Chapter 2: The Actress, the Tent, and the Spy
The retreat was Craig's idea.
Not the retreat itself—that was some corporate wellness initiative HR had been pushing for months, a weekend of "team-building" and "strategic alignment" at a resort two hours north of the city. But attending it, staying overnight, pretending to be the kind of couple who did things like this—that had been Craig's idea.
"It'll be good for us," he'd said, packing his duffel bag with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever. "Get away from the city. Fresh air. You can relax."
Relax. As if relaxation was possible when Jack Linden would be there.
Blake had tried to beg off. Claimed a migraine. Claimed work. Claimed anything she could think of. But Craig had looked at her with those hopeful eyes, the ones that still believed in happy endings and honest marriages, and she'd caved.
So here she was. Standing at the edge of a moonlit clearing, clutching a glass of wine she had no intention of drinking, watching her husband get congratulated by strangers.
The bonfire crackled and spat, sending sparks spiraling into the black sky. Canvas tents dotted the treeline, their sheer linen walls glowing from within like paper lanterns. The forest smelled of pine resin and woodsmoke, and somewhere nearby, someone was laughing too loudly.
Craig was in his element.
"I still can't believe it," he was saying to a group of mid-level managers who'd gravitated toward him like moths to a flame. "Three years. Three years of waiting, and then out of nowhere—"
"Out of nowhere," Blake echoed under her breath.
She took a sip of wine. It tasted like ash.
Across the clearing, Jack stood with his back to the fire, his silhouette sharp against the flames. He was talking to a woman Blake recognized immediately—Monica Vale, the actress. The one who'd been in that prestige drama everyone was obsessed with last fall. The one with the legs that went on for miles and the smile that made men stupid.
Jack's arm was draped around her waist.
Blake's grip tightened on her glass.
It wasn't jealousy. She told herself that. It was disgust. Disgust at the way he touched Monica's hip with the same hand that had cupped Blake's face. Disgust at the way he leaned down to murmur something in her ear, making her laugh. Disgust at the way he looked at her like she was the only person in the world.
The same way he'd looked at Blake.
"You okay?"
She startled. Craig had appeared at her elbow, his face flushed with happiness and probably too much whiskey.
"Yeah." She forced a smile. "Just tired."
"You should eat something. They've got those little bacon-wrapped things."
"I'm fine."
Craig studied her for a moment, his brow furrowing. "You've been quiet all night. Is something wrong?"
Wrong. What a word.
"No," she said. "I'm proud of you. That's all."
His face lit up. He pulled her into a hug, his arms warm and solid around her, and Blake closed her eyes and tried to feel nothing.
"I couldn't have done it without you," he murmured into her hair. "You know that, right? You're the one who keeps me going."
Blake's throat tightened.
"I know," she said.
Over Craig's shoulder, she watched Jack lead Monica away from the fire, his hand pressed to the small of her back. They disappeared into the treeline, heading toward the row of private tents at the far edge of the clearing.
Blake pulled back from Craig's embrace.
"I need some air," she said.
"You sure? I can come with—"
"No." She kissed his cheek, quick and mechanical. "Stay. Enjoy yourself. You deserve it."
She walked away before he could argue.
The forest was darker than she'd expected.
The path wound through the trees, lit only by the occasional lantern strung between branches. The sounds from the bonfire faded with every step—the laughter, the clinking glasses, the crackle of flames. By the time she reached the private tents, the only thing she could hear was her own heartbeat.
She told herself she was just walking. Just clearing her head. Just getting away from the noise.
But when she saw the light spilling from the largest tent, the one with the brass ring on the flap, she knew exactly where she was.
And she knew what she was doing.
Blake crept closer, her feet silent on the pine needles. Through a gap in the canvas, she could see inside.
Monica was on her knees.
Jack stood over her, his shirt already unbuttoned, his chest bare. He looked like something carved from stone—all hard lines and muscle, the kind of body that came from discipline and determination. His belt was unbuckled. His zipper was down.
"Open your mouth," he said.
Monica did.
Blake's stomach clenched.
She should look away. She should turn around and walk back to the bonfire and pretend she'd seen nothing. But her feet were rooted to the ground, and her eyes refused to close.
Jack's cock was thick and heavy in his hand. He guided it to Monica's lips, and she took him deep, her throat working, her head bobbing. Jack's head fell back, his jaw tightening, a low groan rumbling from his chest.
"That's it," he murmured. "Good girl."
The words hit Blake like a slap. She felt them in her spine, in her thighs, in the place between her legs that had no business responding.
"Fuck," Monica gasped, pulling back. A string of saliva connected her lips to the head of his cock. "You're so fucking big."
Jack smirked. "You're not the first to say that."
He pulled her to her feet and stripped her dress down in one motion. The fabric pooled at her ankles, leaving her in nothing but a lace thong that he promptly tore off. She yelped, but he silenced her with his mouth, kissing her hard, his hands gripping her ass.
Blake watched him bite Monica's bottom lip. Watched him drag his mouth down her throat, her collarbone, her breasts. Watched him suck one nipple into his mouth, then the other, while Monica moaned and clutched at his shoulders.
"On the bed," he said.
Monica climbed onto the canvas cot. The bedding was white, pristine, and she looked like a sacrifice laid out for slaughter. Jack stepped out of his pants and boxers, and—
Blake's breath caught.
He was hard. Fully, impossibly hard. The kind of hard that made women do stupid things.
He knelt between Monica's legs and pushed them wide. No preamble. No gentleness. Just his hand on her thigh, spreading her open.
"You want this?" he asked.
"Yes. God, yes."
Jack drove into her with one brutal thrust.
Monica screamed.
He didn't stop. Didn't slow down. He fucked her like he was punishing her for something, his hips slamming against hers, his hands pinning her wrists to the mattress. The cot creaked and groaned beneath them.
"Is this what you wanted?" he growled. "You wanted me to fuck you like this?"
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
"Say my name."
"Jack—"
"Louder."
"Jack!"
Blake couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure they could hear it, sure the whole goddamn camp could hear it.
But Jack didn't look up. He was focused on Monica, on the way she writhed beneath him, on the way her tits bounced with every thrust. He reached between them and rubbed her clit with his thumb, fast and rough, and Monica came apart with a shriek.
"Good girl," Jack said again. "Now turn over."
Monica scrambled onto her hands and knees. Jack grabbed her hips and pulled her back onto his cock without warning. She gasped, but he didn't give her time to adjust. He fucked her from behind, one hand fisted in her hair, the other slapping her ass hard enough to leave marks.
"You like that?" he said.
"Yes—"
"You like being fucked like a whore?"
"Yes—fuck—don't stop—"
Blake's hand was pressed to her mouth. Her thighs were pressed together. She was wet. Soaking. So disgustingly, shamefully wet that she wanted to die.
Then Jack's head turned.
Just a fraction.
Just enough.
His eyes cut sideways through the gap in the canvas, and they found her.
Blake froze.
He didn't stop. Didn't miss a stroke. His hips kept slamming into Monica, his hand kept cracking against her ass, but his eyes—those storm-gray eyes—were locked on Blake.
And then he smiled.
Slow. Knowing. Inevitable.
He mouthed one word.
Stay.
Blake should have run. She should have sprinted back through the forest and never looked back. She should have pretended she'd seen nothing, that her mind hadn't catalogued every detail, that her body wasn't screaming at her to climb into that tent and take Monica's place.
But she didn't.
She stood there, breathless and aching, and watched Jack Linden fuck another woman while looking straight into her eyes.
And when he came—when he pulled out and spilled across Monica's ass, his jaw clenched, a guttural groan tearing from his throat—Blake felt it in her bones.
Monica collapsed onto the cot. Jack stood there, chest heaving, sweat gleaming on his skin.
He didn't look away from Blake.
"Go clean up," he said to Monica.
"Hmm?"
"Go. Now."
Monica blinked, confused, but she was too spent to argue. She stumbled off the cot, grabbed her dress from the floor, and slipped out of the tent—through the back entrance, away from Blake.
Leaving them alone.
Jack reached down and picked up his boxers. He didn't put them on. He just held them, watching Blake through the gap in the canvas.
"You can come in," he said. "Or you can keep standing there like a coward. Either way, I know you're watching."
Blake's mouth opened. Nothing came out.
"The fire's still going," he continued. "Craig's probably looking for you." A pause. "Or maybe not. Maybe he's having too good a time celebrating his promotion to notice his wife is missing."
"Don't," Blake managed.
"Don't what?"
"Don't talk about him."
Jack tilted his head. "Why not? He's the reason you're here, isn't he? The reason you came to my office. The reason you're standing outside my tent at midnight, watching me fuck someone else."
"I wasn't—"
"You were." He stepped closer to the tent opening, close enough that she could smell the sex on him. "You were watching. And you liked it."
"I didn't."
"Liar."
Blake's hands were shaking. Her whole body was shaking.
"You want to know what I think?" Jack said softly.
"No."
"I think you came here because you couldn't stand the thought of me touching someone else. I think you've been thinking about me since that night in my office. I think you're so desperate for me to touch you that you'd rather torture yourself watching than admit you want it."
"You're wrong."
"Am I?" He reached through the gap and caught her wrist. His grip was firm, his skin still hot from exertion. "Then why are you still here?"
Blake couldn't answer.
Jack pulled her inside.
The tent smelled like sweat and sex and something darker—something that made her dizzy. The bedding was rumpled, still damp from what he'd just done, and she tried not to think about it.
Jack released her wrist and stepped back. His eyes traveled down her body, slow and deliberate, like he could see through her clothes.
"Take them off," he said.
"What?"
"Your clothes. Take them off."
"I'm not—"
"Either you're here because you want to be," Jack interrupted, "or you're here because you're a coward who can't admit what she wants. So which is it?"
Blake's jaw tightened.
She thought about Craig. About the way he'd hugged her by the fire, the way he'd said she was the one who kept him going. She thought about her marriage, her principles, her integrity—all the things she'd built her life on.
Then she thought about the way Jack's fingers had felt on her face. The way his eyes had burned through her. The way her body had betrayed her a thousand times since that night.
She reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head.
Jack watched.
She unbuttoned her jeans and pushed them down her hips. Stepped out of them. Stood there in nothing but her bra and underwear, her skin prickling in the cool night air.
"All of it," Jack said.
She unclasped her bra. Let it fall. Hooked her thumbs into her underwear and slid them down her legs.
Jack's eyes darkened.
"Come here."
She walked toward him. Her legs felt like they belonged to someone else. Her heart was a war drum in her chest.
When she was close enough to touch, Jack reached out and cupped her face in his hands. His thumbs traced her cheekbones, her jaw, the corners of her mouth.
"You have no idea," he murmured, "how long I've wanted to do this."
"Since the office?"
"Since before that." His thumb brushed her bottom lip. "Since the first time you walked into a meeting and told Marcus he was wrong about the quarterly projections. The look on his face—" He smiled. "I knew right then."
"Knew what?"
"That I had to have you."
He kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was a claiming—his mouth hard against hers, his tongue pushing past her lips, his hands sliding into her hair and pulling hard enough to make her gasp. He tasted like whiskey and sin, and Blake kissed him back like she was drowning.
"I hate you," she breathed against his mouth.
"I know."
She bit his lip. He groaned and lifted her off her feet, carrying her to the cot. He dropped her onto the rumpled sheets and came down on top of her, his body covering hers, his weight pressing her into the mattress.
"There's something I didn't tell you," he said, dragging his mouth down her throat, her collarbone, her breast. "About that night in my office."
"What?"
"I knew you'd come back." He sucked her nipple into his mouth, hard, and she arched off the bed. "I knew it the moment you walked out. It was just a matter of time."
"Bastard," she hissed.
"You belong to me," he said. "You just haven't figured it out yet."
He kissed his way down her stomach, past her navel, his breath hot against her skin. When he reached the apex of her thighs, he didn't hesitate. He spread her legs wide and buried his face between them.
Blake cried out.
His tongue was merciless. He licked her from entrance to clit, slow and deliberate, then fast and dirty, then slow again. He pushed two fingers inside her while he sucked her clit, curling them upward, hitting a spot that made her vision go white.
"How long," he asked, his voice muffled against her flesh, "has it been since someone made you come?"
"Shut up."
"How long?"
"I don't—"
He pulled his fingers out and slapped her pussy. Not hard, but enough to make her yelp.
"Answer the question."
"I don't know. Months. Maybe longer."
"That's what I thought." He pushed his fingers back in, faster this time. "Craig doesn't know how to touch you, does he? He's too gentle. Too careful."
"He's—"
"Too nice." Jack's tongue circled her clit. "You don't want nice. You never did."
Blake wanted to argue. Wanted to defend her husband. But Jack chose that moment to add a third finger, stretching her, filling her, and whatever words she'd been about to say dissolved into a moan.
"Come for me," he said. "Now."
She did.
The orgasm ripped through her like wildfire, burning everything in its path. She bucked against his mouth, her hands fisting the sheets, a sob tearing from her throat.
Jack didn't stop until she'd ridden it out.
Then he pulled his fingers out and held them up, slick and glistening.
"See what you taste like?" he said.
She couldn't answer. She could barely breathe.
Jack rolled her onto her stomach. He grabbed her hips and pulled her up onto her knees, positioning her exactly how he wanted her. She felt his cock press against her entrance—thick and hot and impossibly hard.
"Last chance," he said.
"For what?"
"You can still walk away. Go back to Craig. Pretend this never happened."
Blake looked over her shoulder at him. At his storm-gray eyes and his sculpted jaw and the muscles in his arms. At the man who had tested her, humiliated her, and still made her burn like a fever.
"I'm not leaving," she said.
Jack smiled.
"Good."
He pushed inside her.
He didn't ease in gently. He didn't give her time to adjust. He drove into her with one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and Blake's mouth opened in a silent scream.
"Fuck," Jack groaned. "You're tight. So fucking tight."
He pulled out and slammed back in. Then again. Then again. Harder every time, faster every time. The canvas walls rippled with each thrust, the cot creaking and groaning beneath them.
"You feel that?" he said, reaching around to cup her breast. "You feel how deep I am?"
"Yes—"
"Say my name."
"Jack—"
"Louder."
"Jack!"
He gripped her hair and yanked her head back, exposing her throat. His teeth sank into the curve of her neck, hard enough to bruise, and Blake moaned like a whore.
"Whose are you?" he demanded.
"Yours—"
"I can't hear you."
"Yours!"
He fucked her like an animal. No rhythm. No gentleness. Just raw, brutal need. Skin slapping against skin. Sweat dripping down her back. The smell of sex thick enough to choke on.
When he came, he pulled out at the last second and spilled across her lower back, hot and thick. His groan was nearly a growl, and he collapsed over her, his forehead pressed to her spine.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Jack pulled away and reached for a towel. He cleaned her off his come—careful, surprisingly gentle—and tossed the towel in a corner.
Blake slid down to the mattress. Her legs were shaking. Her throat was raw.
"Your husband's waiting," Jack said.
"I know."
He pulled on his boxers and tossed her clothes onto the cot. She started to dress, slowly, her body aching in places she'd forgotten she could ache.
When she was done, she stood at the tent entrance. She didn't look back.
"I'll see you again," Jack said.
It wasn't a question.
Blake stepped out into the night. The cold hit her like a wave. The bonfire was still burning in the distance, and somewhere beyond it, Craig was probably looking for her.
But all she could think about was the taste of Jack on her tongue.