Page 19 of Avenging Jessie (Black Swan Division Thrillers #3)

Nineteen

Jessie

The apartment was silent when they slipped inside. It should have been comforting, but the contrast made Jessie’s skin itch. It was too quiet, too normal after the chaos they’d just left behind.

Her boots felt heavy on the warped wood floor. Her ankle was tweaking again, too. Spence’s footsteps were quieter, but every movement was tight. He kept his injured wrist tucked close to his body, and there was a grim set to his mouth.

She shut the door and slid the bolt home, eyes still on him. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t say a damn word. Just crossed to the small table to set down his laptop and open it. The glow from the screen threw sharp lines across his face as he dropped into the chair.

The knot in her chest tightened.

It was worse than if he would yell. If he’d tear into her for ditching the plan, she could push back, fight him on it. But this? This cold, quiet distance? It was a wall, and she hated it.

Her fingers twitched at her sides. She wanted to fill the silence, but what would she say? Sorry, I almost got you killed? Sorry, your wrist looks like a balloon because of me?

Instead, she stood there, taking in the sight of him working one-handed, and awkwardly at that, jaw tight as he navigated the keyboard with his left. Every slow, methodical click of the keys sounded too loud in the cramped room.

Her guilt clawed higher.

“We need to wrap your wrist and get ice on it,” she said finally, her voice rougher than she meant. “Your hand isn’t going to fix itself.”

He didn’t look up. “It’ll hold.”

She stepped into his space and grabbed his left arm, tugging him to his feet. “Yeah, until you try to use it and it gets worse. Couch. Now.”

That earned her a flick of his eyes, which were guarded and unreadable, before he pushed back from the desk with a sigh and stood.

She told herself it wasn’t victory she felt. It was just relief that he’d listened.

She guided him to the couch, the springs squeaking under his weight. His jacket came off with a rough shrug, and she caught the faint hiss of pain he didn’t quite swallow.

“Shirt off,” she said.

One brow arched. “That’s a bold opener, even for you.”

She rolled her eyes, but heat crept up the back of her neck. “The cuff of your shirt is too tight to push up, and we need to remove it now before your wrist swells too much to get it off entirely. We’ll find you something looser.”

His smirk was faint, but it lingered as he peeled the long-sleeved black shirt over his head, needing her help to ease the cuff off of his swollen hand.

It left him bare from the waist up. The sight punched the air right out of her lungs.

Broad chest, lean muscle, the kind of strength that didn’t come from a gym but from years of using his body as a weapon.

She made herself focus on the hand, all mottled with bruising, the wrist stiff and unyielding. “Hastings did a number on it,” she murmured, crouching in front of him.

The small first aid kit was on the coffee table. She dug out an instant cold pack, smacking it until it went rigid with ice. Bending down in front of him, she pressed it gently to his wrist, where it rested on his knee.

His sharp inhale brushed the top of her head.

“Sorry,” she said automatically.

“Don’t be. Just…finish what you started.”

It wasn’t about the wrist anymore, not with the way his voice dropped, low and rough, curling around her spine.

Her pulse jumped. She adjusted the pack, gently wrapping it in an elastic bandage to hold it in place, her fingers brushing his skin with every pass. Warmth radiated from him, seeping into her palms, her chest.

When she glanced up, his gaze was locked on her. Not guarded anymore. Not even angry. Just…watching.

It was enough to make her fumble the bandage, her fingertips skating over the rugged ridge of muscle in his forearm before she caught herself.

She cleared her throat. “You need some pain meds?”

“There’s nothing in the kit that’s strong enough.”

“There is if you wash them down with bourbon.”

His mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Are you trying to get me drunk so I don’t yell at you? Or so you can take advantage of me?”

Gah. He was intolerable. And so was her traitor of a pulse. It had sped up to a ridiculous beat, and she couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off his pecs, his abs. “You wish.”

To get a better angle, she shifted to sit next to him. Her fingers faltered, suddenly hyper-aware of how close they were, how her knees brushed his thigh. She should’ve moved away. She didn’t. Focus. “You’re lucky you didn’t break it completely,” she said. “Or your fingers.”

“Would’ve been worth it if I’d at least put Hastings down for good.”

Her mouth tightened. “Or you could’ve avoided getting hurt in the first place if you’d just let me handle it my way.”

His eyes sharpened, the warmth from a moment ago cooling fast. “Your way got you cornered in a room full of hackers and a man holding a gun to your head. I got you out alive.”

“I was never not getting out alive,” she snapped.

He leaned in, bracing his left hand on the couch beside her hip. “That’s the problem. You think you’re untouchable. That nobody can corner you, outthink you, or break you. Newsflash, Jessie—you’re not.”

Her breath came faster, anger and something darker twisting together. “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t lived it? I’ve been broken, Spence. I’ve been used. And the only reason I’m still here is because I stopped letting other people decide how I play the game.”

They were nose to nose now, the air between them charged and tight.

He didn’t back down. “You’re here because the swans caught you and forced you out of the situation with Brewer. Otherwise, you might still be under his thumb.”

That was technically true, but… “I had a plan to get away from him and protect Tommy, too. You guys just showed up before I got to enact it.”

“Sure.” His voice was dismissive. He didn’t buy it. “Well, one of these days, you’re going to push things too far and I won’t be there to pull you out.”

The words should’ve pissed her off more. Instead, they hit like a sucker punch, because buried in them was something she hadn’t expected. Fear.

He was scared. For her.

Her voice dropped a notch. “And yet, you’re still here.”

His gaze zeroed in on her mouth. “Yeah,” he said roughly. “I am.”

She didn’t remember who moved first—maybe it was both of them—but the distance vanished. His good hand slid to the back of her neck. Her fingers fisted in his short hair. And the kiss landed like a collision neither of them could stop.

His mouth was hot and demanding, tasting faintly of coffee and adrenaline.

She met him with equal force, months of tension and unspoken need igniting all at once.

His hand slid down her spine, fingers splaying at her lower back, pulling her closer until she was straddling his lap, her knees pressed into the couch cushions on either side of him.

The bandage on his wrist brushed her hip. He hissed—not from the pain, but from the way she ground against him.

Her pulse thundered. “Tell me this is a bad idea,” she whispered against his lips.

His eyes burned into hers. “It’s the worst idea I’ve ever had.” His thumb traced the line of her jaw. “But hell if I’m stopping, luv. If this is what you truly want.”

She kissed him again, deeper this time, letting go of the last of her defenses. He tasted like every dangerous thing she should’ve walked away from and didn’t. Her hands roamed over his chest, mapping the hard planes there, soaking up the warmth of his skin.

He groaned, low and rough, and shifted them, pinning her beneath him. His weight came over her—solid, steady, protective. For once, she didn’t resent it.

Her T-shirt was gone before she realized he’d even tugged it over her head, his mouth finding the sensitive spot just below her collarbone. She arched into him.

“You drive me mad,” he murmured against her skin.

“Good,” she breathed, her nails grazing his shoulders. “Just so you know, this is only the beginning.”

His laugh was short, almost disbelieving, before he claimed her mouth again. Every kiss was a battle for control, and neither of them was willing to lose.

His injured wrist kept him from stripping off her pants and his, but he allowed her to do the honors.

When they were both naked, it didn’t stop him from touching her everywhere.

And she let him, because in this moment, there was no Brewer, no Hastings, no summit in Berlin.

Just them, and the fire they’d been holding back for far too long.

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.