Chapter 1: The Last Goodbye That Wasn't
The key was still under the faded clay pot of dead geraniums. His fingers closed around the cold metal, a stark contrast to the heat burning through him. He didn’t knock. The lock gave way with a solid thunk that felt too loud in the quiet night.
He found her in the living room, a silhouette against the single lamp’s weak fight against the darkness. It wasn’t the dim light that stole his breath, or the fact she was still in her work clothes, blazer discarded, sleeves rolled up. It was the suitcases. Two of them, lined up by the door like obedient soldiers. Packed. Zipped. Ready.
Her back was to him, shoulders set in that stubborn line he knew so well. She was leaving. Really leaving.
“Going somewhere, Lisbon?” His voice was quieter than he intended, rough around the edges.
She spun, a hand flying to her chest. Her eyes, wide and dark, flashed with surprise, then anger, then something else he couldn’t quite name. “Jane. What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
“The geraniums are dead.” He took a step into the room, his gaze locked on hers. The air was thick, heavy with all the things they never said.
“I’ve been busy.” She crossed her arms, a defensive gesture he saw right through. “It’s late. You should go.”
“You’re running.” He stated it as a fact, taking another step. The space between them crackled.
“I’m transferring. It’s a promotion. It’s what people do.” Her words were clipped, professional, a shield. “It’s what I should have done years ago.”
“Why now?”
“Why not now?” She shot back, her voice rising. “What is there to stay for, Jane? Hmm? Another decade of you living on my couch? Drinking my tea? Dragging my team into chaos?”
He was in front of her now, close enough to see the pulse hammering at the base of her throat. Close enough to smell the faint scent of her shampoo and the coffee she’d probably been drinking to stay awake. “You tell me.”
Her jaw tightened. She looked away, toward the suitcases, her escape route. “There’s nothing to say.”
That was the lie that broke him. The final, flimsy barrier.
His hand came up, not to strike, but to cradle the side of her face. His thumb stroked her cheekbone. She flinched, but she didn’t pull away. Her breath hitched, a tiny, fractured sound.
“Teresa,” he whispered, and her name had never felt so sacred on his tongue.
Then his other hand tangled in her hair, gently but firmly, tilting her head back. His mouth found hers.
It wasn’t a question. It was an answer. A claiming. A desperate, possessive heat that shattered her professional composure into a thousand glittering pieces. She made a muffled sound against his lips, part protest, part surrender. Her hands came up, flat against his chest, but they didn’t push him away. They fisted in the fabric of his shirt, holding on.
He walked her back until her shoulders met the wall, the impact a soft thud. He pressed into her, his knee sliding between her thighs, and she gasped, her head falling back against the plaster. The world narrowed to this: the taste of her, the feel of her body yielding against his, the frantic beat of her heart he could feel through his own.
When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathing like they’d run a marathon. Her eyes were closed, lips swollen. He rested his forehead against hers.
“Don’t,” he breathed, the word ragged. “Don’t you dare walk away from this.”
Her eyes opened. The green was deep, liquid, full of a fear he understood completely. It was the same fear that lived in him. The fear of wanting something this much.
“Jane…” Her voice was a wreck.
“Patrick.” He corrected softly, his thumb tracing her bottom lip. “When I’m kissing you like I’m dying for it, you call me Patrick.”
A shudder ran through her. She looked at him, truly looked at him, and he saw the fortress walls around her heart crumble. She was scared. But she was here.
He lowered his head again, his lips finding the sensitive skin beneath her ear. She whimpered, her fingers tightening in his hair. “You don’t get to leave,” he murmured against her throat, his voice low and certain. “Not until you know exactly what you’re trying to leave behind.”
He captured her mouth again, slower this time, deeper. A promise. A beginning. Her suitcase was a silent, irrelevant sentinel by the door. For now, it was forgotten. There was only this, the long-overdue collision of two people who had been circling each other for a lifetime.
His hands slid from her hair, down the tense line of her back, settling firmly on her hips. He held her there, pinned between the solid wall and the harder line of his body. Then he moved, a deliberate roll of his hips that ground the aching center of her against the muscular ridge of his thigh.
A sharp, broken sound escaped her, part gasp, part sob. Her eyes, wide and dark, locked on his.
“I’m going to take you to your bedroom,” he said, his voice a low, rough whisper against her lips. “I’m going to lay you down on those sensible cotton sheets you insist on buying and I’m going to undress you so slowly it feels like torture. I’m going to learn every sound you make, Teresa. Every sigh, every gasp. I’m going to find out what it takes to make you forget your own name, forget about transfers, forget everything that isn’t my hands on you and my mouth on you.”
He shifted his weight, increasing the pressure, and her head fell back against the wall, a shudder wracking her frame. Her fingers dug into his shoulders.
“And when you’re trembling, when you’re begging me, I’m going to be inside you.” He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the frantic pulse in her throat. “I’m going to watch you come apart for me. I’m going to feel it. And you’re going to know, without a single doubt, that walking away from this was never an option.”
His words weren’t a suggestion. They were a truth, laid bare in the lamplit space between them. The air itself seemed to vibrate with it.
For a long moment, she just stared at him, her chest rising and falling with sharp, shallow breaths. The part of her that was Agent Lisbon, the woman who gave orders and maintained control, screamed in protest. This was chaos. This was everything she’d spent a career avoiding.
But the look in his eyes—the fierce, unguarded need—it dismantled her.
“Do it, Teresa.” His voice was low, a rough caress that brooked no argument. His hands tightened on her hips, anchoring her. “Grind against my leg. Right here. Right now. I want to feel you come apart.”
A hot flush of shame and want spread through her. She shook her head, a tiny, frantic movement. “Jane… Patrick… I can’t…”
“You can.” He didn’t move, didn’t lessen the pressure of his thigh. He simply held her gaze, his blue eyes seeing straight through every one of her defenses. “You want to. So do it. For me.”
The command, the sheer audacity of it, should have made her shove him away. Instead, a tremor started deep inside her. Her fingers, still fisted in his shirt, trembled. She swallowed hard, her throat dry.
Then, with a shuddering exhale that felt like surrender, she moved.
It was hesitant at first, a small, awkward shift of her hips. The friction was a jolt, a bright, shocking spark against the sensitive bundle of nerves. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her lips.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice thick with approval. “Again.”
She did it again, less hesitant this time. The fabric of her trousers, the solid muscle of his thigh, it was all too much and not enough. Her eyes slid shut, unable to bear the intensity of his stare as a slow, building rhythm took over. This was madness. She was pressed against a wall in her own living room, fully clothed, chasing a climax under his direct, unwavering command. It was the most vulnerable, the most exposed, she had ever felt.
And it was the most alive.
Her movements became less controlled, more frantic. The heat coiled tight in her belly, spiraling outward. She was panting now, little gasps that she couldn’t suppress. Her forehead dropped to his shoulder, her body bowing into the sensation. The world dissolved into the relentless, building pressure and the sound of his breathing in her ear.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his hand moving from her hip to the small of her back, holding her steady as her legs began to shake. “Let go. Come for me, Teresa.”
It was the permission she didn’t know she needed. A broken cry was torn from her throat as the tension shattered, wave after wave of blinding pleasure crashing through her. She clung to him, her entire body convulsing against his, the strength leaving her limbs in a dizzying rush.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the faint hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. The aftermath was a profound, humming silence.
Slowly, carefully, he shifted, taking her full weight as she slumped against him, boneless and spent. He pressed a soft kiss to her temple.
Her suitcases by the door looked like artifacts from another life. A life she was no longer sure she could ever go back to.
A life she was no longer sure she could ever go back to.
His voice was a low vibration against her ear, pulling her from the daze. “That was the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.”
He didn’t let her formulate a response, didn’t give her time to feel the flush of embarrassment that threatened to follow the confession. In one smooth motion, he bent, hooked an arm behind her knees, and lifted her. She was no small woman, but he carried her as if she weighed nothing, her body cradled against his chest. She didn’t protest, just let her head fall against his shoulder, her arms looping around his neck. The world tilted, the lamplit living room blurring as he walked them down the short hall.
Her bedroom was dark, the blinds drawn. He didn’t turn on the light. He set her on her feet beside the bed, the familiar quilt soft under her bare feet she hadn’t realized were bare. He sat on the edge of the mattress, the springs groaning softly. In the gloom, his eyes were twin points of intense blue light.
“Now,” he said, his voice calm, absolute. “Strip for me.”
The air left her lungs. This was different from the frantic heat against the wall. This was deliberate, a performance. A command.
“Patrick…” His name was a whisper, a question.
“I want to look at you.” He didn’t move, didn’t reach for her. He simply waited. “All of you.”
Her fingers felt thick, clumsy. She reached for the first button of her blouse, fumbling it open. Then the next. The silence was heavy, broken only by the rustle of fabric and the frantic beat of her own heart. She let the blouse fall to the floor. Her trousers followed, then her bra, her underwear. Each article felt like a layer of her identity being shed until she stood completely exposed in the dark room, the cool air a shock against her heated skin.
“Turn around.”
She obeyed, rotating slowly on the spot, her arms held stiffly at her sides. She felt his gaze like a physical touch, tracing the line of her spine, the curve of her hips.
“Slower.”
She closed her eyes, forcing her muscles to relax, letting the rotation become a languid turn. She heard his sharp intake of breath. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated appreciation that sent a fresh wave of heat through her.
“Come here.”
She turned to face him, taking the two steps that brought her to where he sat. He didn’t touch her. He just looked, his eyes devouring every detail in the dim light.
“Touch yourself,” he murmured. “Drag your fingers through your wetness. I want to taste you.”
A jolt, sharp and electric, went through her. Her eyes flew to his, searching for a joke, a tease. There was none. Only a raw, focused hunger. Her hand moved as if guided by a will other than her own, sliding down her stomach, through the dark curls, into the slick heat between her legs. A soft gasp escaped her as her own fingers made contact. She was so sensitive, so open.
She pulled her hand back, her fingertips glistening.
“Now,” he said, his voice husky. “Give them to me.”
She raised her trembling hand to his mouth. His eyes never left hers as his lips parted. He took her fingers into the warmth of his mouth, his tongue swirling around them, sucking gently, cleaning every trace of her from her skin. The intimacy of the act was so profound, so shockingly lewd, that her knees felt weak. He released her fingers with a soft pop.
“Your breasts,” he commanded softly. “Offer them to me.”
Teresa was shocked at her reaction to him. There was no hesitation now, no internal debate. A deep, submissive instinct she never knew she possessed had taken hold. She cupped her breasts, lifting them, presenting her stiff, aching nipples to his mouth.
He leaned forward, his hands braced on his knees, and took one pebbled peak into his mouth. He didn’t just suckle; he worshipped. His tongue lashed and circled, his lips pulled and nibbled, until she was crying out, her fingers tangling in his sandy hair, holding him to her. The sensation was a direct, live wire to her core, a sharp, pulling pleasure that made her back arch and a low moan tear from her throat. This wasn't the careful, negotiated intimacy she was used to. This was surrender. And it was the most terrifying, most liberating feeling she had ever known.
And it was the most terrifying, most liberating feeling she had ever known.
His mouth was relentless, a hot, wet brand of possession that seemed to pull a thread directly from her nipple to the aching, empty core of her. She was panting, her head thrown back, her body bowed into the exquisite torture. Just when the sensation became almost too sharp, almost painful, he would soothe it with the flat of his tongue, only to begin again with a new, devastating rhythm.
“Patrick,” she gasped, her voice strangled. “I can’t… it’s too much.”
“It’s not enough,” he murmured against her damp skin, his breath a cool shock. “It’s nowhere near enough.”
In one fluid motion, his hands locked around her waist and he pulled her forward, maneuvering her until she was straddling his thighs. He spread her legs wide, his grip firm, positioning her so she was utterly open, the denim of his jeans a rough, frustrating barrier against her inner thighs. She instinctively tried to press her legs together, to find some friction, some relief from the building tension, but he held her fast.
“Uh-uh,” he chided softly, his eyes gleaming in the dark. “No hiding.”
He dipped his head again, his mouth finding her other breast. This time, his technique changed. It wasn’t just sucking; it was a detailed, obsessive exploration. His lips closed around the areola, pulling it deep into the heat of his mouth while the very tip of his tongue flicked rapidly, maddeningly, over the hypersensitive peak. He nipped gently with his teeth, a sharp, bright spark that made her cry out and her hands fly to his shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.
The sensation wasn’t just localized anymore. It was spreading, a wildfire under her skin, a strange, deep, pulling ache that started in her breast and radiated outward, coiling low in her belly. It was a different kind of need, a profound, full-body yearning that had no focus and everywhere at once.
“What… what are you doing?” she breathed, her body beginning to tremble uncontrollably.
He switched back to the first breast, his attention even more focused, more intense. He was speaking against her skin, his words a low, rough vibration she felt more than heard. “I’m right here. Just feel it, Teresa. Let it happen.”
The coil tightened. Her vision speckled. The world dissolved into the rhythm of his mouth and the shocking, electric signals firing from her nipple directly to her central nervous system. It was a crescendo with no release, a peak that kept building in a place that had never known one. She was sobbing, little desperate sounds, her body rigid, her fingers clenched in his hair.
Then it broke.
It wasn't the shattering, liquid crash she was used to. This was a detonation. A silent, seismic shock that originated from the very spot his mouth claimed and ripped through her entire frame. Her back arched violently, a soundless scream caught in her throat. Every muscle locked and then released in a great, shuddering wave that left her boneless, hollowed out, and utterly spent.
She collapsed forward against him, her forehead resting on his shoulder, her body wracked with aftershocks. She was crying, slow, quiet tears of pure, overwhelmed sensation. She had never, ever felt anything like it. It was as if he had rewired her pleasure centers right there in the dark.
His arms came around her, holding her steady as she trembled. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the throbbing, oversensitive peak. “There,” he whispered, his voice thick with something like awe. “Now you know.”
His arms were a steady anchor in the receding tide of her climax. She floated there, boneless and breathless, her skin humming. His voice was a low vibration against her ear.
“Such a good girl for me.”
The words shouldn’t have landed the way they did. They were simple, absurdly so. But they seeped into a part of her she’d kept locked, a part that craved approval not for her competence, but for her surrender. A fresh, different heat bloomed in her cheeks, a flush of pure, uncomplicated pleasure that had nothing to do with physical sensation.
His hand slid from her back, down over the curve of her hip, his touch proprietary and sure. His fingers traced a feather-light path along the inside of her thigh, higher, until they were combing through damp curls. He didn’t press. He didn’t seek entry. His fingertips just barely, maddeningly, brushed against her clit, a ghost of a touch that made her jolt.
Instinctively, her hand flew down, grabbing his wrist, trying to force his hand to where she needed pressure, friction, anything more substantial than this torturous whisper.
He resisted effortlessly, his muscles like iron under her grip. “Ah-ah,” he chided, his voice soft but firm. “Hands on my shoulders. Look at me.”
For a heartbeat, she held on, a silent battle of wills. Then, with a shuddering exhale, she released his wrist and placed her palms flat on his shoulders. She forced her eyes to meet his. The blue was almost black in the dim room, his expression utterly focused.
“Good girl,” he repeated, and his fingers resumed their lazy, teasing circuit, avoiding the one spot that screamed for attention. The contrast between the command in his voice and the lightness of his touch was making her dizzy.
“I have imagined these,” he began, his gaze dropping to her breasts, still peaked and sensitive from his mouth. “For years. Especially in those fitted shirts you wear. The white one, with the three little buttons at the top.” His thumb flicked over her nipple, once, making her gasp. “Sometimes, when you’d take your jacket off and it was just the two of us in the office, I could see them. Just the outline. Enough to make my mouth water.”
He brought his fingers up from between her legs. Her eyes, locked on his, watched as he brought them to his lips. His tongue swept out, slowly, deliberately, cleaning her moisture from his skin. The intimacy was so profound it stole the air from her lungs.
Then his hand returned, his fingers now tracing lazy, wet circles around her entrance, teasing, promising, but not pushing in. Not yet.
“I’ve known your scent for years,” he murmured, his voice husky. “And you taste exactly the way I imagined.”
“How?” The word was a strained whisper, torn from her. “How could you possibly know?”
A slow, knowing smirk touched his lips. “You spent a lot of time standing by the couch. Where my head was.”
The realization hit her like a physical blow. All those times she’d leaned over to hand him a file, to point something out on his board, to argue with him while he lounged with that infuriating calm. He’d been there, breathing her in.
She blushed, a deep, mortified, thrilling heat that spread from her chest to her hairline. She dropped her forehead to his shoulder, hiding her face.
His whisper was a warm caress against her ear. “I used to comment on your perfume every single time I could smell it. ‘New shampoo, Lisbon?’ ‘Is that lilac?’ ‘Something’s different today.’ You never noticed how often it was.”
She had. She’d just thought he was being observant, his con-man’s mind noting details. The truth, the sheer predatory focus of it, left her stunned. She lifted her head, her eyes wide with a shock that had nothing to do with her nakedness or their position.
He watched the understanding dawn on her face, his smirk softening into something more genuine, more possessive. His fingers finally, finally, pressed against her, a slow, deliberate pressure that made her eyes flutter closed.
“Eyes on me, Teresa,” he commanded softly.
She forced them open, her vision swimming.
“I’ve been waiting,” he said, his voice low and raw as his finger began to slide inside, “a very, very long time.”