirty, filthy from all the walking, and when he turns on his shower I feel a wave of gratitude. Perfection is a hot, cleansing shower.
Jack pulls my sweater up over my head. Sets it aside. Pulls down my track pants. I shiver, recalling Francesca doing the same thing. I've never been attracted to a woman, but something about Francesca, her sultry intensity, sent a shock of alarm through me, and now, safe here with Jack, I can admit it: of desire. Or was that just confusion on my part? I can't tell.
Jack turns me around and removes my bra, then pulls my panties free. Each time he's done so it's been different. Sometimes he's shoved them aside. Once he tore them away altogether. As I step out of them, I decide that this is my favorite way - gentle, loving, tender.
He strips, pulling the A-shirt over his head, then unbuckles his jeans and drops them to the ground. His body is a work of art. Steam is billowing from the shower stall, but I take a moment at long last to read the words tattooed on his pec:
Did you hear about the rose that grew
from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature's law is wrong, it
learned to walk without having feet.
Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams,
it learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else ever cared.
I trace it with my fingertips, the print small and perfect, and then glance up at Jack. He's watching me, eyes thoughtful. I move my hand over to the tribal tattoo that envelops his other pec. It's the perfect symbol for him: poetry on one side, dangerous, sweeping chaos on the other.
"When did you get these done?"
He doesn't look down. Doesn't look away from my eyes. "When I first started to realize I was alone in this world."
"When was that?"
Jack takes my hand and leads me into the shower. The hot water feels good. Jack takes a bar of soap and gently pushes me till my shoulder blades rest against the tiled wall, my hips cocked out toward him. Slowly he lathers my body, running the smooth, hard bar over my skin, up my stomach and across my ribs, then around and under my breasts, his touch sure, delicious.
I close my eyes as he rubs the soap over my tits in firm circles, not sexually exactly but still arousing beyond measure. Then up my chest to my neck. I can't help but remember his taking me by the throat in the alley. Now his touch is the exact opposite.
He turns me around. I press my cheek to the shower wall as he soaps my back, long, smooth strokes of his hand, digging his thumbs into the tight muscles of the small of my back. I begin to truly relax, the combination of the water's heat, the sound of its hiss as it hits the glass walls and his powerful touch allowing me to finally release the tension in my body.
Jack's hands move down to lather my ass cheeks, my hips, then down my thighs to curl around my calves. He takes each foot in turn, cleaning the soles, and then moves back up the insides of my legs. His fingertips are firm, massaging, running up my wet flesh to my knees, then my inner thighs.
I sigh and subtly widen my stance. Close my eyes as I press my palms against the wall. His hands move up to my ass and he slowly pushes my cheeks open. Hot water runs down my crack, thick with soap, and I gasp as I feel his finger circle gently around my asshole.
Nobody's ever touched me there but Jack.
Do I want him to explore further?
I realize with a soft thrill that I do. But I stay quiet as he gently teases my tight little hole, round and round, and then moves his hand down to cup my sex.
"I need you," he says, leaning over my back.
"I'm yours," I whisper, eyes closed.
"Through all this," he says, voice raw as I feel him press his cock head against my lips. "Through all these hours. I've thought of you. Your body. Your pussy. How perfect and tight and wet you are."
My only response is to groan and push back against him. There's a moment's resistance due to how large he is, then he slides all the way in.
I bite my lower lip as I take him to the hilt, the hot water blending with the pleasure to make me feel like I'm floating.
Jack pulls out, then slides back in. Again and again. I push back against him, and then again I feel his hand on the small of my back. He moves his palm down to my crack, and I feel the pressure of his thumb on my asshole.
He reaches around me with his other hand, moving his fingers expertly between my legs. I rock with him, taking him over and over again as he starts to toy with my clit, rubbing it in gentle circles. Waves of pleasure expand through my core, and when the tip of his thumb slips into my ass I only groan with excitement and desire.
Jack's in no rush. He fucks me with slow, hard strokes, his cock silken and ridged, perfectly stretching and filling me with each thrust. His fingers are light, almost teasing my clit, and his thumb slides gently in and out of my ass, just on the threshold of stinging and being too intense.
"Fuck, Bryce," he groans. "I could do this forever."
My name's not Bryce, I almost moan, but then clamp down on those words.
He begins to move faster. The hiss of the water, the sting of it on my back, his cock filling me, his pressure on my clit, his thumb sliding deeper into my ass - I want him in every way. Like this. I want him to know my body better than anybody else. To master it. To make it his.
Faster and faster, and then his hands leave my pussy and ass and he turns me around. He lifts my leg by the knee, and slides back into me, his hard, slippery body pressed flush against mine.
His eyes are burning. I can't look away. That intensity takes the whole experience to another level. We don't speak. We just stare into each other's eyes as he fucks me faster and harder until I suddenly come, crying out and closing my eyes, my whole body shaking and clenching with the power of it.
Jack thrusts once, twice, three more times, deeper than before, and then he comes inside me, his teeth biting down where my neck meets my shoulder, his whole body taut, rising to his tiptoes and lifting me clear off the floor.
I feel his hot seed inside me.
I hold on to him as if I'm about to be washed away.
Finally we both relax, and he gasps, and grins, and I feel a pain in my heart. It's the beauty of that smile. Open and rare and unguarded. He kisses me, deeply, truly, and then pulls me fully into the water's path so that the soap is washed from our bodies.
He wraps me in a towel and leads me to bed. Lays me down. I'm drowsy. I feel him lie next to me, feel his fingers as he traces patterns over my skin. Could it be like this? Our time together?
I know that it c
an't. I know that on some deep level this is the fantasy, and the reality is what's waiting for me in Descent/Ascent. That room he said was reserved for me from the moment we met. That this beautiful side of him is only one facet of his fractured, splintered self.
I sigh and snuggle deeper under the covers. I feel him kiss my neck, and then rise and leave the bed. I want to turn and watch him go, but I'm too sleepy. With a sigh of contentment, I drift off.
*
When I wake up, all is dark. I lie there, listening, but the apartment has that distinctive silence that tells me I'm alone. I sit up. Jack's side of the bed is empty and cold. He hasn't slept beside me. Where is he?
I check my phone but there are no new messages. I get out of bed and grab a shirt from his closet. It feels good to pull it over my head, let it hang down to my thighs. Like I'm part of his life.
I pad out into the living room. It's empty, like I thought. I pour myself a glass of water and move to the window. He's out there right now. Running his criminal empire. Or pretending to run it. Going through the motions that allow him to stay on top, all the while planning his revenge. On whom? For what? I can't help but think it's tied up with his past. With his going undercover.
I drift around his place. I should snoop through his things. Aren't I still undercover? Don't I still need to decide if he's gone rogue or not? I need evidence to clear his name. I need proof of some kind to get Blake to back off. To prove that he isn't Wilkinson's killer. Reluctantly I browse the books on his shelves. It's almost impossible not to think of when Jack handcuffed me to his bookcase and fucked me here.
Nothing. I go into his bedroom, but there's nothing but shoes in his shoeboxes and the drawers of his bedside tables are empty.
I explore deeper into his apartment. There's an elegant study. A glass desk, but no computer. No paperwork. Jack's too smart to keep anything incriminating at his home. He probably has a real office somewhere hidden in the city. This is just utilitarian decor. The kind of stuff any regular person might have in their office.
I open a few books. Nothing of interest. No files. I'm about to give up when I spot a large, worn old book behind some others on a high shelf. I pull over a chair and pull the book out. It's a slender hardback with a dark blue cover and a few words printed in small gold leaf across the front: Police Academy, Class of 1996.
I bite my lower lip and immediately glance over my shoulder, expecting Jack to be in the doorway, furious.
There's nobody there.
I open the book and flick through the pages to the class photo. It takes me only seconds to find Jack's face. He looks so terribly young, and so terribly handsome. Hair cropped close, a big smile on his face. The kind of smile I'm sure he hasn't had a reason to give ever since the world started breaking him.
Then I freeze.
The man standing just behind him to the right looks terribly familiar. I squint at the photograph, heart pounding, and then look down at the names. Follow with my finger till I reach the correct one: Blake Thompson.
I lower the book. Blake was in the same class as Jack? And now he's on Jack's case? Thoughts begin to swirl in my mind. Blake chose me out of all the other police cadets to go undercover. He knew what Jackie Oleander looked like.
He's the only other person I've told about Wilkinson's assault.
No.
I shut the book and put it back. No. Blake wouldn't kill Wilkinson, would he? In order to pin the murder on Jack? Wouldn't set me up, place me in the field, specifically to target Jack's sexual preferences?
I sit down and press my hands to my mouth. Is Blake orchestrating all this? Am I a pawn in his game?
And if so, what else don't I know?
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