Jack

I kick my shorts into the laundry basket and follow Stella to the ensuite. She’s just slipping out of her nightie, giving me fresh ideas, when my phone buzzes on the nightstand.

“Just be a second.”

She nods. “You know where I’ll be.”

I grab the phone on the third ring. Magnus. This better be good.

“Yeah?”

“So, there’s this rumor going around. About your girlfriend getting dragged out of some party in the Hamptons by this big, scary guy. A stalker, no less.”

Oh. That. “I know.”

“You do realize that’s exactly the kind of spotlight we’re trying to avoid?”

I sprawl back on the bed, landing neatly in the wet spot. “Eugh—shit.”

“Can you get a lid on it, or not?”

“I will. I have. Starkey took care of it.” I scrub at my back with the corner of the sheet. “It’s just gossip. And it’s not even about us. If anything, a mystery stalker draws focus off us.”

Magnus sighs. “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously.”

“I’m not. ‘Cause it’s silly.”

“Talked to Erik last night. He was thinking—and I agree—this isn’t working out. We were thinking, why not send her back to France? Let her do whatever she wants over there, where she can’t—”

“Italy.”

“What?”

“She’s from Italy. Not France. And if she wanted to go there, she’d be there. We send her away, she’ll be back like a boomerang, digging around, doing God knows what.” I’m tapping my foot on the carpet. Getting worked up. “This is what we’re doing. End of story.”

“You’re not the only one writing this story.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just, there’s other ways this could end.”

My stomach churns. I flinch away from something—someone—that isn’t there. Shake my head to clear it. “You better not be saying—.”

“Whatever.” I hear a zipper on the other end of the line, followed by the unmistakable sound of splashing piss. “Think it over. And keep a leash on her while you do.”

And I’m done. Should’ve sent him to voicemail. I toss my phone on the bed and stand up. The blood rushes out of my head, and it’s there again: sand underfoot, light slanting through cracks in the walls, a broken cot in the corner....

I blink it all away. Stella’s waiting for me. Can’t fuck up now.

The sight of her through the glass door, naked and slippery, wreathed in steam, is a welcome distraction. I slip in behind her and wrap my arms around her waist. Love the way we fit together, the way she fits her hands over mine. Possessive.

Shouldn’t be thinking that way. If Magnus guessed, or Erik....

Stella can’t be different. Nothing can. The plan, the routine—that’s how one day follows the next. One misstep, and anything could happen. Anything at all. Like back then.

Stella wriggles out of my arms, going for the shampoo. I reach for her, grab nothing, and—

—hot; why’s it so hot?—

I reach out to steady myself. The floor’s slippery. I stumble and thump against the wall, head coming to rest on my arm.

“Fuck....”

Spots dance in front of my eyes. Stella’s looking my way. “Problem?”

“Slipped.” My laugh comes out hollow and fake.

“You should get some of those shower decals. Little sandpaper flowers.”

“Mm....” There’s too much steam. Making my eyes water. I scrub at them with the back of my hand, and when my vision clears, I’m looking at Magnus. He’s pale, backing away. Shaking his head, like if he doesn’t accept this, it’ll cease to be.

“Jack?”

It doesn’t hurt yet. Feels...cold. Cold and breathless, like a punch to the gut. Maybe that’s all it was. I didn’t see the bayonet go in.

Ferris pushes me. Now it hurts. I’m being torn open, gutted like a fish. The blade nicks my rib, and then it’s out. I’m reeling. Tripping over the chair. Staring at Magnus over Ferris’s shoulder. Why doesn’t he do something?

Trying to pick which of us to kill.

“What?”

The sound of my own voice jolts me back to reality. It doesn’t snap back all at once, like it usually does. The killing shed lingers like an afterimage of the sun, burned into my retinas.

Stella’s got her hand on my shoulder, holding me steady.

“Head rush....” I focus on the beads of moisture trickling down the wall till I feel tile under my feet instead of sand, smell shampoo instead of copper. Even then, a wrongness remains—a sense of disquiet.

This is what happens when I stray from procedure.

Fuck that. It’s not. This is... This is like I said. A natural reaction. Normal and human, and under control. Back in its box, where it belongs.

“It’s because you’re too tall. Not enough blood to go around.”

Too tall, huh? I rise on the balls of my feet, purposely towering over Stella. She backs off and I follow, getting right in her face. She runs out of space, and her hair sticks to the tiles. I knot my fingers in it and drag them up the wall, pinning her in place. She tosses her head side to side, pretending she can’t break free.

“Got you now.”

“Yeah? What are you going to do with me?”

Splatter your brains on the sand.

I start and swallow hard. Not that. It’s the rushing of the shower, the pattering water—there’s voices in it. Like radio static, scanning between stations. Dead men trying to break through.

“I want—I want....”

“Yeah?” Her hand’s on my cock, stroking, squeezing. I’m hard, slick with precum. I swallow again, biting back nausea.

“Talk to me,” I croak.

“You want my mouth.” She twists her hand on the head of my cock, thumb grazing the slit. “You want me to kneel on that hard floor while you fuck my throat so deep your balls smack my chin.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. The desert wind picks up. Going to be a sandstorm. Batten down the—

Bad idea. Focus.

“And what do you want?”

“Let go of my hair and find out.”

I let go. Stella drops to her knees and slides her lips down my cock in one long, smooth motion. She tilts her head back and swallows me to the root—holy fuck; she was serious! I jerk my hips involuntarily, and she takes it without complaint, moaning around me like she’s been starving for it all along. Her nails dig into the backs of my thighs.

“Yeah....”

I can feel her throat working. Trying to wring me dry. I’m fighting to restrain myself, but she’s raking her nails down my legs, tugging me forward, and I’m thrusting, pumping—

—On your knees! Drop your weapon!—

I grunt. Punch the wall. Feel my knuckles split. Can’t lose it now. Lose myself in her, instead, that hot mouth, those sharp, sharp nails....

One of her hands strays between my legs. I shiver as she trails those same nails over my balls. Like a threat. Or a promise. I can feel her teeth, too, the lightest of grazes along my shaft. This was how I pictured it, with her; this, and—

—and I’m drifting again. Can’t hear them any more, Magnus and Ferris, Erik in the background with McHugh. Can’t see the shed, or feel the bone-dry air. But I’m caught somewhere between getting my dick sucked and high alert. Ready to blow my load or shoot someone.

This isn’t right.

I push her away. She looks at me, questioning, lips pink and parted.

“Gimme your hand.”

She takes my hand in that possessive way she has, tangling her fingers with mine. I pull her to her feet. “Turn around.”

Stella shifts her weight. Turns her head, and for a moment, I see a stranger. I grip her shoulders, holding her in place.

“No. Don’t.”

“Hm?”

“Need to see your face.” I lift her up and she wraps her legs around my waist. I push into her again, and it’s got to be uncomfortable, the way she’s trapped between me and the wall, but the sounds she’s making are all good ones. Her breath’s coming in little pants and gasps; every exhale’s a sharp, hungry ah!

“Let me—let me feel your nails.” My own breath’s hitching now. I’m not going to last long.

Stella obliges, scoring long scratches into my back. She dips her head and bites me, hard, sharp little canines pinching my shoulder.

“Yeah—bite my lip. Kiss me, and....”

She does, and I’m nearly there—and here, fully here, clinging to the moment as she clings to me.

“Gonna cum.”

“Do it.” She grinds her hips, nips at my mouth, and I bury myself in her, deep as I can get, tumbling over the edge. For a moment, it feels like I’m really falling, collapsing in on myself, and I grip her thighs tight. So tight she yelps.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Good.” She laughs, high and giddy. “Great, in fact.”

“Mm. Me, too.”

Her heel digs into my back. “You can put me down now.”

And there she goes again, puncturing my afterglow. “Sure, Mr. Tuttle.”

That gets me a smack, right on my scratched-up shoulder blade. I wince, grin, and set her on her feet. I’m shaking—not a lot, just a fine, steady tremor that the hot shower can’t soothe. Probably shouldn’t have done that. Not while I wasn’t all there. Not....

“That was amazing. Right up to the ‘Mr Tuttle’ part.” She presses up against me, soft hands soothing my abused skin.

No harm done, I suppose. Still.... I hug her tight, overwhelmed by a sudden flood of protectiveness.

“Whatever you did in the Hamptons... Don’t do it again. Please.” I pull back just far enough to look her in the eye. “I want you to be....” Safe. Can’t say that. Not without scaring her.

She’s nodding, though. Like she gets it, anyway. “I know. Starkey told me. I’m...still getting used to this. But it won’t happen again.”

“Thank you.”

We stand there under the spray, loosely entwined, till it gets to be too much and she reaches for the soap.