Terms & Specific Conditions - Chapter 41

Better Worse

Tonight she is on top of him, naked and too hot and already past the point where language should be legally required from anyone.

Jack’s hands are on her hips, fingers set hard enough to leave the idea of bruises without quite making promises. He is still hard under her.

He has not taken anything.

That fact has been in the room for ten minutes, getting louder.

At first she tries to ignore it, which is ambitious, considering ignoring things has historically never been one of her gifts. But Jack is under her, shoulders tight against the mattress, chest flushed, mouth open a little like he is concentrating on not making too much sound, and his legs are still beneath her in the sheets. Thin. Still. Useless in the exact way that makes everything else about him feel unbearable.

His body is answering her in one of the ways it can.

Maybe not reliably.

Maybe not for long.

And God help her, that is the part her brain has seized with both hands.

She slows without meaning to.

Barely.

Jack feels it anyway.

His eyes flick down.

Once.

That quick, almost involuntary check. A flash of calculation across his face before he catches it. Before he remembers who she is. Before he remembers what this is between them.

His hands tighten on her hips.

“Pen.”

The sound of his voice nearly ruins her.

She looks at him.

His jaw is tight now. His eyes too sharp.

“You have to keep moving,” he says, almost urgent. “I didn’t take anything.”

The sound that comes out of her is humiliating.

She would be embarrassed if she had any faculty left. She does not. Faculty has fled the building. Faculty is living under a fake name in another state.

Jack hears it.

His eyes change, but he does not stop. He does not pause to make a discovery out of it. He grips her hips harder and moves her, setting the rhythm himself, making her keep it while the sentence is still burning through her body.

“Tell me.”

She shakes her head once.

His hand leaves her hip.

For one wild second she thinks he is going to ease up.

Idiot.

His fingers slide into her hair and close there, firm, pulling her down until his mouth is near hers and she cannot escape the heat of his breath.

“Tell me.”

It is not a game anymore.

Or it is, but only in the way fire is a game if you are stupid enough to put your hand over it twice.

Penelope’s fingers press into his chest.

“Fuck,” she says.

“Yeah.”

He moves her again with the hand still locked on her hip.

Her eyes nearly roll back in her head.

“Jack.”

“Say it.”

She does.

Because by now she knows. The wronger the sentence sounds, the hotter it gets. The more exact it is, the more his body gives him away.

“I love that I can make it happen.”

His hand jerks in her hair.

Small.

Enough.

She feels it like a match striking.

His breath leaves him harder than before.

She drags her nails up his ribs, right along the place where he can feel her properly, and his whole body answers. Shoulders, chest, throat. Everything alive enough to betray him.

“I love that you can’t feel it,” she says, and her voice is not steady now. Good. Fine. Burn the file. “Not the way you’re supposed to. But it still reacts.”

His eyes go dark.

“Penelope.”

“No, you asked.”

His mouth closes.

The hand on her hip moves her harder.

That is the answer.

That is what gets her.

He is looking at her like the words are hitting somewhere under his skin, somewhere lower than pride, somewhere he does not usually let people put their hands.

So she puts hers there.

Nails dragging over his side. Palm flattening on his chest. Back to his ribs when his breath catches, because there, there, there, his body gives him away.

His head tips back against the pillow.

“Fuck.”

The sound of him nearly takes her out.

Then she catches him watching.

Not her face this time.

Lower.

Where she slides down the length of him, where her body makes his body answer, where the whole imperfect mechanism is happening between them whether either of them is dignified about it or not.

His eyebrows draw together. His mouth opens.

For one second he looks almost startled by what he is seeing.

Then his eyes flick up.

He catches her watching him watch.

Fuck.

She comes down harder.

His leg spasms under her.

A sharp involuntary jerk beneath the sheet, there and gone.

His eyes drop for a fraction of a second.

Automatic.

Like he’s checking where it happened.

There is nothing to check.

That nearly ruins her more than the spasm.

Jack’s grip goes vicious at her hip.

Penelope makes a sound she will never be able to defend in court.

His face changes.

“There,” she says before she can stop herself.

His hand tightens in her hair.

“What?”

“That,” she says, already ruined. “That too.”

His eyes stay on hers.

Too sharp.

Too knowing.

“Say it.”

The rhythm does not stop. He will not let it stop. He is keeping her moving with one hand, holding her down with the other, and the whole thing is so much hotter because he is not giving her a clean little stage for confession. He is making her confess while her body is still doing the thing that caused the damage.

She swallows.

“I love that little look you get.”

His eyes open.

Too fast.

She sees it.

He sees her see it.

“What look?”

“You know what look.”

“Say it.”

She tries to breathe.

Terrible idea. Air is apparently no longer supported in this version.

“That half-second where you’re afraid you’ll go soft before I come.”

His jaw shifts. She waits for him to tell her she's wrong.

He doesn't.

She feels him under her, still hard, still there, and the fact of it turns viciously bright.

“And I love that it happens before your brain catches up,” she says. “Before you remember I’m not waiting for that version.”

He stares at her.

His chest is rising too fast now.

She slides her nails back down his ribs and feels him take it.

“God.”

“Keep going,” he says.

That almost ends her.

Because he is affected. Visibly. Physically. His voice has gone rough with it, and his grip is less careful now. Still exact. Stripped down to want and reaction and whatever this is that neither of them is pretending not to understand anymore.

So she gives him the rest.

“I like that it gets you for a second.”

He makes a sound low in his throat.

Her hands go to him immediately, because she cannot leave that sound alone. Nails at his ribs. Mouth at the side of his chest. Her teeth at him, quick and controlled, because if she has to say things like this aloud then he can survive a mark about it.

His hand pulls once in her hair.

“Pen.”

She lifts her head.

He is wrecked.

Wrecked like something has been hit squarely. 

That is when she sees it.

The way he keeps making her say it because it is doing something to him too. Because every time she names the part he expects to shrink the room, the room gets hotter. Because she is speaking straight into the place he usually has to manage, and instead of managing it, he is using both hands to keep her exactly where she is.

Her hips stutter.

Jack catches it instantly.

“No,” he says. “Keep moving.”

She does.

Barely.

Then better, because his hand is still there, demanding it.

“Jack.”

His eyes lock on hers.

“You keep making me say it.”

He says nothing.

That is an answer.

Her breathing is a mess now.

“This is doing something to you.”

His throat moves.

That small betrayal.

Penelope leans down, one hand flat to his chest, the other braced near his shoulder.

“Tell me.”

His eyes narrow slightly, like he might refuse on principle.

She moves against him, slow on purpose this time.

His grip on her hip goes brutal for half a second.

Good.

“Tell me,” she says again.

For one second, all she can hear is both of them breathing.

Then Jack says, low, “I like hearing you mean it.”

Her body goes hot all over again.

“Mean what.”

His mouth does something. Almost a smile, gone before it becomes one.

“You know.”

“Say it anyway.”

A beat.

He looks at her like he's deciding whether to answer.

Then he says, “That you like the thing that sounds fucked up.”

Fuck.

Her movement breaks.

He catches her with his hand and forces the rhythm back.

“No,” he says, voice rough. “Don’t stop.”

She makes another sound, worse than the first, and drops her mouth to his chest because looking at him has become physically unsafe.

His hand tightens in her hair.

“I like that you don’t try to make it sound better.”

Oh.

No.

Absolutely not.

That hits hard enough that for a second she almost loses the whole thread of herself.

Except—

No.

Not enough.

Because that is still about her. Her words. Her mouth. The way she hands him the thing without wrapping it first.

Penelope lifts her head.

He is watching her like he knows she has found the loose wire.

“Jack.”

His eyes narrow.

“What.”

“What’s doing it for you.”

His hand at her hip stills for half a second.

She feels it.

“No,” she says, breathless now. “Don’t do that. You keep making me say it.”

His jaw shifts.

She catches his wrist where his hand grips her hip.

“So tell me.”

He looks at her for one second too long.

Then he says, “Because I think I’m about to ruin it.”

Her breath catches.

The rhythm almost goes with it.

His hand grips her hip and brings it back.

“And then you get worse.”

Fuck.

Her body proves him right before she can do anything about it.

The sound she makes is awful. Immediate. Too honest to survive daylight.

Jack’s hand tightens at her hip so hard she feels it in her teeth.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

She kisses him because there is no surviving that sentence upright, and unfortunately she is not upright, which means there are no legal protections available.

He kisses her back like he has been waiting for it, mouth open, hand in her hair, the other still keeping her there. His hips useless beneath her. His legs still under the sheet. Half of what she is doing to him he cannot feel in the way a body should feel it.

And the whole room is arranged around his wanting anyway.

The uncertainty is still there. The bad timing. The part of him still checking whether his body is going to hold.

She knows exactly what might fail.

And she is losing her mind over it.

“Again,” he says against her mouth.

She knows what he means.

But this time it is different.

This time she is not only confessing.

She is giving him the thing he just admitted he wants.

“I love that I can make it happen,” she says.

His grip tightens.

Her nails scratch down his ribs.

“I love that you can’t feel it there.”

His breath breaks.

“I love that you still react.”

He pulls her down hard and kisses her through the rest of it, swallowing whatever awful, honest thing she says next.

His hand at her hip.

Her mouth at the line of his jaw. 

His legs still under the sheets.

Her body moving because he’s pulling her down against him.

After, neither of them moves.

Because Penelope is fairly certain her bones have been rearranged alphabetically.

Jack is on his back, one arm bent over his face, chest still rising too fast. His other hand is still at her hip, though the grip has gone loose now. Looser. Present-tense enough to count.

Penelope is half beside him, half on him, hair stuck to her mouth, one knee trapped somewhere in the sheet situation, her hand resting high on his thigh because apparently her post-catastrophe instincts have no legal department.

His leg is cooler than the rest of him under her palm.

Still.

A fact.

A problem.

A thing she has just said several felony-grade sentences about.

Jack turns his head on the pillow.

His arm slides down from his face.

He looks at her hand.

Then at her.

His mouth curves.

“Pervert.”

The laugh that comes out of her is immediate and horrible. Relief hits so fast it almost hurts.

Then the relief folds in on itself, because of course it does. Her brain cannot receive a normal emotional package without opening a suspicious incident report.

“Oh God,” she says. “Am I the bad guy?”

Jack blinks once.

The smile stays, but something under it sharpens.

“No.”

“Because—”

“No.”

“Jack.”

“Penelope.”

“I said things.”

“You did.”

“Bad things.”

“Accurate things.”

She makes a strangled noise. “That is not a legal defense.”

“It is in this bed.”

She covers her face with one hand. “Don’t be funny. I am experiencing consequences.”

“You are experiencing post-sex ethics.”

“That sounds serious.”

“It isn’t. It’s annoying.”

She lowers her hand enough to glare at him. “I hate when you diagnose me correctly.”

“I know.”

He is still flushed. Hair wrecked. Mouth ruined from her. He looks exhausted and pleased and a little dangerous, which is rude, considering she is trying to decide whether she needs to turn herself in.

Because I think I’m about to ruin it.

And then you get worse.

The words move through her again, slow and hot and awful.

Her throat tightens.

Jack sees that too.

His hand leaves her hip.

For one second, she thinks he is going to move her hand.

He doesn’t.

He looks at it.

Then at her.

“That was not you doing something to me that I didn’t want,” he says.

The sentence is plain enough to pin her.

“I know,” she says.

His eyes stay on hers.

“Do you?”

Her answer catches.

Because yes, she does. Her body knows. His hands knew. His voice knew. Every ruined inch of that room knew.

“Yes,” she says finally. “But my brain has opened a very small courtroom.”

“Close it.”

“I can’t just close court.”

“I’m the injured party.”

“You’re not injured.”

“Exactly.”

She laughs despite herself, and his face changes by half a degree when he hears it.

The laugh does not fix anything.

It only gives the room one usable inch of air.

“I liked it,” he says.

“I know.”

“No.” His voice stays even. “Now-you.”

Penelope goes still.

There it is. The check-in, somehow smuggled through one dry little phrase.

Now-you.

Not sex-her. Not mouth-on-his-ribs her. Not the version of her who could say the worst true sentence and keep moving because his hand told her to.

This one.

The one lying beside him with her heart still trying to leave through the service entrance.

“I liked it,” he says again. “I liked asking. I liked hearing it. I liked answering.”

Her face burns.

“Okay.”

“And if something lands wrong, I’ll tell you.”

“I know.”

His eyebrows lift.

She exhales through her nose. “I know.”

“Good.”

“Very stern for a man who just called me a pervert.”

“You contain both.”

“I contain lawsuits.”

“You contain exactly one lawsuit, and it has no standing.”

For a minute, they just breathe.

Then Jack shifts under her.

Not much. Just enough for his shoulder to come off the mattress, one hand planting beside his hip like he’s going to sit up and fix whatever his lower half has done while everyone was busy committing felonies.

The effort gets him exactly half as far as he wanted.

A small, offended breath leaves him.

“Nope.”

He drops back against the pillow.

One leg is caught half under hers, twisted in the sheet at an angle that suggests neither dignity nor long-term planning.

He turns his head and looks at her.

“Move my leg?” The corner of his mouth pulls. “Before your courtroom reconvenes.”

Awful.

Knowing.

She huffs a laugh, and her whole body resets around the practical request.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Left one first.”

She shifts up on one elbow.

The room is still warm. The sheets smell like them. Her hand slides under his knee, careful but not precious, because she knows better now. His leg comes with her, heavy and loose, foot dragging across the sheet until she frees it from the mess they made.

“Higher,” he says.

She moves it higher.

“No, toward me.”

She adjusts.

“There.”

Her skin goes hot at the word, because apparently language itself has become unsafe.

Jack sees it.

The smile starts slowly enough to be deliberate.

“Still a pervert?”

“I am performing medical-adjacent logistics.”

“You are moving my leg and making a face.”

“This is my logistics face.”

“It is absolutely not.”

She moves the other leg where he tells her, pulling it so his hip is straighter, the pressure off. It is ordinary. Almost aggressively ordinary. After-sex body maintenance. A sheet pulled loose. A knee set better. A foot turned so it does not get trapped.

Except her hand lingers.

Jack watches her there.

He does not make her say it this time.

That might be worse.

“Okay?” she asks, quieter.

“Yeah.”

“Hip?”

“Fine.”

“Legs?”

He gives her a look. “Unemployed.”

She laughs, too fast, too grateful. “I meant position.”

“I know what you meant.”

“I’m being responsible.”

“You are being responsible while staring.”

“I can multitask.”

“Clearly.”

She starts to pull her hand back.

His eyes flick down.

“Don’t,” he says.

She stops.

This time it is not reassurance.

Just a fact added to the room.

Penelope looks at him.

He looks back.

No performance. No courtroom. No attempt to make what happened sound better.

Her voice comes out smaller than she intends.

“Pervert was rude.”

His mouth curves again, softer at the edge. “I know.”

“It helped.”

“I know.”

“I’m annoyed that you know.”

“I also know that.”

She groans and drops her forehead against his shoulder.

He laughs under his breath, rough and tired.

Then, after a beat, he says, “You’re not the bad guy, Pen.”

Her eyes close.

He does not dress it up. He does not turn it tender enough to make them both flee the state.

He says it like a practical correction.

Like left one first.

Like higher.

Like keep moving.

“Okay,” she says against his skin.

His arm comes around her back.

“Okay?”

She nods once.

“Okay.”

For a while, that is the whole check-in.

His breathing coming down under her cheek.

Her hand still on his thigh.

His legs settled where she put them.

The thing they said staying exactly as bad-sounding as it was.

Then Jack sighs, eyes closed, voice gone flat with exhaustion.

“For the record, your ethics committee is terrible at sex.”

Penelope makes a sound. “My ethics committee is doing its best.”

“Not well.”

“It had concerns.”

“It came extremely hard.”

Penelope’s head comes up off his chest.

“Jack.”

He does not open his eyes. “What?”

“You cannot say that during governance.”

His mouth pulls.

She stares at him for a second, furious and relieved and so obscenely fond she has to put her mouth on his shoulder before any of it escapes as a sentence.

His hand moves over her back once.

Slow.

Then again.

The joke is still there.

The panic is still there too, but smaller now. Tired. Outvoted.

Penelope lowers her head back to his chest.

The word stays bad.

His leg stays under her hand.

Nobody improves it.