Chapter 3: Morning Claiming
Patrick Jane awoke at the very crack of dawn. He glanced around him with mild surprise that he had slept for so long, a little disoriented as to where he was, until his eyes fell on Teresa Lisbon. She was laying on her back, still asleep, one hand resting on the pillow beside her and the other thrown over her eyes. The sheet had been pulled down revealing one breast in the morning light. He studied her, committing everything he could see to his memory. He can’t believe he is here and he can’t believe she had allowed everything he did the night before. His Catholic school girl sexually repressed Lisbon had come apart beautifully under his hands and mouth, and begged him for more. He grinned, softly touching the tip of her nipple with his finger, gently making small circles and watching it become ridged, nearly begging for his mouth.
The pale grey light filtered through the blinds, striping her torso. She smelled of sleep and sex and the faint, clean scent of her soap. He traced the curve of her breast, down the plane of her stomach, his fingers skating over the gentle swell of her hip. He remembered the way she’d screamed into the pillow. The way her ass had tasted. The shuddering grip of her cunt around his cock.
He was hard already, a thick, insistent ache. But he wanted to watch her come undone in the calm morning, without the frantic heat of the night before. He wanted to own her waking moments too.
He shifted down the bed, the sheets whispering. He hooked his fingers in the elastic of the simple cotton panties she’d pulled on sometime in the night and drew them down her legs, tossing them aside. She stirred, a soft murmur escaping her lips, but didn’t wake.
He settled between her thighs, which fell open naturally in sleep. In the cool dawn light, she was utterly exposed to him. He blew a soft stream of air over her curls, then her folds. She twitched, a slight contraction, her breathing hitching. He waited, watching her face. Her hand slid from her eyes to rest beside her head.
Then he leaned in and pressed a single, soft, closed-mouth kiss to her clit.
Her entire body jolted. A sharp gasp tore from her throat and her eyes flew open, unfocused and blurry with sleep. “Wh—?”
He didn’t give her time to orient herself. He flattened his tongue and gave her one long, slow, wet lick from her entrance to her clit. It was a claiming stroke, deliberate and thorough.
“Patrick,” she breathed, the word thick with sleep and instant need. Her hands came down, fingers threading into his hair, not to push him away but to anchor herself.
“Good morning,” he murmured against her, his breath hot on her wet skin. Then he feasted.
There was no patience in it now, not really. The sight of her, sleep-soft and vulnerable, her taste on his tongue from the night before mingling with her fresh arousal, broke the last of his control. He ate her pussy with a starving, focused hunger. He licked into her, fucking her with his tongue, drinking the slickness that poured from her. He sucked her clit into his mouth, applying a rhythmic pressure that made her thighs clamp around his head.
“Oh god, oh fuck, right there,” she chanted, her hips coming off the mattress to grind against his face. She was fully awake now, gasping, her head thrashing side to side on the pillow. The raw, wet sounds filled the quiet room.
He slid two fingers inside her, curling them, finding that deep, spongy spot immediately. She cried out, her back arching. “Yes, yes, like that, don’t stop—”
He fucked her with his fingers in a steady, deep rhythm, his mouth locked on her clit. He could feel her tightening around his fingers, the fluttering pulses that signaled her approach. He wanted to taste it. He wanted her come on his tongue as the sun rose.
“I’m gonna come,” she warned, her voice straining, her fingers pulling at his hair. “I’m gonna—Patrick—!”
He redoubled his efforts, his tongue flicking rapidly, his fingers pumping. He groaned against her, the vibration sending her hurtling over the edge.
Her orgasm crashed through her with a silent, breathless intensity for a second before the sound followed—a broken, sobbing wail as her body seized. She gushed around his fingers, her inner muscles clutching and spasming. He drank her down, lapping at her, gentling his tongue to ride out the shudders until she was pushing weakly at his shoulders, oversensitive and spent.
He crawled back up her body, his lips and chin glistening. He kissed her, deep and dirty, letting her taste herself. She kissed him back, languid and open, her hands sliding over his shoulders.
“You’re a menace,” she whispered against his mouth, her voice raspy.
“You love it,” he countered, nuzzling her neck. His hard cock pressed against her thigh.
She reached between them, wrapping her hand around him. He was slick at the tip already. She stroked him slowly, her thumb smearing the moisture. “I do,” she admitted, the simple confession feeling more intimate than anything they’d done. She guided him to her entrance. “Now fuck me. Slow.”
He obeyed, sinking into her with a long, smooth thrust that made them both groan. She was incredibly wet, loose from her climax, and he slid in to the hilt without resistance. He braced himself on his elbows, cradling her face, and began to move.
This was different. This wasn’t the frantic claiming of the night, or the desperate hunger of minutes ago. This was a deep, rocking rhythm, a slow burn. He watched her face, every flicker of pleasure, every soft sigh. He kissed her eyelids, her cheeks, the corner of her mouth.
“I could get used to this,” he murmured, his hips rolling against hers.
“To what?” she asked, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper.
“Waking up inside you.”
The words hung between them, loaded and real. He didn’t look away. She saw the fear in his eyes, the same fear that had kept him at a distance for a decade, but she also saw the stubborn, defiant hope that had finally broken through.
She lifted her head and kissed him, softly. “Then do,” she said.
It was a permission, a promise, a challenge.
His control snapped. The slow rhythm fractured into something more desperate, more profound. He drove into her, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, as if he could fuse them together. She met him stroke for stroke, her nails scoring down his back, her cries mingling with his ragged breaths.
“Teresa,” he gasped, his forehead dropping to hers. “Look at me.”
She opened her eyes, her gaze locking with his. In that moment, there were no masks, no consultants, no agents. There was just the raw, terrifying truth in his blue eyes.
“I’m yours,” he said, the words a vow torn from a place he’d kept sealed for years.
It was the trigger for both of them. Her second climax roared up, an even stronger, deeper wave that pulled a scream from her lungs. The intense clenching of her around him was his undoing. With a shattered groan, he followed her, spilling into her, his body shuddering as he emptied himself.
He collapsed, his weight a welcome heaviness. They lay tangled, slick with sweat, hearts hammering against each other’s ribs. The room grew lighter, the sounds of the waking world—a distant car, a bird—beginning to filter in.
After a long time, he shifted, pulling out of her. He didn’t go far, just rolled to his side and gathered her against him, her back to his chest. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder.
On the nightstand, her phone screen lit up once, silently. Another message from Pike, this one longer, the preview text visible: ‘Looking forward to tonight. I made reservations at that Italian place you mentioned…’
Patrick’s arm tightened around her waist. His breathing was even. He’d seen it. Of course he’d seen it.
Teresa didn’t reach for it. She placed her hand over his where it rested on her stomach, lacing their fingers together. She felt his lips curve into a smile against her skin.
For now, the only answer that mattered was the steady beat of his heart against her spine, and the certain, quiet knowledge that the case file on the floor, and the life it represented, was officially, irrevocably closed.
For now, the only answer that mattered was the steady beat of his heart against her spine, and the certain, quiet knowledge that the case file on the floor, and the life it represented, was officially, irrevocably closed.
Patrick woke up again a few hours later with Teresa snuggled up in front of him. He lay there for a few moments basking in the feeling of her soft skin pressed against his and marvelled that he was here right now. He had never let himself even imagine this was a remote possibility, and here he was holding her like she was his. He wasn’t quite sure where things stood, but she hadn’t thrown him out and told him to get used to it. A small amount of hope clamored loudly at the back of his mind, but he was afraid to let it in. Eventually, he rolled out of bed, and careful not to wake Teresa, he pulled on his pants and headed out to the kitchen in search of breakfast.
He found some eggs in the fridge and after smelling a few suspicious looking takeout containers he found some cheese that was still good. Scrambled eggs with cheese it would be. He started the coffee, knowing Teresa would be looking for it when she finally woke up. He had just finished cooking the eggs when a soft sound behind him made him glance over his shoulder.
What he saw made him freeze. Teresa was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, wearing his shirt with only a few buttons done up, the neckline falling off one shoulder, and the sleeves hanging past her hands. Her hair had tumbled around her shoulders in unruly soft waves. She was rubbing the back of her hands over her eyes, and Patrick decided he had just found his new favourite memory of her. Maybe he would draw it one day.
“Hey,” she mumbled, her voice gravelly with sleep.
“Hey.” He turned the burner off, his eyes not leaving her. The morning light caught the dust motes dancing around her, gliding the line of her bare thigh where the shirt fell open. “Coffee’s almost ready.”
She shuffled forward, the shirt tails brushing her skin. She stopped next to him, leaning her hip against the counter and peering into the pan. “You cook.”
“I do,” he smiled, scooping the fluffy eggs onto two plates. He handed her one. “When properly motivated.”
She took the plate, her fingers brushing his. A simple touch that felt more significant than anything from the night. She forked a bite into her mouth, chewed, and hummed. “Not bad.”
“High praise.” He poured two mugs of coffee, handing her one. She took it, cradling the warmth, and leaned back against the opposite counter. They ate in a silence that was neither awkward nor heavy, but simply present. He watched her, the way she held the fork, the way her throat moved as she swallowed. Every detail was a fossil he wanted to imprint in stone.
She caught him staring and didn’t look away. She set her empty plate in the sink. “So.”
“So.”
“What happens now?” She asked it calmly, as if asking for the weather.
He set his own plate down, leaning against the counter facing her. The space between them felt charged, a live wire resting in a puddle. “That’s up to you.”
“Is it?” She took a slow sip of coffee.
“It always has been.” He said the words softly, letting them sit in the space between them.
Her gaze dropped to her coffee mug, her thumb tracing the rim. “Even if I was with Pike?”
“Especially then.” He didn’t look away from her face. “Though it would be considerably less fun.”
A small, tired smile touched her lips, then faded. “I have a date with him tonight. Reservations.”
Patrick’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes went very still. “I saw the text.”
“I haven’t answered.”
“I know.”
She looked up at him then, her detective’s eyes searching his face for tells, for the slight tic, the hidden meaning. “What do you want, Jane?”
He studied her. The morning light etched fine lines at the corners of her eyes, lines he’d watched form over a decade of shared cases and silent jokes. He saw the woman who had stood between him and his own self-destruction more times than he could count. He saw the sweep of her collarbone under his borrowed shirt, the faint bruise starting on her inner thigh from his grip last night. He knew what he wanted with a clarity that was terrifying.
“I want you,” he said, the words simple and stripped bare. “In my bed. In my life. However I can have you.”
He paused, a muscle in his jaw working. “But I would never force you to choose something you didn’t want.”
Teresa looked down at her hands, then back up at him, her expression unreadable. “What would you do if I went tonight? If I decided to stay with Pike and make it official?”
Patrick studied her. The air in the kitchen thickened, charged with the unsaid. He saw the test in her question. “If it was what you truly wanted,” he said, each word costing him, “I would step back.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Just like that?”
“No.” He gave a short, hollow laugh. “Not just like that. It would feel like amputating a limb without anesthetic. But I would do it.”
“Would you fight for me?” The question was a whisper.
He put his own mug down on the counter. The ceramic click was loud in the quiet. He stepped in front of her, closing the distance. He cupped her jaw, his thumb stroking the line of her cheekbone. Gently, he pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on the shell of it.
“I would desperately want to,” he admitted, his voice low and raw. “But the only way I know how is with manipulation and mind games. I’m a puppet master, Teresa. It’s what I am. I could nudge Pike into a misunderstanding. I could engineer a doubt. I could make him seem… less.”
His blue eyes held hers, a lifetime of grief and cunning laid bare. “I would break my own heart before I risked doing that to you.”
Her breath caught. He saw the understanding dawn, the realization that this was his ultimate surrender: to offer his love with hands open, not clenched in strategy.
“I love you,” he said. The words felt foreign on his tongue, yet absolutely true. “I want you to know I’m an option. But I think you already know what you want. And if you don’t, you’ll figure it out.”
He leaned his forehead against hers, their breath mingling. “And I’m willing to wait.”
Teresa closed her eyes. A single tear tracked its way down her cheek. He caught it with his thumb.
“Even if it takes years?” she whispered.
“Even if.”
She opened her eyes. They were clear, resolved. She placed her hand over his, where it still cupped her face, and brought his palm to her lips, kissing the center of it. Then she let it go.
She stepped back from his touch, the warmth of his palm lingering on her skin like a phantom pressure. Without a word, she turned and walked out of the kitchen, the tails of his shirt whispering against her thighs.
Patrick didn’t follow. He stood at the counter, the cooling coffee forgotten, and listened to the soft pad of her bare feet on the hardwood floor. He heard the bedroom door sigh open. He stared at a faint water stain on the ceiling, his mind a terrifying blank. This was it. The moment she would choose the safe, predictable path. The good man. He braced himself for the sound of her voice, polite and final, drifting down the hall.
He heard the soft shuffle of her return.
She walked back into the kitchen, her phone a sleek black rectangle in her hand. Her face was a careful neutral, the same mask she wore when interviewing a suspect she already knew was guilty. She stopped by the table, her thumb hovering over the screen.
Patrick watched. His breath felt trapped in his chest.
She dialed. The electronic trill of the numbers was absurdly loud. She brought the phone to her ear, her eyes finding his and holding them. He saw the pulse fluttering in her throat.
“Marcus? Hey.” Her voice was calm, gentle. “I’m glad I caught you.”
A pause. Patrick could hear the faint, tinny buzz of Pike’s reply but not the words. Teresa’s gaze never wavered from his.
“I know we have plans tonight.” She took a slow breath. “I need to cancel. And… I need to be honest with you.”
Patrick’s fingers curled against the granite countertop. He didn’t blink.
“It’s not you. You’re a really good man.” She sounded genuinely pained, but resolved. “This is about me. Something… someone from my past has come back into the picture. It’s complicated. It’s always been complicated.”
Another pause, longer this time. Pike was speaking. Teresa listened, her lips pressed into a thin line. She nodded as if he could see her.
“I know. And I’m sorry. Truly.” Her voice softened further, a tone Patrick had rarely heard—apologetic, but firm. “I think it’s best if we don’t see each other anymore. I can’t give you what you deserve. Not when my heart is somewhere else.”
She closed her eyes for a second, listening. “Thank you for understanding. Goodbye, Marcus.”
She pulled the phone from her ear and ended the call. Her thumb swiped across the screen once, then she simply held it, her arm hanging at her side. She let out a long, shaky breath. Her shoulders slumped, not with sadness, but with the release of a colossal weight. The careful neutrality melted from her features, replaced by a profound, weary relief.
Patrick moved.
He crossed the space between them in three silent strides. He gently pried the phone from her loosened grip and set it on the table. The sound of it clicking against the wood was final. He stood before her, so close he could feel the heat from her body. He looked down into her face.
“What do you want?” he asked. His voice was rough, scraped raw from the tension of watching, from a decade of not asking.
Teresa looked up. The morning light caught the gold in her green eyes. She saw the fear there, the desperate hope, the man who had just witnessed her burn a bridge and was standing in the ashes waiting for a sign.
“I want to belong to you,” she whispered.
The words hung in the quiet kitchen. Patrick stared. His mind, usually a whirlwind of deductions and schemes, went utterly, completely still. He couldn’t parse it. He couldn’t fit the syllables into any model of reality he understood. She had chosen him. She had used the word ‘belong’. The finality of it, the sheer surrender, was a language he had no translation for.
He blinked. A small, wondering sound escaped him, almost a cough. His hands rose, hovering near her face, as if afraid she were a mirage.
A small smile touched her lips. It was quiet, sure, and just for him.
The dam broke.
A raw, choked noise tore from his throat. He cupped her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones, his gaze drinking her in as if she were water in a desert. “Say it again.”
“I’m yours.” Her voice was firmer now, her hands coming up to clutch his wrists.
The words did something to him, something fundamental and seismic. They stripped away the last of his carefully constructed armor, leaving the raw, scarred tissue beneath exposed to the air of her sunny kitchen. A tremor ran through his hands where they cradled her face.
“I think I always have been,” she continued, her gaze steady on his, seeing every crack. “Even when I hadn’t realized it yet. Even when I was trying so hard not to be.”
A hot, sudden pressure built behind his eyes. He tried to blink it away, to breathe through it, but it was too vast. The first tear spilled over, tracing a clean path through the stubble on his cheek. Then another. He didn’t sob; he was utterly silent, just this quiet, relentless leakage of a decade of held-back feeling.
“Patrick,” she whispered, her own eyes glistening.
He swallowed, the sound thick in his throat. “I have been yours since the day I met you.” The admission was ragged, torn from a place deeper than grief. “Since you came walking toward me when I showed up at the CBI broken and lost. You saw something in me I didn’t know was there. You saw I could be something more than a con man. I’ve been orbiting you. Everything I did… it was always for you.”
Teresa smiled then, a wide, radiant thing that transformed her whole face, wiping away the last shadows of doubt. “Really?”
He let out a wet, shaky laugh, smiling back through the tears. “Really.”
He kissed her. It was soft, a slow melding of lips that tasted of salt and coffee and promise. It was a seal. Teresa kissed him back gently, her fingers sliding from his wrists to curl around the back of his neck, holding him to her.
When they parted, she used her thumbs to wipe the moisture from his cheeks. “No more hiding,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“No,” he agreed, his voice regaining some of its usual gravel. “But I’m going to be terrible at this. I’ll get scared. I’ll try to run.”
“I’ll chase you,” she said simply.
He kissed her again, deeper this time, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the press of his mouth. His hands slid down from her face, over the worn cotton of his own shirt, down to her hips. He gripped her there, his fingers digging in, and walked her backwards until the edge of the kitchen table pressed against her thighs.
He broke the kiss, breathing hard. His eyes were dark, the blue nearly swallowed by black. The tenderness of a moment ago was curdling into something hotter, more desperate. “I need to be inside you. Right now.”
“Then do it,” she breathed, her hands going to the buttons of the shirt. She fumbled one open, then another, baring her skin to the cool kitchen air.
He didn’t wait for her to finish. He pushed the fabric aside, his mouth descending to suck a hard, branding kiss onto the swell of her breast. At the same time, his hands went under the shirt, skimming up her bare thighs, pushing them apart. He found her already wet, her folds slick and eager. He groaned, sliding two fingers through her gathering heat.
“You’re so fucking ready,” he muttered against her skin, his fingers circling her clit, making her jerk. “Just from saying the words.”
“Yesss,” she hissed, her head falling back. “I don’t know why... But the idea of you owning me…fuck…It makes me hot as hell.”
That undid him. He straightened, his fingers leaving her to make quick work of his fly. He shoved his pants down just enough to free his cock, thick and rigid. He was beyond patience, beyond finesse. He hooked his hands under her knees and lifted, pushing her back so she was half-sitting, half-lying on the table. Her coffee mug wobbled and tipped, spilling cold brown liquid across the wood.
He didn’t notice.