Stella

We leave the party at midnight on the dot. I’m pretty satisfied: I’ve got at least a week’s worth of blog material, including several fashion disaster shots—plus, I’ve enlisted a few friends to do some digging. Nothing that could get them in trouble: a little background on this Nagler guy; the terms of the Blakemoor handover. Of course, since I can’t exactly have them call me with the scoop, I’ll have to rely on luck. Keep going to parties; hope I run into them again.

Jack was full of surprises, too: didn’t know he could be that playful. Or that honest. We’ve been teasing each other from the start, but I thought I caught a glimpse of something real in that dressing room, and again in the car on the way home. We talked about vacations we went on as kids—Florida for him; Civitavecchia for me—and for once, there didn’t seem to be any agenda.

But what the hell was that, at the bar? He was full-on gone for a minute: lights on; nobody home. Probably does have post-traumatic stress. Combat fatigue. Whatever he wants to call it. One more thing to watch out for. I chuckle at the idea it might’ve been triggered by Magnus. Post-Magnetic stress. Whatever happens, I’m not spending a year with that troll.

As soon as it’s quiet, I slip out into the hall. I’m not ten steps from my room when Starkey pops out of his, looking rumpled in gray flannel pajamas. “Going somewhere?”

Fuck. Either Starkey’s got ears like a bat, or there’s an alarm on my door.

“Thought I’d watch Netflix on the big TV. So I can see without my contacts.”

He follows me down the hall. “What are you going to watch?”

“I don’t know. Thought I’d browse.”

“Mindhunter’s good.” He plunks his ass down. “I’ll watch with you.” Translation: I gotta stay up and babysit you, we’re watching what I want to watch.

So, no midnight excursions. I’d hoped to check out the door alarm. If I could get the make and model, and if I could get to a public computer, I could figure out how it works. Find a way to defeat it. I’ll need an escape hatch one day.

And...we’re watching a show about serial killers. Outstanding. I shoot Starkey a dirty look, but he’s either totally into it or pretending I don’t exist. I lean back and resign myself to at least two episodes.

And then it’s morning, and I’m waking up to Jack elbowing me in the ribs. I jolt upright. “What—what are you doing in my—?” Oh. He’s not in my bed. I’m on his couch.

“You shouldn’t keep Starkey up all night.”

No. No, I shouldn’t. “What’s his name, anyway? His given name?”

Jack’s brow furrows. “I want to say...John?” He clicks the TV off. “No—Wayne. Definitely Wayne.”

“You sure about that?”

“Nope.” He stretches. “It’s one of those gruff, manly, Old West names. You can’t just say it. You’ve got to grunt it, like...Starkey. James Starkey.”

“Think you’re mixing your genres there.”

“Hm.” He nudges me again. “Anyway, I’m going for a run. You can come, if you think you can keep up.”

Sounds like a challenge. “Can I at least shower first?”

“No. I expect you to race around Central Park with last night’s makeup running down your face.”

Smartass. “I’ll be out in twenty.”

“In the Marines, we learned to shower in two minutes or less.”

“In the Marines, your hair was this long.” I hold up my thumb and forefinger, almost touching. Jack laughs and stretches out to wait. Two minutes—yeah, right!

It’s a nice morning for a jog: bright and sunny, with an early chill in the air. Central Park’s still green, but fall is on its way. Jack confiscates my iPod—“Don’t you know that’s dangerous? Someone could sneak up behind you, or there could be a cyclist....”

“I was only going to use one earbud.”

“So you’d just be deaf on one side.”

“Better than both sides.”

“Catch me if you can!” Jack takes off at a run. His stride’s a lot longer than mine, and he doesn’t hold back. I end up hurtling after him at a headlong dash. The minute I draw alongside him, he turns around and runs backward, faster than ever, the smug prick. “What’s the matter? Tired already?”

I charge him, kicking dust at his ankles. He dodges out of the way. There’s no touching this guy.

Jack jogs in a lazy circle around me. “So... What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever seen, sniffing out gossip for your blog?”

I’m supposed to make conversation now? “Besides you?”

“I refuse to believe I even make the top ten.”

Much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. “You know Abraham Rosewood?”

“We’ve met.”

“Well....” I pause for effect—and to catch my breath. “He writes fetish stories about women getting their feet stepped on.”

“You’re making that up.”

I grin. “Nope!”

“Mousy-ass Rosewood, with the suits and the—” He mimes a combover, swooshing his hand over his head.

“One and the same.”

“How haven’t I heard about this?”

“I’m the only one who knows. And he knows I know. Until the rumor starts to spread, I can’t blow his cover. Not without blowing my own.”

“You must be sitting on so much dirt.”

I nod. My breath’s burning in my lungs; my heart’s pounding out of my chest. I’m about ready to jump in the fountain, and we’ve barely set out. “More dirt than a gravedigger,” I manage. Can’t let him see me flag.

Fortunately, he launches into his own weird story, something about a guy in his platoon who might or might not have murdered his cardiac-patient father by sneaking up and breathing on his neck. Scaring him to death.

“Did you ever—did you try to report it?”

“Yeah, actually! Sergeant was all—“ He lowers his voice an octave, slaps on a deep South accent. “—he was all ‘Brightman, he’s fuckin’ witchoo.’”

And Jack’s fucking with me. No way this is a regular morning jog for him. He’s loping along with purpose, headed for the reservoir. I’ll never make it all the way round. Not at this pace.

“You—you training for a marathon or something?”

“Think I need training?”

At this rate, no. Me, on the other hand...my shirt’s plastered to my back. My hair’s clinging to my neck. My thighs are screaming. And I’m starting to get a cramp. Enough is enough! “Okay. You win. White flag!” I dash off the path, jump down the embankment, and kneel by the water’s edge, splashing my face, my neck, my shoulders. “Holy shit. Cold. That’s...fucking freezing.”

Jack laughs. He’s still jogging in place. “I’ll say.”

I get to my feet, sheepish and shivering. Jack holds out his hand to help me up. He pulls a little too hard, and I stumble into his arms.

“Mm. I like this. All hot and bothered for me.” He pushes my hair off my face. “I can feel your heart.”

I can feel his, too, slow and steady, like a drum. He leans in and laps at my neck, breathing deep through his nose.

“Ugh, don’t—I totally stink!”

Jack nuzzles closer, biting my ear. “Nah. You smell good. Feel good. I like this.” He tickles me, low on my belly. “Digging these hard little abs.” I feel my skin jump and twitch, sensitive under my thin jogging shorts.

“Going to take you hiking,” he tells me, mouth pressed to my ear. The deep thrum of his voice shivers down my side, all the way to my toes. “Fuck you in the Catskills, with the sun on our backs and our feet hanging over a forty-foot drop.”

Dirty, sweaty danger sex. I wouldn’t say no.

“Hey. You’re shivering.”

I am. Not from cold.

He rubs my arms. I’m struck again by the size of his hands. He could probably get them all the way round my waist. “We should get moving before you freeze to death. Sane pace, I swear.”

I nod. Jack strikes out at an easy pace, and I fall in beside him. By the time we’ve finished our lap, I’m feeling good. We stretch it out together in companionable silence. I keep stealing glances at the hard planes of his body, all taut and beaded with sweat. He’s doing it too, checking out my ass when he thinks I’m not looking. Or maybe when he knows I am. He hasn’t been making a secret of his intentions.

“Thirsty?”

What? “Excuse me?”

Jack smirks. “Thought we’d stop by the 7-11 on the way back, grab a water.”

Oh. Right. Thirsty, not...thirsty. “Sounds good.”

We wander back through Manhattan as the sun climbs above the towers. Jack keeps brushing up against me, fingertips skimming my thigh, arm jostling mine. He stops at a crosswalk to pick a milkweed puff out of my hair. Trails a fingertip down my spine, all the way to the crack of my ass, in full view of the city.

Before I know it, we’re home, and he’s backing me into the elevator. Crowding me against the wall. He plants his forearms on either side of my head, boxing me in.

“Gotcha.”

“So you do.” I tilt my head back to look him in the eye. He takes that as an invitation for a kiss. We stumble out of the elevator locked at the lips. Somehow, he swipes his keycard without looking, and we’re pushing each other over the threshold, fighting with each other’s clothes. I’ve got his shirt bunched up over his pecs; he’s got his hand down my shorts.

I pull away, just enough to breathe. “Wait—wait! Where’s Starkey?”

“Don’t worry. He won’t come out.” Jack grips the hem of my shirt with both hands and tears it at the seam. It falls open, and he shoves it off my shoulders. “Been wanting to do this since you grabbed my cock at that party.” He bites me, nipping and tugging at my nipple right through my bra. “This, too.” He thrusts a hand between my legs and pinches my clit, just hard enough to shoot a spike of arousal through my gut. It’s intense, almost too much, and my knees nearly buckle.

Jack lifts me by the hips like I’m nothing. I lock my legs around his waist. His cock is standing up, rubbing against me in a way that’s positively obscene. I can’t help but squirm against it, wanting more sensation.

“Shameless....”

I feel cool glass at my back. He’s brought me to the observatory. I’m pressed to the window, shirtless and wanton, and he’s lowering me to my feet. Dropping to his knees in front of me. Tugging down my shorts and panties with his teeth.

“Stop! Stop....” My bare ass is on display, squished against the glass.

Jack gets up slow, one huge hand gliding up my side. “That really what you want?”

No. No, it isn’t.

“Fuck me.”

He digs his fingers into my hair, like he did the first time we met. It’s sweaty and tangled. My scalp burns as he twists his hand. “Yeah? Right here?”

“Right here.” I draw a harsh gasp as he starts working my slit, fingers delving rudely between my lips. “Give me every inch.”

He pulls back, considering. “I don’t know... Think you’ve earned it?”

Oh, you dirty....

He plunges two fingers inside me, thumb circling my clit. I moan and buck against him, needing more.

“Just...just...just.... Ah!” He hooks his fingers just so, and I arch in his arms, head knocking on the window. “Fucking tease!”

“Going to insult me now?” Jack’s smirking, amused. He’s loving this. I can feel it. His fingers slow down, dragging in and out so I can feel every inch. I jerk my hips, grinding against him. It’s good, but it’s not enough. I need more. I need all of him.

He slides his fingers out all the way. Turns me around, so I’m looking out over the city. I close my eyes, like if I can’t see them, they can’t see me. Probably can’t, this high up—not from the street, anyway. But people have windows. Telescopes, even. I should know: there’s one not two feet from me.

I hear him licking his fingers. Filthy.... His other hand’s exploring my body, slow and languid, pinching here, cupping there. Trailing feather-soft touches everywhere but where I want them. I rub my thighs together, trying to feel something.

“Desperate, are we?”

I bite my tongue on an indignant “Fuck off!” He probably would, just to mess with me. “Might’ve been a while.”

“Oh, yeah?” His hand creeps back up my leg. He drags his fingers through the wetness slicked down one thigh. I tremble, barely holding still. “Put your palms to the glass.”

I do it.

Jack bites me again, on the back of my neck. He licks and kisses his way down my spine as his hand starts moving again. I rock against it, helpless to stop myself. His fingertips are just the right kind of rough. I could lose myself in that texture.

“Whole city’s going to see my name on your lips,” he tells me. His breath tickles my skin. “They’ll all know you’re mine.”

I bite my lip hard. I’m not screaming his name.

“Let me hear you.” He’s doing something wicked with his fingers, alternating between rough pressure and gentle caresses. I can’t get enough: every time I reach that edge, he pulls back unerringly, like he knows.

I moan for him. I don’t care. I just want to come.

“Louder.” He thrusts his fingers inside, three of them this time. I yelp and collapse against the window. It’s not painful, but the stretch, the friction... It’s overwhelming. He’s not even fucking me yet, and I feel filled to the brim.

“Yes!”

He presses up against me, letting me feel the weight of him, that solid mass at my back. His heart’s beating faster. His cock’s heavy and throbbing against my hip. But it’s his voice that sends me over the edge, that all-over rumble that seems to come from everywhere at once, setting my body alight. I don’t even hear what he says—not over my own voice, screaming his name.

He holds me as I come down from my high, one soothing hand stroking my hair. “Well, that was the most fun I’ve had in a while.”

Was? “Wait—you’re done?”

Jack kisses the back of my head. “Think I could use a shower, don’t you?”

He’s just going to leave me like this, all...half-fucked and horny as hell?

I take a deep breath. Can’t let him feel my frustration. He’d like that too much. Turn it into a sport, like as not. “Now that you mention it....” I peel away from the window, shrugging him off. “You smell like a sneaker after the Boston Marathon.” I wrinkle my nose.

“Yeah, well... You smell like sex.”

I can’t dispute that. I step out of my panties and walk away with all the dignity I can muster.

“The window’s mirrored, by the way. You’re safe, during the day. But at night....”

I laugh and keep walking, like I knew all along.