Page 80 of Take Two

“Yeah.”

He smiles, small and reassuring.

“Come on.”

Still holding my hand, he leads me toward the wardrobe trailer so I can change out of Daniel Mercer’s suit for the last time. Neither of us says another word as we walk. There’ll be time enough to think about flights, packing, and the goodbye waiting for us later.

For now, all either of us wants is to go home.

The ride home passes in a silence neither of us tries to fill. Jamie keeps one hand on the wheel and the other wrapped around mine across the center console, his thumb moving slowly over my knuckles while Seattle slides past the windows. I watch the city blur into familiar streets and try not to think about how many times I have made this drive believing I would wake up beside him the next morning.

The second we step inside, I head upstairs to pack. There is no point putting it off when the suitcase waiting beside the dresser has already become a countdown.

Jamie follows me into the bedroom and begins pulling clothes from the closet while I open drawers and gather the things that have quietly found a place among his over the last few weeks. My shirts hang beside his. My toiletries occupy half the bathroom counter. A pair of my shoes sits beneath the bench at the foot of his bed as though they have always belonged there.

I fold one of my shirts and place it in the suitcase before reaching into his drawer for a Vipers T-shirt.

Jamie looks over. “That’s mine,” he smirks knowingly.

“It’s mine now,” I smirk back.

He huffs out a laugh, watching as I add his oversized number seventeen hoodie to the pile.

“Blue,” he reproaches half-heartedly and I stuff his favorite hoodie in my bag.

“You’ll survive,” I reply, rolling my eyes.

His expression softens as he looks at the hoodie resting inside my suitcase, and neither of us says what we both understand. I am taking a piece of him with me because I can’t take the man himself.

Jamie reaches for another shirt and continues packing.

Once the suitcase is nearly full, we shower together. The intimacy between us is slower than it has been in weeks, stripped of the urgency and teasing that usually follow us into the bathroom. Jamie washes the remnants of Daniel Mercer from my skin with careful hands, and I return the attention, tracing every familiar line of his body as though I can commit him to memory before the day takes him away from me.

The first kiss is hesitant, almost questioning, warm and slow, but then something shifts. His hands tighten around my waist, fingers pressing into my skin as if he’s trying to anchor me to him, and suddenly, there’s no more restraint. His mouth slants over mine, hungry and desperate, and I melt into it as his tongue sweeps against mine. There’s no need for words. We’ve spent weeks learning each other’s bodies, the way we fit together, the way we break apart. His touch is already familiar, his fingers trace the curve of my hip before sliding lower, teasing, testing, until I arch into him with a shuddering gasp.

The shower steam clings to our skin, the air thick with heat and the scent of his soap, something woodsy and clean. He doesn’t rush, even though we both know time is slipping away. His fingers press inside me first, slow and deliberate, stretching me open. My thighs tremble, my nails dig into his shoulders. I whimper against his mouth and he swallows the sound like it’s something precious.

“You’re so fucking perfect like this,” he murmurs, voice rough, his breath hot against my ear. I want to tell him the same, but the words dissolve into a broken moan when his thumb circles me just right, and my hips jerk helplessly against his hand.

Then he lifts me, his hands grip my thighs as he pins me against the cold tile. The contrast makes me gasp, my back arches as the chill seeps into my skin, but he’s there, his body presses into mine, chasing away the cold with the heat of him. I wrap my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck, and hold on like I can fuse us together if I just cling tight enough. His dick slides against me, thick and heavy, and I whine, my fingers tangling in his damp hair.

“Jamie—” His name leaves my mouth like a plea, and he answers by guiding himself inside me in one smooth, deep thrust that steals my breath entirely.

The sound that tears from my throat is raw, my head thuds back against the tiles as he fills me completely. He stills for a second, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath coming in sharp bursts.

“My sweet, sweet, Blue,” he groans, his voice strained, like he’s fighting to keep himself from shattering already. Then he moves, his hips roll into mine with a rhythm that’s both punishing and worshipful, each thrust drags against that spot inside me that makes my vision blur at the edges. He is everywhere, his hands grip my ass, his mouth on my neck, his dick buried deep. It’s too much, it’s not enough. I never want it to end.

Our kisses never break. Not when his pace turns frantic, not when my nails rake down his back, not when I grind myself against his stomach, chasing the friction that sends sparks skittering up my spine.

His name falls from my lips in broken fragments, “Jamie, Jamie, please—” and then I cum, my body locks around him as pleasure crashes over me in waves, my release spills between us, hot and messy. He swallows my cries with his mouth, his own breaths ragged as he chases his own climax.

“Cyaire, baby, I—” His voice cracks, and then he’s there, burying himself to the hilt as he spills inside me, his body shudders against mine, his grip on me so tight it’s almost painful.

The aftermath should be easy. It should be the quiet slide into satisfaction, the lazy kisses, the shared smiles. The thought that this is the last time though, for weeks, for months, who the hell knows, hits me like a physical blow. I press my face into the crook of his neck, my fingers digging into his skin, and for a second, I let myself pretend. Pretend that the water isn’t washing away the evidence of us. Pretend that the clock isn’t ticking. Pretend that I’m not leaving.

He doesn’t let go, even when the water runs cold. His arms stay locked around me, his hands stroking slow, soothing patterns up and down my back. The spray rinses over us, carrying away the salt of my tears, and if he notices, he doesn’t say a word. He just holds me tighter, his lips pressing to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth, anywhere he can reach, like he’s trying to brand me with his touch.

By the time we dress and make our way downstairs, the silence between us feels less strained, though the weight of the coming evening never leaves. Jamie cooks lunch, chicken breasts, brown rice, and broccoli, easing himself back into the disciplined diet he follows once training camp approaches. The familiar routine should make the meal feel ordinary, yet I barely taste anything as I move the food around my plate and watch him eat across from me.