I grinned. “I was thinking something with a water view. Pregnant women like that, right?”
He snorted, and for a second, it almost felt normal.
So when’s this great escape happening?” “Soon as I talk to Callahan,” I said, lowering my voice. “And as soon as we know if the story sticks. I give it three days before someone tries to flip the narrative.”
He nodded, flicked the cigarette butt into the gutter, then eyed me. “You trust him?”
“Enough,” I replied. The wind cut in off the canal, sharp and raw.
Marco zipped his jacket, hunched his shoulders. “You gonna tell her?”
“I will. When I get my phone call from the slammer.”
“At least you can afford a good lawyer.”
“Yes,” I said. “There’s that.”
I stayed out with Marco until the wind made my eyes water. I’d always been able to function on less sleep than anyone else I knew, but this week had erased even the memory of rest. We stood in the lee of the building, not quite talking but not leaving, either. I watched the first hint of sunrise unspool gray and syrupy over the rooftops, as if the sky itself was reluctant to get up. My bones ached with the knowledge that I’d be the one to jump first.
When I went back inside, Jade was curled under the scratchy warehouse blanket, her jaw locked even in sleep, arms anchored over her belly. The air in the loft was dense with the warm, slightly sour scent of her hair and the slow exhale of her breath. She woke when I lay down beside her, but only barely—just enough to throw an arm over me and pull my hand to where the baby was kicking.
"You're cold," she mumbled, not quite awake.
"Sorry," I said, but I didn’t move.
Marco was still outside. I slid my hand down the front of her body, down her baby bump, and then up, until my palm fit between her tits, which were heavier now, warm and perfect.
“You’re beautiful,” I said. “I need to have you right now.”
She opened her eyes all the way, pupils black and wide in the early dark. “You’re going to wake up the baby,” she said, but her voice was a dare, not a warning.
I slid my palm under her shirt, fingers splaying over the curve of her belly. Jade was always warm, but now she radiated heat like a nuclear core. She twisted onto her back to make it easier for me, and I pushed the hem up, exposing the lower slope of her stomach and the strong, pale lines of her hips. The scars were still pink, and her skin was stretched taut, so thin I could see the blue veins just under the surface. I palmed the rise, then leaned in and pressed my mouth to the place the baby was kicking, half expecting it to boot me in the face.
She squirmed, but didn’t stop me. If anything, she gripped the back of my neck and guided me up, so my mouth trailed from the bump to the space just beneath her ribs, to the soft, sweet crease under her breast. I fit my hand between the two mounds, then dragged my thumb over her nipple—the new sensitivity made her gasp, every time, even now.
“Easy,” she said, like she was telling me to slow down, but her legs parted and her heel hooked behind my thigh, pulling me closer.
I wanted to make her forget the world again. Forget the story, the chase, my father’s threats, the fact that Marco was probably out back chain-smoking and plotting his own suicide by donut. I wanted to take her all the way out of herself, just for a minute, just to give her the illusion of safety.
I kissed her, not hard, but deep, lingering on every new taste. She tasted different now—less of whatever was in the shampoo at the penthouse, more salt, more wildness. I scraped my teeth along her lower lip and she bit me, just hard enough to remind me who I was dealing with.
She slid her hand under my waistband and I twitched, more sensitive than I expected. She ran her palm down my length, stroking once, slow, then guided me between her thighs, which were slick and ready, the heat of her almost scorching.
“Are you wet for me, beautiful?”
“Always,” she said.
“Good,” I replied.
I lined up and pushed, slow, careful, even though every part of me wanted to slam all the way in. I slid inside and she arched, hips rolling up to take more, her hands flexing on my shoulder like she was trying to squeeze the tension out of both of us. The angle was perfect—her belly pressed to my chest, breasts flattened against my skin, the whole length of her body tight and wanting.
I started slow, rocking into her with a rhythm that was more about comfort than chase. I wanted her to feel it everywhere, to know—even now, even in flight—that none of the rest of it mattered. Not the world, not the war, not the fact that this might be the last time we got to be just bodies, just skin and wanting. She cupped my face, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth, her eyes half-lidded but fixed on mine.
Every time I bottomed out she flexed around me, and I could feel the tension in her thighs, the shudder in her belly, the way her nails dug half-moons into my shoulder. I ran my hand down her side, over the small shelf of her ass, up to the soft hollow behind her knee. I wanted to touch every inch of her, memorize the new topography, in case this was the last time.
She was a genius, but right now all she wanted was for me to fuck her senseless. I knew the feel of her body, what it needed. I was careful—she was so much rounder now, so much heavier in my hands. I angled her hips, cupped her ass, and kept the rhythm slow even as every cell was screaming to finish fast. She came almost before I did, her nails digging crescents above my heart, head thrown back as she clenched around me, milking me until I had to grit my teeth not to shout her name.
“I’m going to come inside of you,” I said. “Are you ready?”
