Page 63 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

FIFTY-THREE

Learning to Live Again

ALLY

The house still feels different when we walk through the front door—pensive somehow, as if it’s holding its breath.

Gabe stops in the entryway, shoulders rigid with tension that speaks to walking into a museum of memories neither of us is ready to face.

“We could get a hotel,” he says quietly. “Just for tonight. Until we figure out…”

“No.” I take his hand, thread our fingers together. “This is our home. We don’t run from it.”

But standing here surrounded by evidence of a life that included three people, I understand his hesitation. The silence feels wrong—no deep voice calling from the kitchen about dinner plans, no sound of tactical gear being stripped and stored, no presence that filled spaces without trying.

Just emptiness where warmth used to live.

“Come on.” I pull him toward the living room, past the sectional sofa arranged for three bodies that will never again pile together for movie nights. “We’ll figure it out as we go.”

The kitchen holds the most ghosts. Hank’s protein powder still sits beside the blender he used every morning.

His vitamins arranged in precise rows that speak to military precision applied to civilian life.

The coffee maker is programmed for 0600 hours, ready to brew for three people who’ve become two.

“I should make dinner,” Gabe says, moving toward the stove.

“Since when do you cook?” I ask, settling onto one of the bar stools.

“Since someone has to.” He opens the refrigerator, stares at the contents without really seeing them. “Can’t live on coffee and takeout forever.”

“Why not?”

He arranges ingredients with movements that lack his usual confidence.

“Hank forbade you from cooking after that grease fire, you know. Sure you want to tackle dinner?”

“Do you know how to cook?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. Besides, it was one time, and it was barely a fire. More like enthusiastic splattering.”

“Enthusiastic splattering that set off every smoke alarm in the house and nearly burned down the kitchen. At least, that’s what Hank told me. Said he banned you for life. That the kitchen was a weapon in your hands.”

“You’ll be surprised by how well I can cook.” His mouth curves in a reluctant smile.

“Really?”

“Actually, I’m not half bad. Hank’s cooking was just so much better than mine. I may, or may not, have not so accidentally started that grease fire.”

“Gabe!” I toss a kitchen towel at him. “You manipulated Hank?”

“Worked like a charm.” He doesn’t even try to hide his grin. “Although I did have to take up doing the dishes.”

“I guess that’s my job now.” I gesture to the kitchen. “Show me some of this kitchen magic.”

Gabe pulls out a carton of eggs, a hunk of cheese, and the last of the cherry tomatoes. His movements are slow and uncertain, like he’s navigating a minefield of memory with every cupboard he opens.

He cracks eggs into a bowl, whisking with more intensity than necessary.

I lean my elbows on the counter, watching him from the same stool I sat on that first night—the night when everything shifted between us.

When laughter turned to heat, and Hank telling Gabe to fuck me like he was orchestrating a symphony.

Gabe’s hands on my thighs. Hank’s voice in my ear. My body caught between theirs, gasping for more.

My breath catches.

Gabe stiffens, sensing it.

“You thinking about it too?” His gaze flicks to mine.

“It was the first time you touched me.” I nod. No point pretending.

A beat of silence.

“I was so damn nervous.” His mouth twists. “And so hard I thought I was going to die.”

“You hid it well.” I huff a broken laugh.

“Hank knew,” he says, softer now. “He always knew what I needed—even before I did.”

My chest aches. “He gave us that moment.”

“And a hundred more after.”

We fall quiet again. Gabe turns back to the skillet, but his hands tremble as he pours in the eggs. The scent of butter and garlic fills the kitchen. It should smell like comfort, like home. But tonight it’s laced with longing, with all the things we’ve lost.

He slides scrambled eggs and toast onto two mismatched plates and sets them on the dining table, where three chairs still sit. One untouched.

I hesitate.

So does he.

Then, wordlessly, he pulls out the chair opposite mine and lowers himself slowly, like his body’s made of grief.

We eat.

Chew. Swallow. Pretend the food doesn’t taste like absence.

At one point, I look up and catch him watching the empty seat between us.

“I keep expecting to hear him tease me for overcooking the eggs.” Gabe’s jaw tightens.

Silence stretches again.

Gabe reaches for his water, then freezes halfway. “He should be here.”

“I know.”

He rubs the heel of his hand across his chest like it hurts to breathe.

“We were always three,” he says. “It’s like trying to balance on a broken leg now. Nothing feels steady.”

I push my plate away. Stand. Walk around the table and drop to my knees beside his chair. He turns toward me instinctively, hands falling to my shoulders.

“We don’t have to rush this,” I say. “But we also can’t live in neutral. We’ll learn how to stand again. Maybe not steady. Maybe not right away. But together, like a three-legged race. Our third leg is gone, so we have to work together to make a new normal.”

His fingers tighten slightly.

I press my cheek to his thigh, seeking that same quiet comfort he used to give without trying.

“He’d want us to be happy,” I whisper. “He’d want us to choose each other every day, the way he chose both of us. He’d want us to fuck like we mean it.”

“He’d definitely want that.”

Gabe’s laughter is raw and unguarded, the kind that curls warm and unexpected in my chest. The kind I haven’t heard in far too long.

Something shifts between us—sharp-edged grief softening under the weight of need. Of memory. Of the hunger that never really died, only slept.

He moves first, surging forward with the kind of intent that makes my breath catch. His mouth claims mine—not a question, not a whisper of what if. Just Gabe. Fire and familiarity, lips demanding and sure, tongue sweeping into mine like he owns me.

Like he remembers exactly how I taste and wants to drown in it.

I moan into his mouth as his hands frame my face, fingers sliding into my hair like he’s anchoring himself to the one thing that still feels real.

I reach for him, fisting the hem of his shirt, yanking it up.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to strip it off, and then I’m touching bare skin, muscle, and heat and scars I could trace blindfolded.

“Bedroom?” His voice is rough.

“No.” I grip his waistband, drag him closer. “Here. Now.”

The counter presses into my spine as he lifts me onto it, standing between my thighs. The same spot where he first took me. The same spot Hank stood behind him, eyes dark with approval, telling Gabe exactly how to claim me. How to ruin me beautifully.

My throat tightens. Gabe sees it.

“We don’t have to?—”

“I want to,” I whisper. “I need this. I need you.”

His hands slide under my thighs, dragging me to the edge. “Then let me give it to you.”

He peels away my clothes with reverence at first—each button, each inch of skin revealed like he’s unwrapping something sacred. His mouth follows the trail, lips grazing my collarbone, teeth scraping down my sternum, tongue circling a nipple until I cry out and arch for more.

But it’s not enough.

“I don’t want careful,” I breathe. “I want you.”

That’s what breaks him.

His grip turns bruising, his mouth punishing as he captures my lips again, this time with the promise of heat. Fingers slide beneath my panties, finding me slick and aching. He groans into my mouth, and the sound sparks something wild in me.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” he growls. “And you’re going to take it. All of it.”

I gasp. Yes. Yes.

He tears the rest of my clothes away in a frenzy, drops his own pants, and then he’s there—thick and hard and pressing against me. He pauses just long enough to meet my eyes.

“Last chance to stop me.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

And then he’s inside me in one hard thrust.

I cry out, fingers clawing into his back, hips jerking to meet him. The stretch is delicious. Devastating. Perfect.

He drives into me again, deeper this time. Stronger.

And I feel it—the shift. The part of Gabe that’s been buried under loss and guilt and silence is finally clawing free.

His teeth find my neck, not gentle now, biting hard enough to leave a mark. His hand wraps around the back of my neck, holding me in place as he pounds into me with the kind of force that shatters thoughts and breath and pain.

This isn’t soft, sweet, or apologetic.

This is him.

Us.

My moans echo off the kitchen walls, sharp and desperate. He curses, thrusts deeper. The counter jerks beneath us with every slam of his hips.

“You’re mine,” he growls against my ear. “Still mine. Always fucking mine.”

I can’t speak. Can’t do anything but feel him. Take him.

He lifts one of my legs over his shoulder, changing the angle. The next thrust hits something explosive—my back bows, a scream ripped from my throat.

He doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t let me come down. Just keeps driving me higher, harder, until my vision blurs and the world narrows to the man fucking me like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

His name breaks from my lips over and over.

“Gabe—oh God—don’t stop, don’t stop?—”

“I’m not stopping till you fall apart on my cock.”

And I do.

The orgasm rips through me, brutal and consuming, white-hot and endless. My muscles clamp down, pulsing around him. He groans like it’s killing him, curses, then shudders with his own release, buried deep inside me.

For a moment, we just breathe.

Sweat slicks our skin. His forehead rests against mine. My legs still shake.

Then he pulls back, cups my cheek.

“That was… Fuck, Ally.”

I nod. Can’t speak. Still floating.