#031624

“There is a ninety-percent chance of storms continuing until 0200 with a small break and will start again at 0400. With the surface dew point at 58 degrees Fahrenheit and the latent instability that increased once the storm passed the Rockies, it is-” 

“Reacher.” You cut him off with a slap to his chest. His extraordinary intelligence is one of the many reasons you find him attractive, but the dry factual delivery can sometimes be arduous. Rolling your eyes, you settle into his side and chuckle, “Can we just lie here and listen?”  

Shifting to kiss the top of your head, he gives you a quick squeeze and then lies back, free hand shoved under his head, and states, “Yes.”

The storm is stronger now—the thunder louder and more intense. Rain no longer strikes the glass in heavy drops but flows down the pane like a waterfall. Sighing happily, you snuggle closer to his warmth. The only thing separating the two of you is the soft cotton boxers he’s wearing and the thin—too small for those seam-bursting muscles—t-shirt you stole from him.

Reacher's not a guy you expect a commitment from, so when he does stop by, you take full advantage of his visit. Since he unexpectedly showed up on your doorstep, the two of you have been holed up in your home, fucking, eating, napping, fucking—rinse and repeat. You match his stamina for the most part, but after three days, exhaustion is creeping in. When the storm lulls, the slow rise and fall of his chest and steady heartbeat beneath your ear are the Pied Piper of slumber.

Startling awake when a crash of thunder shakes the house and rattles the windows, Jack tightens his hold and runs a hand over your hair. “You’re safe. Go back to sleep.”

Humming contentedly, you whisper, “Love you.” He doesn’t reply but squeezes your hip. More often than not, each of your lives is a tempest of diplomacy, expedience, kill or be killed, and general mayhem. Reacher is your eye of the storm, your lightning rod. No matter what is happening around you, you know you will always be safe when he’s near. Nestling into the crook of his shoulder, you delightedly drift back into dreamland.

The shrill screeching of your alarm wakes you next, and you throw out your arm to hit the snooze button or toss it across the room. Either will work as long as the racket ceases, but you can’t quite reach it. The arm around your waist pulls you back against solid muscle and further away from the cacophony. “Jaaaaack.”

He groans, reaching over you to silence the offending hunk of plastic and metal. In the stillness that follows, you hear the ongoing storm; rain steadily patters against the window, but the thunder now echoes from a distance. Turning to face him, you grumble, ”Traffic’s gonna suck.” Kissing the hollow of his throat, you flatten a hand on his stomach, reluctantly pushing away to slip out of the bed. The iron band that is his arm is quickly around you once again holding you firmly in place.

“You don’t have to go.” 

His sleep-raspy voice sends a pleasant tremor through your body. You’d love nothing more than to stay right where you are, but the long weekend is over, and you have to face reality again. “I’m supposed to be back at work today,” you mutter as your finger traces a path between his prodigious pectoral muscles.

“No.” 

“I-” The soft scrape of stubble along your jaw parts your lips, allowing him to steal your breath in a hungry kiss—mouth released as your head starts to spin, you’re left with just enough functioning brain cells to realize how insane you are to contemplate leaving while this man lies naked in your bed. Weakly pushing against his chest, you stutter, “I need-”

The grip on your ass cheek and rough kneading are unexpected, but you desperately moan when he rolls his hips forward, letting you feel his desire pressed hard against your mound, teeth grazing the meat of your shoulder. Your body is a maelstrom of reaction—muscles flex, flesh warms, pulse ratchets, nerve endings ignite, breath stalls, and heat and pressure pool low in your belly, making you throb with need. When your walls clench involuntarily in response, hungry to be filled once again, you exhale sharply, “Shit, I-”

“Okay, fine."

Did he growl? 

It takes a moment for your brain to catch up, but when you notice he’s released you from his hold, you tilt your head to look at him. There is no way you could ever accuse him of pouting, but you can see disappointment in his eyes. Holding back the laugh bubbling in your throat, you say, “I was trying to tell you that I at least need to call in.”

It doesn’t happen often, but when he smiles, it’s just as bright as he is big. Rolling over, he squishes you into the mattress with his lower body, resting most of his weight on his forearms. “I already took care of it.”

“Reach-” Warm breath tickles your upper lip, and your half-hearted admonishment is terminated with the sweep of his tongue and a thigh nudged between your legs.