Page 159 of Beyond Protection
I pulled my hand back.
I let myself feel without managing what it looked like from the outside. Let Mac's hand work sure and patient while his lips kissed my jaw, my neck, and the hollow beneath my ear.
The monitors beeped their rhythm. My breathing came faster. Mac's hand stayed confident—slowly picking speed and then pausing while I gasped to catch my breath.
"There," he whispered against my skin. "Just feel it. You're alive. We're alive."
The pleasure built—from deep inside. Undeniable. Mac did something with his thumb that made stars burst behind my eyelids. His other hand stayed on my face, grounding me, keeping me present in my own skin.
"That's it," he breathed. "I've got you."
And I—
I let go.
Let the wracking orgasm take me. My body remembered that it was mine and could feel good things. The trauma hadn't stolen everything. Mac's hand worked me through it—patient, reverent—until I was panting and shaking.
He pulled his hand back. Reached for tissues on the bedside table and cleaned us both with quiet efficiency. Then he settled beside me—close, protective, his forehead pressed to my temple.
We breathed together. Outside, Seattle slept under winter darkness.
"Thank you," I said finally. Voice wrecked.
"For what?"
"For giving me back myself."
"You were always yours," he whispered. "I only reminded you."
Mac closed his eyes. Sleep pulled at both of us.
I didn't fight it.
Together, we slept.
***
I woke to weak winter sunlight and Mac still beside me—not in the chair but on the bed where he'd fallen asleep, shoes off, hand still tangled with mine beneath the blanket.
His eyes opened. Blue-green in the morning light. "Hey."
"Hey, yourself."
I squeezed his hand. "It might be too early, but I had an idea come to me. Early this morning, around four. Couldn't sleep."
Mac looked at me, waiting.
"What if I built something?" I said. "A firm. Security, personal protection, threat assessment. But I don't hire from the usual pools—ex-military, ex-cops. I look for people who are good at what they do but stuck in jobs that don't use their talents. The bartender who reads people like a book. The retail manager who can de-escalate any situation. The barista who notices everything."
I shifted slightly, testing how the words sounded out loud.
"My firm trains them. Gives them skills they don't have—tactical driving, close protection, surveillance detection. That's important, but they were hired for what they already know. For their instincts." I looked at him. "People like that, they're hungry for something that matters. They'd be loyal. Committed. Not merely collecting a paycheck."
Mac was very still.
"I don't know about funding yet," I continued. "Or what I'd call it. But the concept—finding talent where no one else is looking, building a team that actually gives a shit—that feels right."
I stopped. Waited.
