Chapter 6: The Reckoning
The plaster cast of the footprint sat on the corner of Teresa’s desk like a fossilized accusation. For the rest of the day, it was the only thing in the room not charged with subtext. Patrick found his legendary focus fraying at the edges, dissolving into a haze of soft gray fabric and calculated proximity.
By midday, it was a deliberate campaign. Teresa would lean over the cast, pointing out a detail in the tread, and the cowl neck of her top would dip, revealing the elegant line of her shoulder and a whisper of the lace trim of her bra. She’d straighten up, smoothing the fabric back into place with a sigh, as if it were a continual, innocent inconvenience. When she walked to the coffee station, she brushed against him, her arm sliding along his back as she reached for a stir stick. The contact was electric, purposeful.
He’d be in the middle of articulating a theory about the synthetic fiber’s likely origin—likely from a moving blanket, the kind used by rental vans—and she’d shift in her chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs, the movement drawing his eye. He’d lose his train of thought. A half-second of silence would hang in the air before he’d recover, his voice smooth again as he finished the sentence.
No one would notice the hiccup in his rhythm unless they knew him on a cellular level. Cho, sharp as he was, gave him one long, flat look across the bullpen, his dark eyes narrowing a fraction before returning to his screen. The only person who caught every single lapse was Teresa. He saw it each time: the slight, barely-there quirk at the corner of her mouth, the tiny crinkle at the edges of her green eyes that wasn’t quite a smile but was its more dangerous cousin—amusement. Satisfaction. The little minx was savoring the power she currently wielded over him, and it was as infuriating as it was intoxicating.
By three o’clock, the atmosphere between them was a live wire. The case had plateaued, waiting on lab returns for the fiber match. The professional tension had bled entirely into the personal. Patrick leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head, watching her pretend to be absorbed in a forensics report. He decided it was time to push back.
“I’m going to get more of this swill they call coffee,” Teresa announced, standing and stretching. Her shirt rode up an inch, exposing a strip of taut, pale skin above her waistband. “Anyone want anything?”
A chorus of ‘no’s’ answered her. She patted her pockets, frowning. “Dammit. Left my phone in the car. Back in a sec.”
She headed for the elevator. Patrick waited a beat, then stood, adjusting his cuffs with an air of nonchalance. “Think I’ll grab some air.”
He reached the elevator bank just as the doors were sighing shut. He slipped a hand in, triggering the sensor, and slid inside. The space was empty except for her. The doors closed, sealing them in the sterile, humming box.
He didn’t stand beside her. He moved directly behind her, so close the heat from his body radiated against her back. He leaned in, his mouth a breath away from the delicate skin where her neck met her shoulder. He didn’t touch her. He just let her feel the warmth of his breath on her, let her hear the soft sound of his breathing in the quiet.
“Enjoy yourself now, Teresa,” he murmured, his voice a low, intimate vibration in the confined space. “I’m keeping score. And you know how I am about payback.”
He felt the shiver run through her. It was a full-body tremor, subtle but unmistakable. She didn’t turn. She held herself perfectly still, staring at the numbered buttons as they lit up and went dark. The elevator descended, the mechanism whirring softly.
Just as the doors opened onto the concrete vastness of the parking garage, she turned. She spun on her heel, facing him. Her expression was serene, but her eyes were molten.
“You don’t have what it takes to follow up on that threat,” she said, her voice clear and challenging in the echoing space.
Patrick’s eyes widened. A slow, genuine smile crept across his lips, transforming his face. It wasn’t his usual charming mask. It was something sharper, more predatory, and utterly delighted.
“Is that a dare?” he asked, the words hanging between them.
In that second, he saw it. Not just defiance, but heat. A raw, answering hunger that mirrored his own. She wasn’t just deflecting him. She was inviting him. He realized, with a jolt that felt like stepping off a cliff, that he wasn’t the only one playing this game. She was all in.
The elevator doors began to close. She sidestepped him and walked out into the garage without another word, her boots clicking decisively on the concrete. Patrick followed, his heart hammering a violent rhythm against his ribs. The game had just changed. The rules were ashes.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of excruciating politeness. They discussed fiber analysis. They speculated on the owner of the work boot. It was all perfectly professional, and every word was a lie. The real conversation thrummed silently in the glances that held a beat too long, in the way her finger tapped restlessly on the desk, in the deliberate calm of his posture that felt like a held breath.
At 7:30 PM, the team began to pack up. “Tomorrow, we run the tread pattern through every boot manufacturer database in the country,” Teresa said, shutting down her computer. “I’ll follow up on it first thing.”
Cho nodded, grabbing his jacket. “Night, Lisbon.”
Patrick lingered, pretending to study the plaster cast as Wylie and Cho headed for the elevator. Teresa collected her bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Goodnight, Jane.”
“Goodnight, Lisbon.”
She left. He counted to sixty, slowly, then followed.
The parking garage was a cathedral of shadows and concrete pillars, the fluorescent lights buzzing and flickering in their cages. The air was cool and smelled of oil and dust. He saw her sedan parked near the exit, its tail lights already on. She was waiting at the security gate for the slow, rolling barrier to lift.
He moved silently, a ghost in the half-light. He reached her car just as the gate began its agonizing ascent. He opened the passenger door and slid in, the movement fluid and sudden.
Teresa jumped, a gasp catching in her throat. “What the hell, Jane—”
He reached across the center console. His hand didn’t go for the wheel. It settled high on her thigh, his fingers splayed, pressing through the fabric of her slacks. The heat of his palm was a brand. The possessiveness of the grip was absolute.
“You’ve been teasing me all day, Teresa,” he said, his voice stripped of all its melodic charm, leaving only a rough, dark hunger. “Now it’s my turn.”
She stared at him, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. The gate was fully open. The exit yawned before them, a rectangle of dusky evening sky.
“Drive,” he said.
“Where?”
“Just drive. Pull over when I tell you.”
A wild, reckless light flared in her eyes. She didn’t argue. She put the car in gear and eased through the gate, turning not toward the main road but onto a quieter service lane that looped behind a chain of low, dark office buildings. After a block, he pointed to a secluded corner of a largely empty lot, shadowed by a stand of crepe myrtles.
“There.”
She guided the car into the space and cut the engine. The sudden silence was deafening. The only light came from a distant, sickly yellow security lamp. Inside the car, the world contracted to the sound of their breathing.
Patrick didn’t hesitate. He unclipped his seatbelt and then hers, the metallic click loud in the quiet. He leaned over her, his body caging her against the driver’s seat. His scent—sandalwood and something uniquely, frustratingly him—filled her space. His eyes held hers, and there was no amusement in them now, only intent.
He reached down, his fingers finding the lever on the side of her seat. He pulled. With a smooth mechanical sigh, the seat back reclined, lowering her beneath him.
“Patrick,” she breathed, the name a protest that held no conviction.
“You dared me,” he reminded her, his voice a murmur against her cheek, “And we aren’t on the job.” His hands went to the hem of her soft grey shirt. He pushed it up, gathering the fabric slowly, revealing the flat plane of her stomach, the gentle curve of her ribs, the plain black lace of her bra. The air in the car was cool on her exposed skin. He made a low, appreciative sound in his throat.
His fingers went to the front clasp of her bra. It gave way with a soft snick. He pushed the cups aside, baring her to the dim light. She arched off the seat, a helpless sound escaping her as the cool air hit her heated skin.
“You’ve been driving me out of my mind,” he whispered, his gaze devouring her. “All day. With these.”
He lowered his head.
His mouth was hot and devastatingly soft. He didn’t rush. He took his time, his lips and tongue teasing, exploring, worshipping. He drew a tight peak into his mouth, suckling gently, then lavishing it with attention until she cried out, her hands flying to his hair, tangling in the blonde strands, not to push him away but to hold him there. Her hips shifted restlessly against the leather seat.
He moved to her other breast, giving it the same dedicated, torturous attention. His hand, which had been resting on her thigh, slid higher, his thumb pressing a firm, rhythmic circle against the inseam of her slacks, the pressure maddening through the layers of fabric. She was panting, small, desperate sounds she didn’t recognize as her own.
He lifted his head, his lips glistening, his breathing ragged. His eyes, dark with need, searched her flushed face.
“Do you still think I don’t have what it takes?” he asked, the words gritted out.
She could only shake her head, her mind blank of everything but sensation. The ache between her legs was a palpable, throbbing thing, a second heartbeat demanding answer. He saw the surrender in her hazy eyes, the parted lips, and it shattered the last of his control.
He lifted his head and devoured her mouth.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claiming. He poured every hour of frustrated wanting, every calculated tease from the long day, into the fierce pressure of his lips and tongue. She met him with equal hunger, her hands clawing at his shoulders, pulling him closer until the console dug into his ribs. The world narrowed to the slick heat of her mouth, the taste of coffee and Teresa, the tiny, desperate sounds vibrating in her throat. He kissed her until his lungs burned and stars prickled at the edge of his vision, until they broke apart gasping, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same ragged air.
His right hand, which had been a steady maddeningly light tease between her legs, cupped her through her slacks, his palm a searing brand, his fingers applying a precise, rhythmic pressure that was just shy of what she needed. It was a promise and a punishment. She whimpered, bucking against his hand, but he held the maddening, gentle pace, his mouth trailing hot, wet kisses along her jaw.
“You think I didn’t notice?” he whispered, his voice a gravelly scrape against her ear. His left hand slid up her torso, his thumb brushing roughly over her peaked nipple. “Every look. Every brush in the bullpen. This shirt.” He pinched the nipple lightly, rolling it, and she cried out. “You wanted my attention. You have it.”
He told her everything then, his lips moving against the shell of her ear. The words were graphic, specific, and utterly devoid of his usual charming poetry. He described in crude, vivid detail how he planned to strip her, bend her over her own desk, and take her from behind while the plaster cast of the footprint watched from the corner. He whispered about the exact way he would make her come on his tongue in the back of his car, about how he would fuck her slowly in his Airstream until she forgot her own name. Each sentence was a dark, delicious violation, a cracking open of the careful world they inhabited.
A second later, his mouth was back on her breasts.
He sucked one deep into the heat of his mouth, his tongue lashing the taut peak, while his fingers continued their torment through her clothing. He switched to the other, teeth grazing with careful threat, then soothing with the flat of his tongue. His hands and mouth worked in a ruthless, synchronized campaign, building the tension in her body to a breaking point. He gave her everything and nothing, the dual sensations concentrating into a single, white-hot point of need.
Her back arched off the seat, a strangled gasp tearing from her throat. The orgasm ripped through her, unexpected and devastating, sourced entirely from the relentless pull of his mouth and the frustrating, perfect pressure of his hand. It left her shaking, blind, her fingers tangled in his hair as waves of sensation rolled through her, reducing the world to pulse and heat.
While she tried to catch her breath, he lifted his head. He watched the aftershocks animate her face in the shadows, her lips swollen from his kisses, her eyes closed. He smoothed her shirt down, his movements oddly tender now. He refastened her bra with practiced ease, then leaned close again, his breath warm on her damp cheek.
“That’s for the storage closet text,” he murmured, his tone conversational, almost light. “And for the shirt. And for every time you looked at me today like you knew a secret.”
He traced her lower lip with his thumb. “So here are the new rules. When you’re ready to stop playing? When you look me in the eye and confess what you really want, and beg me to fuck you?” He paused, letting the words hang. “That’s when I finish this. Until then, Teresa, every tease will cost you. Just like this.”
He kissed her, once, softly. It was a brutal contrast to everything that had come before.
Then he slipped out of her car. The interior light flashed on and off. The door shut with a solid, final thunk. She lay there, reclined in the driver’s seat, clothing in disarray, body humming, and watched him walk away. His silhouette moved calmly across the empty parking lot, hands in his pockets, back toward the distant, glowing FBI building where his own car was parked. He never looked back.
The cool air from the absent passenger seat washed over her. She fumbled for the seat lever, pulling herself upright with trembling hands. She fixed her clothes, her fingers clumsy. The steering wheel was cool and solid under her palms. She rested her forehead against it, listening to the echo of her own heart. The scent of him—sandalwood and sex—filled the car, a ghost already haunting the space he’d vacated.
She started the engine. The headlights cut two bright swaths through the darkness, illuminating the path he had just walked. It was empty now. She put the car in drive, her mind a perfect, stunned blank. The only coherent thought surfaced as she turned onto the main road, heading toward the lonely silence of her apartment.
He’d been keeping score. And he’d just evened it.
And he’d just evened it.
Patrick walked through the concrete labyrinth, his footsteps echoing with a deliberate, measured rhythm that belied the riot inside him. The taste of her skin was a phantom brand on his tongue, salty and sweet. Her scent, a mix of citrus shampoo and her own unique warmth, clung to his clothes, his hands, his very breath, a tantalizing ghost with every inhale.
His cock throbbed, a hard, insistent ache trapped against the fabric of his suit pants. The memory of her arching beneath him, the feel of her nipple hardening against his tongue, the choked, desperate sound she’d made as she came—it all played on a vicious, perfect loop behind his eyes. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around, to stride back to her car, yank open the door, and take her right there in the driver’s seat.
He wanted to fuck her until the windows fogged, until her carefully constructed control shattered into a thousand pleading fragments. He clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists inside his pockets. He forced his breathing to even out, willed the frantic hammering of his heart to slow. This had been too long in the making, years of hidden glances and suppressed want, to be over in a frantic, cramped tangle of limbs in a government-issued sedan.
He wanted more. He wanted her naked and spread across his sheets in the soft lamplight of his Airstream, not braced against a steering wheel. He wanted time, hours of it, to explore every inch of her with his mouth and his hands, to hear her say his name without the prefix of ‘Jane’, to watch her completely surrender. He wanted her soft, and open, and utterly submitted. The thought of that victory, of that total claiming, was a cold shock of water on the heat of his immediate need.
He reached his vintage Citroën, its sleek lines a stark contrast to the utilitarian garage. Unlocking it, he slid inside, the familiar scent of leather and old books offering no sanctuary from her. He gripped the steering wheel, rested his forehead against it, and let out a long, ragged breath that fogged the windshield. The game wasn’t over. It had just entered a new, exquisite phase of mutual torment. He had raised the stakes in that parking lot, and she would either fold or raise him back. The anticipation of her next move was its own kind of pleasure, sharp and sweet.
He started the car, the engine purring to life. As he drove out of the garage, he passed the dark, empty lot where her car had been. It was gone. She had left. The reality of her driving away, of the space between them widening with each city block, was a physical ache in his chest. He pictured her hands, white-knuckled on the wheel, her body still humming from his touch. He wondered if she was angry. If she was aroused. If she was planning her retaliation right now.
A slow, genuine smile touched his lips as he merged into the Austin night traffic. He was content to play. He would wait. He would watch. And when she finally broke, when she gave him the words, the admission, the begging he’d demanded, it would be everything. He guided the car toward the outskirts of the city, toward the silent Airstream, already imagining the shape of her in the center of his bed. The wait would be its own delicious hell. He was, after all, a patient man when the prize was worth it. And she was worth every second of the agony.