Chapter 2: Mirrored Confessions
The diner’s greasy air still clung to Teresa’s skin as she followed Jane back to the FBI field office. The walk was silent, her mind churning with the echo of his words—I am, and you are, aren’t you?—and the phantom heat of his thumb on her knuckles. She’d insisted on returning separately, a last gasp of professional decorum, but he’d just given her that knowing, infuriating smile and agreed. Now, standing in the too-bright corridor of the mostly-empty office wing, she felt unmoored.
He was waiting for her, leaning casually against the wall outside the observation room for Interrogation Three. His jacket was slung over his shoulder, his shirtsleeves still rolled up. The fluorescent light bleached the color from his hair, turning it a pale gold.
“Conference room is booked,” he said, pushing off the wall. His voice was conversational, but his eyes held a different charge. “Cho and Wylie are prepping. Abbott’s in his office. This wing is quiet.”
She stopped, crossing her arms. “What are we doing here, Jane?”
“Finishing our conversation.” He reached behind him and pushed open the heavy, soundproofed door to the interrogation room. The interior was dark, a slab of black against the bright hallway. “After you.”
It was a trap. She knew it. A beautifully, blatantly obvious trap. And still, her feet carried her forward, over the threshold. The door clicked shut behind them with a final, heavy thud, plunging them into near-darkness. Only the dim, greenish glow of an EXIT sign over the door and the faint light bleeding through the one-way mirror from the empty observation room provided any illumination. The air was cool, stale, and humming with silent tension.
She heard him move behind her. Not toward her. He walked to the metal table bolted to the floor and pulled out one of the two chairs. The screech of metal on concrete was shockingly loud in the enclosed space.
“Sit, Teresa.”
It wasn’t a request. It was an instruction, delivered in a calm, even tone that brooked no argument. It shot through her like a bolt of electricity, settling low in her belly. Her professional self screamed rebellion. Every other part of her was already moving, obeying the command in his voice. She sat, the chair cold even through her trousers. He remained standing, a silhouette against the dull gray glow of the mirror.
“You think you’re not submissive,” he began, his voice echoing softly in the bare room. He placed his hands on the table, leaning over her. She had to tilt her head back to meet his shadowed eyes. “You think it means being weak. Or being less than. You’re wrong.” He straightened, beginning to pace a slow circle around the table, around her. “It’s the ultimate strength. To trust someone that completely. To let go that totally.” He stopped behind her chair. She felt his presence, a heat at her back. “Those women in the diner… they were crude. They were reductive. But they recognized a truth you won’t admit to yourself.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but his hands came down on her shoulders. His touch was firm, anchoring. Her words died.
“You’ve been in charge for so long,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear. His breath was warm against her skin. “Of the team. Of the cases. Of me, for years. Of yourself, most of all. Carrying that weight. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”
A helpless, small sound escaped her throat. It was a confession.
“I know it is,” he said, his voice dropping to a velvet rumble. One hand slid from her shoulder, down her arm, his fingers tracing a line of fire through her blazer. “I’ve watched you bear it. Admired you for it. Wanted to take it from you.”
His hand reached her wrist, resting there for a moment before his fingers interlaced with hers. He pulled her hand from her lap, bringing it to his lips. He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to her knuckles. The intimacy of it, in this cold, official space, was devastating.
“Jane…” His name was a plea, but for what, she didn’t know.
“Patrick,” he corrected, his voice a low whisper against her skin. “When I’m inside you, you’re going to say my name. Not Jane. Patrick.”
The raw, graphic promise in his words sent a jolt straight to her core. She was wet, instantly, achingly so. The thin fabric of her underwear felt like a ridiculous barrier.
He released her hand and in one fluid, powerful motion, he was out of her line of sight. Before she could turn, his hands were on her waist, hauling her up from the chair. She gasped as he spun her around, her back meeting the cold, unyielding surface of the one-way mirror. The green EXIT light cast his face in stark relief, his expression intent, focused. All playful charm was gone, replaced by a hungry intensity that stole her breath.
“You want me to prove what they were saying?” he growled, his body pressing hers firmly against the glass. He was hard; she could feel the rigid line of his erection through his trousers, pressing against her belly. “About me? About you?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. His mouth crashed down on hers. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was conquest. His lips were demanding, his tongue sweeping past hers, claiming her. She moaned into his mouth, her hands flying up to clutch at his shoulders, his shirt. All resistance, all thought, dissolved into pure sensation. The taste of him, tea and something uniquely him, flooded her senses. The scent of his skin, clean cotton and warm male, filled the sterile air.
He broke the kiss, his breath ragged. His eyes searched her face, reading every flicker of surrender. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, his voice rough. “One word. Just one.”
She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She shook her head slightly, her green eyes locked on his.
A dark, triumphant smile touched his lips. “Good girl.”
The praise, so simple, so direct, liquefied her spine. He leaned in again, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin of her earlobe before his mouth moved down her neck, sucking, biting, marking her. His hands slid under her blazer, pushing it off her shoulders. It fell to the floor with a soft whisper. His fingers found the buttons of her blouse, working them open with an impatient, practiced efficiency.
“You’ve thought about this,” he murmured against her collarbone as he parted the fabric. “Haven’t you? In your bed, late at night. After a long day. Your hand between your legs, thinking of my hands. My mouth.”
“Yes,” she breathed, the admission torn from her. It was the truth. A thousand lonely nights, a thousand secret fantasies, condensed into this one searing moment of honesty.
He palmed her breast through her practical bra, his thumb rubbing over the nipple until it pebbled into a hard peak. “What did you imagine?”
She was beyond coherency. “You… touching me. Like this.”
“Like this?” He unhooked the front clasp of her bra with a deft twist, and her breasts spilled into his hands. He bent his head, taking a taut nipple into his mouth. He sucked, hard, his tongue flicking over the sensitive tip, and she cried out, her head thumping back against the mirror.
His other hand slid down her stomach, over the waistband of her trousers, cupping her through the fabric. He pressed the heel of his hand firmly against her clit. A wave of blinding pleasure-pain shot through her. She bucked against him.
“Fuck,” she gasped, the obscenity feeling natural, necessary.
He chuckled against her breast, a dark, rich sound. “I will. But first…” He sank to his knees in front of her, his hands on her hips, yanking her trousers and her sensible cotton panties down in one rough, decisive movement. The cool air of the interrogation room kissed her exposed skin, making her shiver. He didn’t give her time to feel exposed. He hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, baring her completely to his gaze.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice thick with reverence and raw hunger. “So wet for me. So ready.” He didn’t wait. He didn’t tease. He leaned forward and licked her, a long, flat stroke from her entrance to her clit.
Teresa’s hands flew to his hair, her fingers tangling in the blond strands. A strangled cry ripped from her throat. It was too much. It was not enough.
He held her hips firmly, anchoring her as he feasted on her. His tongue was relentless, circling her clit, plunging into her, devouring her with a single-minded intensity that felt like being stripped bare. He read her body like one of his cases, noting every hitch of her breath, every twitch of her muscles, every muffled sob. He knew exactly when to be soft, when to be rough, when to suck her clit into his mouth and apply a pressure that bordered on painful.
“Patrick… oh, God, Patrick…” The name was a sob, a prayer.
He hummed against her, the vibration pushing her higher. Her thighs trembled around his head. The world narrowed to the feel of his mouth on her cunt, the cold glass at her back, the relentless, building pressure in her core. Her orgasm tore through her without warning, a violent, shocking wave that clenched her entire body. She screamed, the sound muffled as she bit her own wrist, her vision whitening at the edges.
He gentled his mouth, licking her through the shuddering waves, not stopping until the last tremor subsided. Then he rose, pulling her into a fierce kiss, letting her taste herself on his lips. The raw, carnal act sent another, smaller shock through her spent body.
She was boneless, clinging to him. He maneuvered her, turning her to face the mirror. Her reflection was a mess of wanton disarray: blouse hanging open, breasts bare, trousers and underwear pooled around her ankles. His hands smoothed over her hips, his erection pressing insistently against the cleft of her ass.
“Look,” he commanded softly, his mouth against her temple. “Look at yourself. See what you look like when you let go.”
She met her own gaze in the glass. Her eyes were wide, dark with spent pleasure, her lips swollen, her hair a wild halo. She looked utterly ravaged. And she saw no shame in her own reflection. Only a fierce, liberated hunger.
He reached between them, fumbling with his belt and fly. The sound of his zipper was obscenely loud. He pushed his trousers and boxers down just enough to free himself. She felt the hot, hard length of him against her lower back before he guided himself with one hand.
“Are you on the pill?” he asked, his voice a gravelly scrape in her ear.
“Yes,” she panted.
“Good.” He didn’t ask for more permission. He didn’t need to. He positioned himself at her entrance, his other hand gripping her hip, fingers biting into her flesh. “Now you’re going to take me. Every inch.”
He pushed into her in one slow, inexorable thrust. She was slick, open from her orgasm, but he was big, stretching her deliciously, filling her completely. A sharp, broken cry tore from her lips as her forehead dropped against the cool glass. He paused, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust, letting her feel the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him.
Then he began to move.
His thrusts were deep, controlled, and punishingly perfect. He set a relentless rhythm, each drive of his hips pushing her against the mirror. The room filled with the sounds of their joining: wet, slick flesh, his guttural grunts, her high, desperate whimpers. He watched her in the mirror, his eyes locked on her face, studying every ripple of pleasure, every clench of her eyelids.
“That’s it,” he snarled, his pace increasing. “Take it. You can take it. You’re so fucking tight. So perfect.”
His words were filthy, raw gasoline on the fire he’d built inside her. A new tension coiled, low and deep. She was climbing again, faster this time, propelled by the brutal, perfect friction of his cock inside her and the degrading, exhilarating spectacle of their reflection—a respected FBI agent being fucked senseless against an interrogation mirror by the man she’d secretly wanted for a decade.
One of his hands slipped around her hip, his fingers finding her clit again. He rubbed rough, tight circles exactly where she needed it.
“Come for me again, Teresa,” he demanded, his voice shattered with his own restraint. “I want to feel you come on my cock. Do it.”
The command, the direct stimulation, the overwhelming fullness—it was too much. Her second orgasm seized her, a deeper, more convulsive wave that tore a raw, ragged scream from her throat. Her inner muscles clamped down on him, milking him, pulling him deeper.
With a final, brutal thrust, he drove into her, his own control shattering. He buried his face in her neck with a shattered groan, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself inside her in hot, pulsing jets. They collapsed together against the mirror, slick with sweat, their breaths loud and ragged in the silent, dark room.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing and the frantic beat of her heart against his chest. The green EXIT light cast their tangled reflection in a ghostly glow. He softened inside her, but didn’t move. He pressed a tender, fleeting kiss to her shoulder.
“See?” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “Strength.”
The door to the observation room, on the other side of the one-way mirror, burst open, flooding their space with blinding white light.
A silhouette stood in the doorway. Then a familiar, shocked voice cut through the aftermath.
“Jane? Lisbon? What in God’s name…”
It was Dennis Abbott.