His need was a mirror of my own. We were both on the edge, teetering on the brink of something wild and untamed.
I spun him around, pressing him against the window again. His breath fogged the glass as I shoved his pants down. I pulled a condom pack from my pocket and tore it open with my teeth.
When I first entered James, it was a slow, deliberate slide that had us both gasping. His body clenched around me, a tight, hot grip that threatened to undo me.
I moved slowly at first, savoring the feel of him. His body responded to mine, meeting each thrust with a roll of his hips. The room was suddenly full of the sound of our raggedbreathing, full-throated moans, and the wet slap of skin against skin. The air reeked of sex.
James's hands braced against the window, fingers splayed wide. Our reflection in the glass was a tangle of limbs and desperate need.
I increased my pace, driving into him with a ferocity that had us both crying out. His body trembled under my hands, and his breath came in short, sharp gasps. I sensed his release building, a tightening coil of tension that threatened to snap.
With a final, desperate thrust, I sent us both over the edge. James's body convulsed around me, a wave of pleasure that left us both shaking. I held him close, feeling his heartbeat gradually slow against my chest.
In the aftermath, we stood there, bodies pressed together, breathing slowly returning to normal. The room was silent except for the gentle patter of rain against the window.
I pressed a soft kiss against his shoulder, feeling a sense of peace wash over me."I've got you," I whispered again as the truth of the words settled deep within me.
Outside, the rain picked up again, drumming against the windows like approaching footsteps. Somewhere in the city, our arsonist was watching, waiting, planning his next masterpiece. But here, at this moment, with James warm and solid in my arms, I found something I hadn't even known I was missing.
It was a different kind of shelter—a different kind of home.
Chapter fourteen
James
The heavy door to UW's aquatic center clicked shut behind me, sealing away the pre-dawn darkness. Chlorine-scented air wrapped around me as my footsteps echoed off pale tile walls. The place felt different at 5 AM – caught between night and morning.
Marcus already stood at the pool's edge wearing a fire department t-shirt. I tried not to track the way the fabric clung to his shoulders, defining each muscle earned through years of hauling hose lines and climbing ladders. I failed spectacularly.
"Round two?" His lips quirked up at whatever he saw in my expression. "We'll stay in the shallow end."
My brain helpfully calculated the pool's precise depths – three feet where we stood, sloping to twelve at the diving end. The numbers did nothing to quiet my racing pulse, nor did my intimate knowledge of water's molecular structure or the exact chemical formula for sodium hypochlorite.
"I brought coffee." I gestured to the two cups steaming on the aluminum bleachers, condensation beading on their sides. "As promised."
"After." He stepped closer, one hand settling warm and steady against my back. "First, you're getting in."
"That wasn't our arrangement." But I was already unlacing my shoes, the textured tile rough against my bare feet. "The deal specified caffeine before potential drowning."
"No drowning allowed." His thumb traced small circles between my shoulder blades, grounding me. "House rules."
"Your house rules involve pre-dawn swimming?" I eyed the dark ripples spreading across the pool's surface, morning quiet broken only by the hum of the filtration system.
"Among other things." His hand stayed warm against my spine. "Stop stalling, Professor."
We both stripped down until all we wore were our trunks. My breath was shallow as I approached the water's edge. Our reflections wavered in the pool's surface—Marcus's solid presence beside my rigid posture.
"Small steps," he murmured. "Like last time."
The water met my ankles, warmer than expected. Marcus moved with me, matching my glacial pace without comment. His patience should have been embarrassing—a decorated firefighter coaxing an aquaphobic academic through basic flotation.
"You know," he said conversationally as we reached waist depth, "most people don't mentally calculate buoyancy coefficients while learning to swim."
"Most people aren't—" The words got caught in my throat as his hands settled on my waist, steadying me.
"Brilliant?" His voice softened. "Stubborn? Determined to quantify everything?"
"I was going to say 'still working through childhood trauma,' but your list works, too."
