#massuer!Jon

[fierypen37]

The Oasis: Chapter 14

Sorry of the long absence, my friends! Enjoy!

Rage was an acid burn in the back of his throat. His hands shook with it. He staggered into the bathroom, holding a dishtowel to his throbbing eye. That tricky little cunt! How had she held onto that pen knife? Ramsay let the soaked towel thump on the bathroom counter, watching thick drops of blood patter in the sink.

“Fucking Lorathi bitch,” he muttered, peering at the damage in the rust-spotted mirror. It was a fucking miracle that whore Shae hadn’t blinded him. The pen knife had sunk in and stuck just above his right eyeball, jiggling around in the socket.  Each jiggle sent a bolt of white-hot pain arching through his skull. Under normal circumstances, if a target had pulled something like that, Ramsay would have taken them home. Played all sorts of fun games with them until they begged for death. Shae’s little stunt had surprised him though, and he’d snapped her neck.

Too quick.

Not to mention he didn’t get the answers his boss wanted. Add to that leaving buckets of his blood at the crime scene . . .

Ramsay snarled a string of foul words. He held a wad of petroleum jelly-soaked gauze in one hand. With the other, he grasped the hilt of the pen knife. Pain arched like lightning through his skull. The blood made the handle slick. A quick yank---fuck! His hand slipped. Ramsay bit down on the bloody dishtowel and yanked again. The penknife fell free along with a hot trickle of blood running down his face. His boss wanted that bitch Daenerys Targaryen dead, and Ramsay never forfeited a contract. Her and Jon fucking Snow would die slow. Ramsay would flay them living, like his ancestors before him. Just because one lead had burned out didn’t mean the trail was cold. Just like his beautiful vicious dogs, he’d pick up the scent. It was just a matter of time.              

 ~

 As the sun set, there was little to look at to occupy her mind. Just darker landscape framed against a dark sky. Nothing but an eerie stretch of highway lit by the car’s headlights. The silence within the car was leaden. She couldn’t find words to ease the tension. Barry was dead. He’d been a steady, comforting figure in her life. He’d been her father’s bodyguard since she was a toddler—the only one Vis held in any esteem. So when they at last had enough capital to require and afford a security detail, a then-retired Barry Selmy was first on their list.

Daenerys felt the press of Jon’s anxious glances. Her misery deepened. Jon. Gods, what danger had she put him in? If Barry Selmy, a decorated war veteran and professional bodyguard couldn’t stay alive around her, then what would happen to Jon?

“We’re still about twenty minutes from the cabin. Maybe try and rest,” Jon said. A half dozen snarky comments rested on the tip of her tongue, but she bit them back. She was too anxious to sleep, too miserable to be any sort of companion.

“I don’t think I can sleep.” Her voice sounded weak and small. Daenerys studied his profile in the murky half-dark. A frown lingered on his brow, his generous mouth thinned into a hard line. Jon glanced over at her, his eyes as black as the sky beyond.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. Daenerys blew out a steadying breath.

“Well, De—Detective Seaworth said that Rakharo is doing ok. Vis is safe; he’s staying at Dragon with his security detail. Missy and her husband Grey are ok. There haven’t been any more threats or leads. And . . . and Barry’s family are t—taking him home to Harvest Hall for burial.” Tears clogged her throat. Going over it in such bloodless detail made it sound so bleak. Her life was in fucking shambles. Jon reached for her hand. Daenerys wove her fingers through his, squeezing his hand gently.

“Hey, it’ll be ok. They’ll figure it out. It’s their job,” Jon said.  They drove in silence for a time. The tires made a low whoosh against damp pavement.

“Did the detective say anything else? Do you know if anyone’s been by my apartment? Checked on Sam and Gilly?” Daenerys thumped her forehead against the window. What kind of self-centered ass was she? Jon had no less at stake than she did.  

“I’m sorry, Jon. Yes, they’re fine. The detective has a Watchman stationed at your apartment complex just in case.” Jon tugged her captive hand up to drop a kiss on the back. His beard was a ticklish counterpoint to the softness of his lips. The casual intimacy of the gesture made her heart flutter.

“It’s ok. You’ve got a lot on your mind.” The silence that followed was a warmer one. Daenerys groped for conversation.

“How long has it been since you’ve been to the cabin?”

“I came north for Bran’s nameday, but that was at Winterfell. The cabin . . . hm, it’s been six, seven years? Since before my dad died.”  Daenerys felt a pang. Orphans, the both of them. Ned Stark’s death had been all over the news, but Daenerys couldn’t remember the details.

“Was he ill?” she asked. A muscle fired in Jon’s jaw.

“Brain aneurysm. He died on route to hospital.” The suddenness of it was couched in the abrupt sentence. Much like her own father’s death by violence. Like Barry.  

“I’m so sorry, Jon.” He gave an uncomfortable shrug and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

“It’s ok. It was a good trip. The last time we were all together. Sansa came home for the weekend, Arya had just graduated and was headed to uni, Robb brought Margaery and her brothers, Bran was finally finished with physical therapy and Rickon won a sailing medal on the lake.” Daenerys blinked in surprised pleasure.    

“Rickon sails? What type?”

“Uh I’m not really sure. A fast one?” Daenerys giggled at Jon’s aggrieved expression.

“I sail too. Does she have a cabin? Is she designed to sail on open water?” In the greenish light of the dashboard, a trace of a bemused smile graced Jon’s face.

“I think Rickon’s boat is . . . sloopy?” Daenerys snorted.

“Sloopy?” Laughter embroidered her voice. Jon grinned and offered a one-shouldered shrug.

“I don’t know anything about boats.”

“Does he still sail?”

“Not as much. His mother has him enrolled in one of those prep schools for college.”

“Is this the same stepmother who denied you your inheritance?” Daenerys asked. Another uncomfortable shrug was her answer.

“The same,” he said. Daenerys kicked herself. The stepmother was a touchy subject. She couldn’t imagine what it had been like growing up as a motherless boy despised by the only female role model left in his life. Chewing on her lower lip, she offered a tepid apology.

“Don’t sweat it. I’m used to dealing with her,” Jon said, squeezing her hand. Daenerys stroked his knuckle with her thumb. Jon negotiated another turn.

“We’re here at last.”

The pitted concrete road gave way to a smooth asphalt drive. ‘Cabin’ was apparently a relative term. A two-story log structure lorded over neatly manicured grounds. A balcony wrapped around the second floor. Daenerys looked around slack-jawed as the two of them parked and walked up the drive. The lake was a sheet of black glass roughly a hundred yards from the house. Threads of mist clung to the ground. The air smelled of crisp pine and lake water. Insects chirped and far away, she heard the hoot of an owl. The cool peace of it soaked into her soul.

“So, the ‘cabin,’ huh?” she said, framing the operative word in air quotes. Jon cracked open the fake rock holding the spare key, side-eyeing her with a raised brow.

“Is there a problem, ‘Dany Steele?’”

Daenerys snorted.

“Fair point.”

The door creaked open and Jon flicked on the light. Daenerys trailed after Jon as he moved toward the kitchen, drinking it in. Warm blond wood floors, exposed beams overhead, soft lighting, gleaming granite countertops in the kitchen . . . the understated beauty soothed her ragged edges. She turned at the sound of Jon’s low curse.

“What is it?”

“Robb and Margaery. They stocked the place for us, and they uh . . . went a little overboard,” he said, riffling through the fridge, “filet mignon with truffle butter, roasted asparagus, lobster, turtle soup, chocolate covered strawberries--” The subtext was clear: decadent food for a romantic getaway. Daenerys bit back a rush of surprised pleasure. Even if it was meant in a teasing manner, it was a tacit approval from Jon’s brother.

“I told them all we needed some food and clothes. Typical,” he said dryly. Daenerys chewed on her lower lip. In the heat of passion, he claimed her as his. In the cool of parting, he asked her on a date. Why is he so irritated now? Breaking the silence, she cleared her throat.

“Mm, clean clothes sound wonderful. I think I’ll take a shower,” she said. Jon took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. His expression softened.  

“Of course. The master is on the second floor, last door on the left.”

The rest of the house was as rustically chic with polished hardwood floors, stained glass windows, and glass doors leading to the balcony garbed in room-darkening curtains. The large bed beckoned, smelling faintly of laundry detergent. How sweet, they thought to change the linens.  Shopping bags on the dresser bore a post-it note with ‘Daenerys’ written in looping feminine script. Daenerys peered inside.

“‘Overboard’ is right,” she said under her breath. Inside was a heap of blouses, sweaters, jeans, socks, sneakers, heels, and a tangle of what could only be described as slutty lingerie. A flush washed over her. A note was pinned to a sheer black lace bra:

Daenerys,

I got you a couple different sizes. I hope our Jonno is treating you right. Robbie and I would be delighted to have you both out at Highgarden once all this mess is dealt with.

Warm Regards,

Margaery      

Daenerys breathed a soft laugh, clutching the note and bra to her chest. A giddy rush burst in her chest. How surreal could things get? She was on the run for her life from a shadow human trafficking organization, she’d been swept up in the arms of her god-like masseur-turned-bodyguard Jon Snow, and now Margaery Tyrell—an award-winning actress—was buying her lingerie. Daenerys plucked her favorites from the bag of goodies and hurried to the bathroom.

Twin vanities in granite countertops, rustic sconces over the large oval mirror, a faint tang of cleaning chemicals. Robb and Margaery really had thought of everything. The shower boasted two shower heads, the walls made up of grey river rock. Blissfully hot water undid the knots in her muscles. The nature of her life and work made finding female friends difficult, she thought as she shampooed and scrubbed. Even Missy who she considered her closest friend was her masseur at first. So the thought that someone like Margaery Tyrell would be interested in her relationship with Jon was an odd one. Cherishing her crush on Jon, it was easy to spin a fantasy of making their leisurely way south. Stopping at charming bed and breakfasts on the way, taking a barge down the Mander, a wine tour of the Reach district . . .

She stepped out of the shower and toweled off, taking special care to comb and moisturize and primp with all the lovely products Margaery left for her. Ah, the silky glide of high-end moisturizer. It felt good to blow her hair dry until it fell in a fluffy silver cloud around her face. The lingerie was she chose was robin’s egg blue stretchy lace panties and matching bra. Daenerys smiled coyly at her reflection. In between all the madness of being on the run, they hadn’t discussed little things like Jon’s favorite color. Would he like it?

Belting the sash of a terry cloth robe, she saw the heap of her discarded clothes. A thrift store shirt and bloodstained jeans. Stained with Barry’s blood. The happy bubble popped with startling violence. The cost was too high. Already an innocent woman had been violated and killed, then Barry, not to mention the countless people—including Jon—put in harm’s way after the attack in King’s Landing.

“Am I really worth all this?” she asked her steam-blurred reflection. The shadows in her violet eyes held no answers. A soft rap on the door made her start.

“Come in,” Daenerys said, clutching the folds of the robe tight to her chest. Jon appeared in the doorway, his curly hair damp. His dark eyes were fathomless behind the lenses of his glasses. The plain grey t-shirt stretched taut over the bulk of his shoulders, athletic shorts showed off the length thigh and calf. He really was more beautiful than any man had a right to be.

“Do you uh, have everything you need?” he asked. Daenerys hid a rush of hurt. When he suggested the master, she assumed they would be sharing a bed. But maybe time to cool off is what they needed. After hearing about Barry, gods knew she felt depressed and clingy. Not a good look for her.

“Yes, thank you,” she said. Cool and polite, she thought, inwardly congratulating herself. Jon lingered in the doorway, cracking his knuckles one at a time. A nervous habit, she’d noticed.

“Are you hungry? It’s probably a crime in culinary circles, but I could nuke some of the steak.” Daenerys grinned at the weak joke.

“I’m fine, just tired.”

“Right. Me too.”

A short, uncomfortable silence.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.”

It wasn’t until he turned to leave that her thin bravado gave way. As inviting as the bed looked, the thought of the long hours until dawn with nothing but her thoughts to occupy her made her stomach clench. That, and she’d gotten far too used to the sound of Jon’s heartbeat lulling her to sleep.

“Jon,” she said. The naked hope in his face calmed her worries.

“Stay. Please,” she whispered. Jon exhaled a breath and gave her a relieved smile.

“Of course. I just didn’t want to impose . . .”

“Impose? Are you joking? We’re standing in your family’s cabin and I’m wearing clothes your brother’s girlfriend bought for me. If anyone is imposing, then it’s me,” she said. Jon closed the distance between them and cradled her cheek.

“You’re worth it,” Jon assured her. Daenerys felt a big, stupid smile stretch her face. She turned into his hand and kissed his palm, tasting salt. A shy silence fell between them as they turned down the bed and drew the curtains. Daenerys slid into the bed with a happy sigh. Cool sheets over a downy mattress and a heap of pillows. Better than simple creature comforts was the underlying release of tension. Here the two of them were safe. Safe and hidden in their own private paradise. Jon’s gaze wandered over her with a familiar sleepy heat.

“I like the clothes,” he whispered huskily, trailing a knuckle over the lacy strap of her bra. Daenerys gave him a coy smile.

“Really? Does it give you any ideas?” she said. Jon’s hand disappeared beneath the duvet.

“Lots of fun ideas,” he said with a wicked smile.

[fierypen37]

The Oasis: Chapter 13

Another chapter up!

There was nothing like hot sausage pizza with plenty of garlic sauce and dragon peppers at four in the morning. The cheap soda was good too. Beer would have been better, but there was no way in hell he’d risk running the gauntlet while anything less than fighting-sharp. The meal was even better with a half-naked Daenerys Targaryen sitting cross-legged in bed. Pure decadence.

He watched in awe as Dany ate the peppers by the handful. The woman had a stronger stomach than Tormund. Jon leaned back against the headboard, replete. Wiping sauce from his face with a napkin, he admired her in greedy, glancing looks. Falling asleep in her arms after making love felt so . . . right. ‘Making love,’ the phrase seemed trite, but there was no other word for it. Kinky power games swept to wayside in a tide of yearning. That last mutual climax felt like his soul was pouring from his body. Cartoon hearts, starlight, and fireworks, all those clichés were true.

“So what’s the plan?” she asked, combing her hair behind her ear. Mm, that sexy hint of hoarseness in her voice from moaning in pleasure. The blanket draped on her shoulders slipped, giving Jon a tantalizing glimpse of her breast. Jon was lost for a moment admiring the grace knit into her bones as she took a sip from her drink. Every movement smooth and measured, like a dancer.

I am well and truly fucked. It would only get worse. The lake house north was private, cozy. Romantic. Gods. Next, he’d be feeding her chocolate covered strawberries or offering his services as a love slave forever. A thousand rationalizations told him why it wouldn’t, couldn’t work between them. But there it was all the same, so real it hurt. Jon coughed, realizing he’d spaced out staring at her.      

“Uh, our train will take us north . . . to the Cailin Canal. From there, we board another train to Torrhen’s Square. Silver Lake is about a 30-minute drive from there.” A frown line appeared between her brows.

“And why not Winterfell? Isn’t that where you grew up?” Jon raked his fingers through his hair.

“Aye, but the goal is to find a place that the bastards wouldn’t expect. If they find out it’s me helping you, Winterfell will be the first place they look. Not to mention my brothers and sister are there.” Daenerys gave a solemn nod.

“Of course. I would never risk endangering your family,” she said. Her fingers picked restlessly at the hem of the blanket.

“I’d love to meet them, once all this is over,” she said, not meeting his eye.

Jon lost himself in imagining it. Robb and Margaery would insist on hosting them for dinner. Barbeque and beer. Sansa—if she was home from uni—would be a gracious hostess. Arya would pepper her with insightful (and probably embarrassing and invasive) questions, Bran would ogle her and dazzle her with his encyclopedic knowledge of Targaryens, Rickon would be too shy to do more than peek at her from Mrs. Stark’s leg. The image of them eating and laughing on the patio under a big northern sky was so tangible, he could almost taste it. Jon swallowed hard.

“I’d like that too.” The silence that followed was a pleasant one, broken by Daenerys’ jaw-cracking yawn.

“Let’s get some sleep,” Jon suggested.

The food dealt with, there was a degree of shyness as Daenerys curled up, the blankets folded back in invitation. Jon pressed a glancing kiss on her forehead and tucked in behind her. One arm around her, snug and possessive. A statement. Daenerys settled into his embrace with a soft sound. So sweet and trusting. Jon flicked off the lamp. Sleep hung leaden on him, but he spent some time listening to her breathe. He turned the precious gift over in his mind, puzzling at it, admiring it. Three days, maybe four in her presence and voila, here he was, in love. And it scared him shitless.

                                                       ~

 Jon was in a strange mood. Quieter. But not the broody, seething energy of the night before. She’d grown used to the tenor of his silences, but this one she couldn’t put her finger on. He was already up when she woke, dressed and gathering what little they had. Breakfast was cold pizza, and they donned the same filthy clothes—washed as best as cold water and cheap bar soap could manage. Daenerys puzzled as she stuffed her hair under the ball cap. Maybe talking to his family had spooked him? Making plans, setting up a future . . . that should be off-limits.

Despite her girlish crush (and it was a crush, she insisted fiercely), there was no guarantee of tomorrow with them. After all she’d put him through, maybe he was trying to gently disengage. That was it. The sex got too intense. The whole godsdamned situation was too intense. Boundaries were good. The smart thing. The mature thing. Daenerys choked down the knot in her throat. Why did that thought make her so miserable?

The PA announced the departure of their train promptly at six a.m. Jon’s hand was warm against the small of her back.

“Ready?” he asked, his first words beyond ‘good morning.’ Daenerys nodded, slipping into the narrow cabin. Her stomach churned, a nervous acid roil. She chose a pair of seats midway back in the car. There were few other commuters. An older couple sipping tea, a square-jawed business type staring into his computer screen, a middle-aged woman reading a book. No goons, or potential goons, that she could see. Daenerys exhaled a breath as she sat. The Harpies weren’t all powerful. They could get away safe. The press of Jon’s gaze drew her from her thoughts. Gods, even this garish lighting and little sleep didn’t diminish how gorgeous he was. Jet black curls yanked back into submission, his dark eyes magnified by the lenses of his glasses. Daenerys managed a wan smile.

“We can relax, Dany. We bought our tickets with cash, we switched routes and drivers several times.”

Daenerys nodded.

“The farther we get from King’s Landing, the better I’ll feel,” she said. Jon took her hand and Daenerys was so grateful for the contact, she nearly melted.

“Me too. I think you’ll like the cabin. The lake is beautiful. No internet though, or fancy tea.” Daenerys snorted at his half-hearted attempt at teasing.

“I think I can rough it for a while. I’m sure we’ll find something to occupy our time,” she said, lightly stroking the inner curve of his thumb with her own. Jon gulped visibly. Whatever his silence had been about, it relaxed as the train lurched from the station. Talk flowed easily as the tangle of low concrete buildings and narrow streets abruptly gave way to rolling fields and thick forest.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been north. The last time was Bran’s nameday three months ago. I bought him some climbing gear.”

“Climbing? Like rock climbing?” Jon’s smile was quick.        

“Aye. Bran’s been climbing since he could walk. A lot of magazines wrote articles on him; he was the youngest one to climb the Wall. He had an accident some years back. One of his anchors broke, he fell some one hundred feet before the harness caught him.” Dany tightened her hand around his.

“Gods! Was he hurt?” Jon gave a grim nod.

“Broke his pelvis, three ribs and a hairline fracture of his spine. If he’d fallen even a foot farther, the doc said he could have been paralyzed.” Daenerys squeezed his hand.

“How old was he?”

“Ten.”

“I’m so sorry.” Jon raked his hand through his hair, tearing out the tie. His wild hair fell around his face.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet, off-hand: “That’s why I learned massage. He had terrible muscle spasms in his legs and back during rehab.” In the words, she heard a wealth of love and care. Daenerys swallowed the lump in her throat. A contemplative moment passed in comfortable silence.

“I found out I liked it. It’s soothing, not really like work. Except with you.” A hot flash arched through her at the words. She couldn’t bite back a startled smile.

“With me?” A hint of color crept up Jon’s neck. He glanced out the window at the blur of sun-dappled greenery flying by.

“I told you that,” he said, shoulders hunched.

“Told me what?” Daenerys stifled a giggle. She felt giddy, intensely female. Teasing him was such fun! Jon gave her a sharp look, and noticed the humor dancing in her expression. He relaxed. The curve of his lips hinted at all manner of depravity.

“During our session at The Oasis, just the feel of your hair and the way you smelled made me hard,” he whispered, his thumb tracing distracting circles on the tender skin of her wrist.

“I felt like such an ass, perving on an innocent client.”

“I wanted you too,” Daenerys whispered. Despite the armrest between them, Jon loomed close, his breath a phantom caress on her cheek. Just barely she could smell him, musky and male. She chewed on her lower lip. The look in his eyes made a shiver race through her.

“You did?”

“I was so embarrassed. You just rubbing my shoulders made me so . . .”

“What?” Jon pressed. His expression was intent, dark eyes alight with hunger. Daenerys licked her lips.

“So . . . aroused,” she said. Jon’s eyebrow arched.  

“‘Aroused?’ So clinical. Tell me how you felt.”

Daenerys cast a nervous glance around. The near-deserted car was quiet, save for the hum of the train itself. The rows around them were empty. Her heart thudded. Something as mundane as a commute was fun and sexy with Jon. The first air-soft kiss behind her ear made her shudder. Jon nuzzled her hair with his nose.  

“It’s ok, baby,” he purred in her ear, “No one can hear. Just me. You know how I love it when you say those filthy words.” His hand crept beneath the shirt draped over her lap. Daenerys bit back a whimper as he petted the inner seam of her jeans. A kiss, a few sexy words, and here she was, panting and yearning for whatever he wanted.

“Do you want to stop?” Jon said, his eyes searching her face. In answer, she kissed him. Soft, lingering. When she pulled back, Jon looked a little dazed.

“It was the first time. When—when you rubbed my back, I . . . gods, it felt so good. I was wet. Aching.” Gods, that look. Avid, lips parted. And his eyes, that fierce glow.

“The first time?” His fingers plucked at the button of her jeans, worming beneath her panties. Daenerys bit her lip to stifle a whimper, arching her hips to give him better access.

“Yes. Oh yes. It was even w—worse the second time. Pure erotic torture. I thought I was going crazy.” Jon’s fingers parted her folds, finding her hot and slick. He cursed softly under his breath. Daenerys measured her breathing, fingers white-knuckled on the armrests. The first soft touch on her clit worsened the hot ache.

“Is this what you wanted? You wanted me here?” a gentle, circling rhythm. Slick and secret. Gods, yes that gentle circling. Both soothing the ache and making it worse. Letting the pleasure build and burn. Good. So fucking good. Daenerys squirmed in her seat.

“Jon, faster. Please.” His ragged breathing was warm in her ear, his fingers driving her towards sweet relief. Daenerys clenched her thighs around his hand, tense around that delicious rising tide of pleasure.

“Tell me, baby.” His accent was thick, his voice rough.

“Gods, yes. I wanted you. If you’d asked, I would have let you.” Daenerys clenched her hand over his as the pleasure burst behind her eyes. A hot, delicious wave drowning her. When the roar in her ears receded, she was slouched in her chair. Jon’s fingers lazily stroked, setting off sweet, shivery echoes.

“Fuck, Dany. That was beautiful,” Jon said, kissing her neck. Daenerys hummed.

“What about you?” she asked, glancing down. His erection strained against his jeans. Jon shrugged.

“No help for it right now. No biggie. Can I keep my hand here? I love touching you like this.” Daenerys blushed, embarrassed by how wet she was. At this rate, she’d soak through her underwear. Worth it, though.  

“It feels wonderful. Gentle, though. I’m a bit sensitive.” Jon grinned, leaning against her shoulder.

“Of course. I can’t think of a better way to pass the time.”

                                                          ~

 The feel of her hot and slick around his fingers kept him perpetually hard for the next two hours. And probably would until the end of time. Jon didn’t particularly care. Seeing her squirm and whimper under his touch was potently erotic. In between easy conversation and working on a crossword, Jon made her come. Watching her unravel was pure bliss, even more so when she tried so hard to keep it together.

The best part was when the snack cart rolled by, and Jon feigned sleep against her shoulder. He listened as she calmly ordered with two of his fingers deep inside her. Sexy as hell. If the bored attendant looked closer, she would have noticed the sheen of sweat on her face.

Jon sadly pulled back before their food arrived. The rich smell of her wafted from his fingers. He checked the impulse to lick them clean. He tucked into his turkey sub and chips with relish. Through lunch he imagined licking her into a frenzy while she was in a board meeting or something. Yeah. He liked the fantasy. He’d take care of her. Make her dinner. Fetch her dry cleaning. Make her come. Trot after her like a loyal hound, panting and wagging. Forever. Gods, he was fucked.

The train to Cailin Canal flew by. With a certain smug male satisfaction, he noticed Daenerys’ slightly wobbly gait as they disembarked. Jon dragged in a breath of fresh air through his nose. Hundreds of years ago, the Neck had all been swampland. If he remembered right, it was another Daenerys who had ordered to bridge the Neck to connect the Sunset and Narrow Seas. The locks had been widened and modernized since.

“I’ve never been this far north,” Daenerys said, casually tucking her hand into his. Jon managed to knock his big idiotic grin down a few notches.

“We have about half an hour until our next train. Let’s go see the locks,” Jon said.

The air was rich with the smell of water and fried food. Crowds were thin on a weekday, mostly confined to a few couples and the occasional tourist. Jon led Dany to the railing along the lock, peering down to the waterway below. Layers of green slime coated the metal walls, and in the grey-blue water below they passed the time pointing out seals and turtles and the occasional duck. Dany towed him by their entwined hands to the educational plaques, her face alight with curiosity.  

“How does it work? I see the doors, but I wonder how many ships can go through at a time? The Sunset Sea is several degrees warmer than the Narrow Sea. Does that effect the wildlife?” Daenerys asked. Jon checked the impulse to drag her close for a kiss. Smiling in the sunshine, all worry or stress hundreds of miles away, she was the most radiant thing he’d ever seen. It took a minute to restart his short-circuiting brain.

“I—I’m not sure. They have guided tours, but not on weekdays,” Jon said. He glanced at the clock.

“Damn, we have to rush if we want to make our train!”    

Jon would have happily resumed the sexy teasing on the next leg of their journey, but the train leaving Cailin Canal for Torrhen Square was packed. Commuters and families alike. He and Daenerys wedged their way into a middle and aisle seat two rows from the head in the back of the car. Despite that, soon after the train lurched from the station, Daenerys nestled against his shoulder.

“Is this ok? I need to shut my eyes for a minute,” she asked, those limpid violet eyes trained on him.

“Of course. Make yourself comfortable,” Jon said, wadding the spare shirt as a makeshift pillow. Even awkwardly draped across the armrest, she was soon fast asleep. Jon’s heart thudded in his chest. Jon breathed in the smell of cheap soap in her hair along with her own underlying sweetness. Restless fingers toyed with flyaway strands of her hair. He loved having her close.

One of the attendants flicked the aisle TV on. The channels flicked by, an informercial, a vacation channel detailing the wonders of the Summer Isles, an old rugby match, the news . . . Jon’s ears perked up at the mention of Daenerys’ name. Even this far north, the main news stream came in from the capital.

“Government officials and local law enforcement are searching for suspects in the shootout on Loom Street late yesterday evening. This attack is thought to be linked to an attempt on the life of King’s Landing CEO Daenerys Targaryen. The motives are yet unclear, and Miss Targaryen hasn’t been seen since the attack. If you have any information on possible suspects, call the number on your screen.” Jon squeezed her closer, as if to shield her. So strange to hear some of the worst moments of her life pared down to bloodless facts.

The report droned on. Barry and Rakharo were still in intensive care. Daenerys’ brother Viserys appeared on screen. They were similar in coloring and build, but there was a hawkishness in the nose and narrow violet eyes that Jon distrusted.

“Turn the game back on!” a couple passengers grumbled. The attendant obliged before Jon could hear Viserys’ statement.

Jon leaned his head back on the headrest and sank into a thin doze. No matter how tired he was, he could never really fall asleep while traveling . . . He and Dany were walking on the beach hand in hand. Jon closed his eyes and listened to the crash of the surf and let the warm sunshine sink into his bones. Then her hand was gone. He opened his eyes and she was gone, the beach was gone, the sun was black and lifeless. Gone, gone, gone. He ran, shouting her name. They had her. They had her and he didn’t know where . . .

“Jon? Jon, can you hear me?” Dany’s voice woke him. Jon swallowed hard, blinking back to reality. The train had stopped, and passengers were shuffling about, gathering luggage, swilling the last of their drinks.

“Yeah, yeah. Just dozed off. Let’s go.” Jon shook off the dregs of the dream and grabbed her hand.  

The clock in the terminal read six o’ clock. It took some time to wade through the crowd of commuters to the car rental desk. Thanks to Robb, there was a small SUV ready for them. Dinner was a brief detour at a greasy spoon diner. Torrhen Square was a lakeside town, full of kitschy shops, hostels, fishing stores. It took maybe ten minutes to wend their way to the edge of town.  

“If you need to make a call, best do it now. There’s no much reception out at the cabin,” Jon said when they pulled over to fill up on gas. Daenerys gave him a tired smile and dug for the burner phone.

“Good idea. I should call Vis. I’m glad Barry and Rakharo are ok, but it would be nice to know if they’d heard from Missy or Shae.”

Jon nodded, stifling a yawn as he attached the gas hose. He scrubbed his face with his hands. Almost there. They could finally get some decent rest at the cabin. The pump ticker clicked rhythmically. Through the cracked window, he could hear the soft music of Daenerys’ voice. A cold breeze ruffled his hair. Beyond the sharp smell of petrol, he could smell the lake. Open water and plant life. With it came a flood of childhood memories. All of them piling into a van, snacking and joking as they drove.

“What?” It was the sharpness in her voice that drew Jon from his wool-gathering. Jon peered through the window. Her face was pale, stricken. Jon’s belly clenched. What now?

“What is it?” he hissed. Daenerys waved him off, clinging to the phone with a claw-like hand. Jon bit back a rush of irritation. Don’t mind me, I’m just following you around, sheltering you, falling ass over head in love with you--

“And Rakharo, did he--?” Jon cursed under his breath. Whatever his problems, at the end of the day, the harpies were trying their level best to rape and murder her. Besides that, the body count was rising, for which she blamed herself. He had little room to complain after all that.

Jon finished with the gas and slid into the cab. Tense, he jerked the car in gear and focused on speed and negotiating turns as he listened to half of a very heated conversation. Not with the brother. The detective guy then. The fuckers had made another move. 

Daenerys hung up. Silence was as thin and sharp as a blade of glass. Her tears shone in the eerie glow of the dashboard.

“Dany?” Jon said, trying to keep his voice even and calm.

“Barry’s dead. They tried to repair the damage, but he died on the table.”  

[fierypen37]

The Oasis: Chapter 11

The wound didn’t look good. Rakharo was bleeding, a steady trickle of bright red. The warm brown skin of his face was ashen, lips parted to suck in noisy gulps of air. The bullet had probably punctured his lung. Selmy was unconscious, wounded, though Jon could see the steady rise and fall of his chest. Still kicking.

“You have to go. You have to go now,” Rakharo said. Jon could hear the wail of sirens. The paramedics would be there within minutes. Thank the gods.

“No, we’ll wait until the paramedics get here, the Watch--” Dany said, pressing the wadded-up fabric of her torn sleeve to the wound. Soaked almost black with Rakharo’s blood. Even smeared with soot and blood, shaking like a leaf, she was still a spitfire. Jon hovered behind her, anxious and twitchy that she was out of touching distance.

“No, Miss,” Rakharo tried to shift position, winced, then lapsed back against the SUV bumper, “T—They found us on without cell phones, without a paper trail. Miles from your apartment. If they can do that, they might have contacts with first responders. You have to go. Now.” Jon’s shoulders bunched, unnerved by the accuracy of the words. A fresh jolt of adrenaline chased away the looming exhaustion. Stress hormones pumping through him, sharpening his senses.

“But you and Barry--” Dany said, her brow forked.

“I’ll keep the old dog alive until the cavalry comes,” Rakharo said with a travesty of a smile. Daenerys scowled, but nodded. She braced Rakharo’s hand against the bleeding wound, ignoring his groan.

“Fine. I’ll go. Use firm pressure. If you think you’re going to pass out, take deep breaths in through your nose.”

“Yes, Miss,” Rakharo said, looking up at her with black eyes blazing with ferocity, “Cash only, find a fresh burner if you can.”

“Of course,” Daenerys said. A yank pulled her bag from the SUV with a petulant tinkle of glass.

“Leave it! They might have smuggled a tracker on your belongings,” Rakharo wheezed. Daenerys huffed out a breath, her shaking hands the only indication that she wasn’t quite as calm as she seemed.  

“Ok. I’ll go then,” she said. The warble in her voice hurt. A blazing thought pierced the fog: she said ‘I’ not ‘we.’ Jon grasped her arm, loosening his grip when she bit back a cry of pain.

“You’re not going alone.” She gave him an anguished look, tears standing in her eyes.

“Jon, you’ve already suffered so much because of me, I couldn’t--” Jon yanked her close to him, swamped by a strong storm surge of emotion. Anger or fear, love or desperation, he wasn’t sure.

“Get this through your head: I’m not going anywhere,” he rasped. He bit down on more dangerous words like ‘I’m all in’ or ‘You’re mine.’ It wouldn’t do to throw his heart at her feet. He wasn’t sure if she’d treasure it or inadvertently stomp on it.

“Let’s go,” she said her voice strong and steady. Jon folded Daenerys’ hand in his own. Beneath the grimy slick of blood, her steady warmth comforted him. The siren’s shriek grew louder, coming down the road from the direction of the Street of Sisters.

“This way,” Jon said, tugging her toward Visenya’s Hill, where Ghost circled on his lead.

“You brought Ghost here?” Dany asked incredulously. Jon’s back went up.

“I heard gunshots and came running,” Jon snapped, untying the lead with a sharp yank. Even that cut too close to an admission, so Jon kept his gaze on what his hands were doing. He felt the weight of her eyes, and rolled his shoulders. Gods, he was a damned fool. Chasing after her, wanting to be her hero. It would get him killed. The smart thing would be to back away slowly. It was passing thought that just barely punctured the thick grey fog. Ghost nosed Dany gently, whining at the smell of blood. Dany crooned, petting the soft fur behind his pointed ears. Who was he kidding? He was in way too deep for that.  

“Come on,” Jon said, ushering both Ghost and Dany through a narrow winding alley. Jon crouched beside a dripping faucet and washed the blood off him. A twist of his shirt and the flap dangled between his shoulder blades. There. Semi-presentable.

Dodging grimy puddles and reeking dumpsters, they wove through backstreets until they found a small tenement house.

“Where are we?” Daenerys asked.

“A friend’s. I need a place for Ghost,” Jon said, shooing her to stand out of sight. Daenerys Targaryen stood out in any circumstance, but looking like a warzone survivor stuck in a person’s mind. Jon rapped on the door. Faintly he heard the stomp of her boots.

“Who is it?” she asked through the door.

“Jeyne, it’s Jon. Open up!” he said. A twist of the deadbolt, a rattle of door-chain and Jeyne yanked the door open. Her utility scrubs were in King’s Landing Veterinary Hospital’s colors of plain black, with high, work-scuffed boots. Her long dark hair tied in a bouncy ponytail, her hazel eyes wide in her lovely round face.

“Jon? Is everything all right? Come in!” she said, with an ushering gesture. Jon’s smile was stiff and uncomfortable. Weariness sapped his strength along with his patience.

“I can’t stay, Jeyne. Something came up suddenly, and I have to leave town. Can Ghost stay with you a couple days?” Her brow furrowed, but she automatically reached for Ghost’s lead. Jon knelt and scrubbed Ghost’s furry sides. His tail wagged uncertainly. Poor pup, he was confused.

“Anything, Jon. Are you sure everything is--”

“I’ll explain later,” Jon interrupted, glancing over his shoulder, “I owe you. Thank you. I’ll call you later. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

“O—Ok. Call me later, then,” Jeyne said with a hopeful smile. Shit. Not that kind of call. Jon finished his goodbyes with Ghost and stepped off the stoop. That was a problem for another day.

Daenerys was uncharacteristically quiet as they took a meandering path to the train station. Jon shoved away the thought, focused. One: Getting Out of the Fucking City Safely, Two: Smashing Any Bad Guys in their Path, Three: Calling for Backup. Thankfully, Number Two proved unnecessary as Dany slipped into a seedy thrift store to buy Jon a new shirt. Meeting him around the corner, she tore open the plastic sack. A black button-down for him—wafting a strange mix of must and mothballs—and a baggy drab green army coat and cricket cap for herself. Jon shrugged on the shirt over his torn one, wincing as it stretched the scabbing cut on his chest.

“How do I look?” she asked with wide-eyed glance. Jon gave her a once-over, some of the tension bleeding away. His grimace softened. The coat swallowed her, the cuffs hanging past her fingertips. Her distinctive hair was shoved under a King’s Landing Crowns hat and flyaway strands fell in disordered curls. His chest felt tight.  

“Beautiful.” A smile bloomed on her lips, so gorgeous his heart twisted inside him. The light died in her eyes as the smile fell.

“I don’t look like a fugitive businesswoman running from a multinational crime syndicate?” she asked.

“Nope, just another poor slob,” Jon joked weakly. The smile he earned was cooler, but no less beautiful. Jon cleared his throat.

“Come on, let’s go.”

The warm moment carried him through the tedium and nerve-shredding anxiety of joining the monitored masses of King’s Landing’s busier thoroughfares to hail a cab. Waiting under the orange glare of a streetlight, Dany made an abortive gesture, the army coat’s sleeve pooling around her wrist. Her nervous habit of chewing on her fingernails. They were still rimmed black with Rakharo’s blood, despite their hasty wash. Jon’s teeth ground together.

“Where to, gents?” the cabbie asked in sharp intonation of an Iron Islander.

“Stone Heights, corner of Queen Street and South 127th,” Jon said, as Dany slid into the seat. He felt the curious pass of her gaze, but he didn’t want the cabbie to overhear his plans. Bad guys bursting out of nowhere made him twitchy.

“In this traffic, that’ll take over an hour,” he whined.

“You’ll get a good fare then,” Jon said, slamming the door shut.

And that was that. One of his buddies Pyp, who worked with Tormund lived in Stone Heights, a semi-respectable neighborhood outside the city walls. The ancient walls of where the medieval King’s Landing stood was preserved, the reddish stone and crenellations lit up with floodlights. Past the wall sprawled suburbs and businesses, neighborhoods and office buildings, absorbing the old town of Rosby into an extension of King’s Landing. Jon drummed his fingers on his jumping knee, jittery energy shredding his insides. Creeping in metal box, just like before, with only him left to protect her . . . Dany stilled his knee with a touch of her hand.

“Breathe,” she whispered. Jon offered a weak smile, taking a deep breath in through his nose. Jon covered her hand with his. So warm, the bones of her hand so delicate in his grip.

“Thank you by the way,” she said, her gaze turned toward the window. “For what?” Jon asked.

“For saving my life. Again.” I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you. But he didn’t say that.

“Don’t mention it.”

                                                          ~

 Gods, Ramsay loved his work. The two men on security detail offered a challenge. Both were smart and fierce. So refreshing. The second in particular, was strong as a bull and had nearly broken his arm. Ramsay repaid him, though. The .22 was his favorite weapon. It wouldn’t kill, not unless at a lucky angle or point-blank range. No, instead the small bullet would ping around like a pinball inside, doing all sorts of delightful damage without killing the victim. It made things much more interesting. The silencer took care of the pesky side effects of ‘witnesses.’

All that was left now was his favorite part: interrogation. And such a pretty victim too. Not Westerosi, with those dark, exotic eyes. She huddled in her closet, clutching a butcher knife. Mm, she has some fire, then. Good! He liked that. A part of him wished there was time and space enough to take her home, play with his dogs. Such vicious things.

“Hello, Shae. I have some questions for you about this . . . Jon Snow.”  

                                                        ~

 The hours trickled away. Like a Monday afternoon, where time seemed to move at a snail’s pace. Daenerys glanced at the car clock: past midnight. Her thoughts drifted, nodding against Jon’s warm strong shoulder. The cab smelled of stale cigarette smoke and old takeout. A wilted chicken salad had been her dinner, washed down with weak iced tea. Jon’s arm tugged her close, a warm clasp at her hip. Thankfully the cabbie had the radio switched to a classical station. The second attempt on her life would be splashed all over the news. She sent up a brief prayer for Barry and Rakharo’s well-being. Gods, I hope no one else was hurt. At least Vis was safe, as was Dragon in Tyrion’s hands.

The two of them switched cabs at Stone Heights, and again in Rosby. Jon paid the third cabbie with a brusque gesture, herding her out toward a cheap motel. The promise of quiet and rest, a shower and a bed—no matter how dubious—was heavenly. The train station was within sight.

“We’ll board a train north in the morning. Let me make a quick call,” Jon said, pointing to an ancient pay phone languishing outside the motel office door. Daenerys trailed after him, bleary-eyed, a headache pounding behind her eyes. Every inch of her ached and she stretched subtly to ease it.

“Robb, thank the gods. I know, I know, my phone broke. Listen—” Robb, Jon’s stepbrother. The handsome face she’d seen on so many magazine covers. Wealthy, goodhearted, dating Margaery Tyrell, the gorgeous actress. The press ate up their story like candy.

Daenerys’ attention drifted. The night was warm and soft, with the rhythmic screech of trains in the background. Sweat dewed on the back of her neck, under the thick canvas coat. Crickets chirped. A niggling sense of déjà vu prickled. She dismissed it, shivering at being out in the open. What eyes watched from those distant windows? Knives and guns in the dark. Daenerys checked the impulse to lean into Jon. She’d done enough clinging to him already. Gods, seeing him bloodied and frantic on Loom Street would be forever burned into her memory.

“Thank you. I’ll pay you back, I promise. Give Marg my love,” Jon said, before hanging the phone on its cradle with an inward tinkle of change. Jon found a tired smile.

“I’m sorry about the rough accommodations. Dad had an old place on Silver Lake. The train will take us north tomorrow.” Daenerys gave the motel a scrutinizing glance.

“Looks like my first apartment,” she said. That was it. The sound of trains and a maze of broken concrete reminded her of the squalid apartment she shared with Vis while working her way through college. Always she came home feeling the same way she felt now: exhausted, lonely and heartsick.

Their room was on the third floor, interior hall. Yellowed wallpaper peeled off the walls, the dark green carpet worn thin and grubby. Jon locked the door behind them and set Barry’s spare gun on the nightstand. The microfiber blanket on the sagging mattress was patterned with gold roses. Jon clicked on the bedside lamp, washing one side of his face in the garish white light. He sat at the head of the bed, his expression closed and grim. No doubt ruing the day he’d ever laid eyes on her. He rubbed his eyes.

“Take your turn in the shower. I’ll stand watch,” Jon said, with a jerk of his chin. Daenerys was too tired and wrung out to argue.

The bathroom echoed the motel’s general sense of neglect: hard water stains on the shower glass, mildew growing between the chips in the countertop, an age-fogged mirror. The woman who stared back at her in that murky glass had her features, but the eyes were smudged and haunted. A woman hunted, running, running, running. How long before they caught up to her? What about Jon? He’d already risked his life for her. Twice. How long before he decided it was enough? Or worse, they hurt him?

Daenerys twisted the tap on full blast. With a throaty gurgle, rust-tinged water burst from the showerhead before running clear. There were no good answers, and flogging her tired brain wasn’t helping. One simple thing she could do was get clean. Daenerys peeled off the musty coat, the bloodstained shirt, the torn jeans, and stepped under the pounding spray. One thing in the motel’s favor: the water was blisteringly hot. The beat of the water and swirling steam were soothing, even the tepid water pooling from the slow drain didn’t bother her. A soak for her achy feet.

Three little vials of cheap shampoo and conditioner worked the worst of the tangles out of her hair, along with ground flecks of broken glass. A washcloth and bar soap scrubbed away all memory of the day. Soot and blood, fear and grief. Only the thought of Jon not having enough hot water kept her from spending the whole night under the hot deluge.

Daenerys wrenched the tap off and wrung out her hair. Sound echoed strangely in the shower stall, water a hollow drip. Daenerys scowled at the heap of her discarded clothes as she toweled off. No way. She would rather sleep naked than climb into those clothes again. Through her tiredness, a tendril of heat flickered to life. If Jon could comfort her, make her forget the madness of the day with the patented heat and skill of his loving . . . then they would both feel better. Predictably, her busy brain listed alphabetically how and why he would reject her, and she chickened out. Instead, Daenerys swathed herself in a towel, gathered her clothes in a wadded knot, and emerged in a cloud of sweet-scented steam. Jon looked up, the same fierce scowl plastered in place.

“I’ll take my turn,” he said in a voice as hard as his expression. Something inside her quailed a little. That too tickled a memory in her brain, of nights Vis staggered home drunk from the pub down the street. Daenerys sank down to sit on the bed as the door clicked shut behind him. It would be better, kinder if she slipped out the door and out of his life. The hiss of the shower bled through the door. She would have to hurry.  

[fierypen37]

The Oasis: Chapter 6

Another chapter up!

The man leered down at her, pointed gold teeth dripping blood. The gun welded into his sharp metal talons. A grotesque, steampunk monstrosity. The thick flutter of sinewy wings. WE WARNED YOU. The scream of gunfire. WE WARNED YOU . . . Pain bloomed beneath her sternum. Blood gushed between her fingers. She never felt the blow, only the cold, the aching cold . . .

“Dany!” Jon’s voice dragged her from the mire of her nightmare. She blinked at his concerned face leaning over her, lit by a thin sliver of lamplight from the room behind him. Panting, damp with sweat, Dany struggled upright on the soft mattress.

“Are you ok? You shouted in your sleep.”

“Nightmare. It’s ok. I’m ok,” Daenerys breathed.

The light washed lovingly over his body, painting his sculpted beauty in gold and black. Eager for distraction, her mind slavered over the bulk of his naked chest, the corded strength of his arms. His eyes were pools of inky black. The shivering part of her soul hungered for his strength and warmth to banish the shadows. All her designs on seducing him once he finished washing up vanished as soon as her head hit the pillow. Forty-eight hours with only three hours of sleep was just too much.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Ten ‘til two. You should try and go back to sleep.” Mm, his voice was sleep-rough murmur.

“Sit with me a minute?” Daenerys asked. Wheedling, clingy. Yuck. Despite that, Jon didn’t hesitate.

“Sure. Hang on a second. Down, Ghost.” Jon padded out of the room. The big white dog nudged her arm with his wet nose, his fluffy white tail wagging in cautious concern.

“I’m all right, love. Thank you for checking on me,” Daenerys said, petting his big head. Ghost padded across the carpet to his dog bed and curled up, another warm, watchful presence. Jon returned, and set the gun on his bedside table.

“Just in case,” he said. Dany’s heart melted. Her brave protector.

“You sure you’re ok?” Jon said, his hand hovering over hers for one breathless second. Daenerys hoped for a touch. To her disappointment, Jon’s hand dropped to rest on the bed. Daenerys licked her lips.

“I dreamed of the man with the gun. He fired and I--” Jon’s bristly eyebrows crinkled together, dark eyes stormy. Then he laid a hand over hers and Daenerys soaked up the comfort of that casual touch.

“It’s ok, Dany. You’re safe. You’re safe here.” The words touched the anxious part inside her that waited for the hammer to fall. Tears welled in her eyes.

“I know,” she said, her voice froggy.

“Hey, hey.”

Jon moved, sliding beneath the heap of blanket and comforter to curl beside her. Daenerys nearly sobbed as his arm slid around her, tucking her against his side. Sensation swamped her: the hard warmth of him pressed against her, the softness of his shirt beneath her cheek, the faint scent of laundry detergent filling her nose. Daenerys snuffled, the tears leaking faster. Vis would mock her sniveling, as he often had after Mother died. But Jon didn’t seem to mind. Vast oceans of pain opened inside. Tears of fear, of loneliness, of ancient grief. Through it all, Jon crooned and rocked her, the low burr of his voice a comfort.

Daenerys dragged in a shuddering breath, gathering the shreds of her composure. Poor weepy thing, a voice snarled mockingly in her head. Mopping her face with the hem of the sheet, she risked a glance at Jon. In the thin ribbon of lamplight, his expression held only sympathy.

“Thank you for being so considerate,” Daenerys said, “Sorry I fell apart on you.” A shadow of a grin lit his face as he scratched his bearded chin.

“You’ve been through one hell of a night. Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, tentatively. Daenerys paused, pondering the question. Maybe rehashing it would shed some light of the wheres and whys.

“That’s a good idea. It all started a couple years ago. I was just getting Breaking Chains off the ground. Fundraising was a breeze since Rising Dragon was doing so well. We’d just closed a deal with Iron Bank Inc. to--”

“What does your company do, exactly?”

“Dragon? Oh we’re a financial brokerage firm. Wealth management, asset protection, business law, that sort of thing. Vis is working on his MBA.”

“Fancy.” The succinct word laden with dubious overtones made her grin. Vis did enjoy prestige and titles, much like their late father did.

“Yeah. Anyway, Breaking Chains was just getting off the ground. I wanted it to be a resource for community outreach programs and at-risk communities. We opened an office here, and another in the Bay of Dragons, near Yunkai.” Jon scowled.

“Shit, I’ve read about that place. Sex slavery?”

“Yes,” Daenerys said, a familiar anger stirring in her gut, “working with the DA, I saw theft, murder, drug and gang violence. I thought I understood what man could inflict on itself. I was wrong. It gets so much worse. I swore I would stop it if I could.”

“Breaking Chains does great work. I’ve heard my brother talk about it. I read about you in The Citadel.” The pride in his voice warmed her to her toes.

“Vis was so proud about that piece. Our father was on the cover too when he ran for office,” Daenerys said. Thinking about Aerys Targaryen always filled her with a strange pain made up of a mosaic of neglect, resentment, and guilt.

“The threats started after that,” she said.

Jon was silent for a long moment. It was a quality she liked about him: the time he took to choose his words.

“You had money, public opinion, and a billion-crown company to back up your good intentions. Vermin skitter away when a light shines on them. And your programs cut into their business,” Jon said. Daenerys smirked.

“Still, I wonder why they want to kill me. Breaking Chains would continue on even if they succeed.” Jon’s grip tightened around her, a pleasant pressure.

“They won’t succeed. I’ll kick their teeth in.” A delicate savagery underscored his words.

A jolt of mingled awe and arousal zinged through her. It was a thrilling feeling to have him want to protect her. She would cling to it as long as he let her. Jon absently wound a strand of her hair around his finger.  

After a moment, he said: “I think the fuckers want to intimidate not only you, but everyone else. If they can get to you, someone smart and rich and famous, what chance does someone else have?”

“Good point.”

Silence crept between them, as warm and comfortable as an old sweater. Daenerys nuzzled her cheek against his hard chest, biting back a purr. Sleep frayed her thoughts to disconnected fluff, the music of his heartbeat under her ear lulling her.

“And the fiancé? Do you want to talk about it?” Jon’s voice was quiet, as if he hoped she was asleep. Daenerys blinked, leaden emotion falling over her like a wet blanket. Rolling on her back, she addressed her words to the hypnotic pass of ceiling fan blades. Her counselor told her talking through her emotions was therapeutic.

“It wasn’t always like this. When he proposed, I was so happy. With Stormcrow and Rising Dragon together, we could change the world for the better.” After a moment, Jon’s voice answered.

“It sounds cold,” Jon said softly.

Daenerys swallowed the spark of irritation. Cold. It wasn’t the first time she’d been called that. Dragon Queen. Icy Bitch. She had her father’s temper, but had smothered and quenched that flame to a flicker. More tears welled up, creeping in ticklish streaks into her hair. Jon didn’t know what it was to have all your love poured into a shiny urn, to watch your home disappear into mist. Coldness was armor.  

“Cold is safe.”

She heard the judgement in his answering silence.

“It took us almost fifteen years to build Dragon back up from nothing. Long, hard, hungry years. Then, Daario was there. He was handsome and smart and so funny . . . he could always make me laugh. Vis and I were working sixty-hour weeks to stay afloat and pay my way through law school. Being with Daario was easy. His partnership gave us the push we needed to get Dragon off the ground.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how hard that was for you. Still, The Asshole treated you badly. He earned his title,” Jon said. Daenerys snorted.

“‘The Asshole?’ He did earn that, didn’t he? With any luck, he won’t run to the press and our stock won’t drop seven points.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll be back to kicking ass and making money hand over fist any day now,” Jon said. The note of admiration in his voice thawed her a little. Jon wasn’t put off by her prickliness, or coldness. He nestled close, guarded her back.

The ceiling fan creaked in a pleasant rhythm, a counterpoint to the blow of central air. Time dilated in a half-doze. At every shift or sound, Jon would stroke her back. A reflexive comforting gesture. Daenerys’ heart lurched.  

“Jon?” she asked.

He grunted in answer.

“What about you? I didn’t even know your last name until a couple hours ago,” she asked gently. He sighed through his nose.

“What do you want to know?”

Daenerys peered up at him, struck anew by just how damn handsome he was. Sooty eyes and artfully messy black hair. She checked the impulse to pet the roughness of his beard.

“Simple stuff. Where are you from? What do you do other than work at The Oasis? What’s your favorite takeout place?”

“Mm, takeout. There’s a great family-run Lysene place down on Loom Street. Fried mango and spicy noodles.”

“Yum.”

“I work construction with Wilde Co. We just finished a contract reno with Jay Westerling. I grew up in the North district, near Winterfell. My mom was from White Harbor. She died when I was little.” Daenerys’ grip tightened around him. Maybe he did understand.  

“I’m sorry, Jon.” His brown eyes slipped closed, as if to hide from her gaze.

“It was a long time ago. It’s late. You should try and sleep,” he said, and began to move, but Daenerys locked her arms around his chest.

“Stay. Please,” she whispered. To hell with clinginess. The words he’d pulled out made her feel raw, vulnerable in a way being threatened with a gun hadn’t. Barry and her security team would be here in a matter of hours. If she was going to coax him into bed with her, this was a good place to start.  

Jon held her gaze for a long moment, and a pleasant fission of desire trickled through her. He gave a mute nod, and they shuffled about. Daenerys curled on her side, nuzzling into the softness of his pillow. Jon lay on his back, a thin span of mattress separating them. She was sure sleep would elude her with Jon behind her, exuding sexiness, but exhaustion won out. Daenerys slipped under with barely a thought.

                                                      ~

 Jon crept toward wakefulness in groggy stages. A half-delirious sense of relaxation and well-being permeated him, like he was a feather floating on a blood-warm current, light and lazy. Without a care in the world. Sensation crowded to the fore. First, he was suffocatingly hot. Sweat slicked his chest and underarms. Second, something was tickling his nose. Jon cracked open one eye. It was a cloud of blond hair gleaming silver in the light bleeding through the gap in the curtains. Jon lay spooned up behind Dany, his arm tucked around her waist, his morning erection throbbing hopefully against her ass . . .  Jon glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. Two-thirty. Shit. They’d been asleep for over twelve hours.

Every other thought flew from his mind when she shifted on her back and her eyes fluttered open. Gods, how was she so damn beautiful? Her long hair was a thick silver wave across the pillow, violet eyes fogged and dreamy framed by those expressive brows. Those pink lips, the heartbreaking curve of her chin. A lovely, fey thing. Gorgeous with a steel spine and a prickly, vulnerable, compassionate heart.

Dany twisted in his embrace to face him, twining her limbs with his. Mm, the cool slide of silk, and then . . . oh fuck, she was naked underneath. Nothing but milk-white thighs and the tender mound of her pussy, pubic hair trimmed to a fine fuzz.

Jon dragged in a breath to beg for mercy when she kissed him. It was bigger than him. A huge, inevitable pull like the moon singing to the tide. Jon abandoned himself to the give and take of it, tangling tongues, the glide of lips, the throbbing build of pleasure. Her hands framed his face, cherishing him. It ached in his heart, his balls. The silk of her nightgown snagged on his callused palms, her body warm and firm beneath it, her ribcage rising and falling in a swift cadence. The next he knew, she was beneath him, squirming and grinding against his body, his cock. Oh yeah, he could bring her off just like this, he could feel a faint hint of her wetness through his sweatpants, she was so fucking hot--

Jon broke away, dragging in much-needed oxygen. Each breath drew in more of her intoxicating scent, and inside he howled. A wolf baying at the bewitching moon. Wildness and longing. Great job, idiot. What happened to being a gentleman, her loyal guard? The tide of self-recrimination battered him like blows. What kind of scumbag was he, rutting against her like an animal after what she’d been through? That animal side roared that she was his to claim, to plunder.

“We . . . we have to stop,” Jon said, his chest heaving as if he’d run from here to the peak of Aegon’s Hill.

“Why? Come here!” Dany said, dragging him down by a handful of his hair. She kissed him again with a bold thrust of her tongue. Jon groaned, suckling that deft pink tongue, his hands wadded in her bunched nightgown. Her hands slipped beneath his shirt. Light, maddening touches ghosting down his sweat-slick belly, plucking at his nipples. Arousal was a type of madness, and she’d goaded him to a fever-pitch. Blood roared in his ears.

“No. Stop,” Jon said, pinning her hands to the mattress. Jon steeled himself against the sight of her in his bed, flushed and half-naked and wrecked beneath him. Thighs spread, with him nestled between them. Seven fucking hells. Dany gulped, looking near-tears.

“Why?” she asked again in a raw whisper.

“Because if I lure you into my apartment to fuck you after you’ve been threatened and hit and nearly killed, hours after you broke up with your ex, that makes me an opportunistic piece of shit,” Jon said, stroking the inside of her wrist with his thumb.

“Lure me? I wanted to come here!” Daenerys hissed, squirming in his grip. His trapped cock throbbed against her inner thigh. Jon grunted, clinging to intelligibility by his fingernails.

“Still. You’re in a tough place right now, with the attack and the fiancé . . .” he trailed off. The words sounded weak to his own ears. All his mental facilities were tied up in keeping her still. He needed every ounce of mental energy to go toe to toe with a wicked-sharp lawyer brain like Dany’s.

“Let go,” she said, brow forked like a lightning bolt.

“Truce?” Jon asked with a dubious tilt of his chin.

“Truce,” she agreed.

Jon eased off her, grateful for a minute of breathing room. Dany rolled on her side, pinning him in place with a blazing sharp glare.

“I’m not fragile, Jon. Neither am I an idiot.”

Jon blew out a deep breath, raking his fingers through his shaggy hair.

“I know that, but . . .”

Dany blinked, tears beading fat on her eyelashes. She tucked her chin, a veil of hair partially hiding her face. Oh shit. Her voice emerged in a miffed clip: “If you didn’t want me, you could have said so.” Jon snorted, pointedly glancing at his tented sweatpants.

“Don’t manipulate me. You’re gorgeous and you know it. I’ve been hard almost since the moment I met you.” Dany blushed.

“That’s sweet to say. I’m sure I look like a wreck,” she said, finger-combing her mussed hair. After a beat, she asked: “And really?”

“Really what?” Jon asked, suddenly fighting a smile.

“That you’ve been ah . . . aroused since you met me?”

“Pretty much,” Jon said bashfully, “I’m not proud of it.”

“I bet that happens all the time massaging women you find attractive.”

“Wouldn’t know. It’s never happened before.” A smile crept across her kiss-bruised lips.

“Is that so?”    

“Yeah,” he said softly.

A warm moment stretched on. Damn, he was in deep and kept wading deeper.

“Dany, I’m trying to do the right thing here,” Jon said, raw with entreaty.

Dany scowled, bursting up with a flutter of bedclothes. Jon’s breathing ratcheted up as she straddled his waist. His cock tucked against his belly between them. He nearly whimpered. Even the chafe of their clothing was almost too much. That low rumble of arousal revved up like a racecar engine. His hands reflexively clasped her hips to steady her. That shimmering energy, warm and vital under his hands. Sunlight and shadow painted her in a tiger’s stripes. Lithe and poised.  

“That’s admirable of you, Jon. Doing what you think is right. But did you stop to ask me what I wanted?” Transfixed by her vivid gaze, the blaze of her personality, Jon gave a mute shake of his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sitting up.

Nose to nose with her, Jon saw her dilated pupils, the leap of her pulse at her throat. He loved that. This vibrant, intelligent, feisty woman wanted him. It made him feel powerful, strong. A remnant of primitive First Men compulsion embedded in his brain. Instead of clamoring madness, this rush of arousal rose from a simmer, a steady thrum of heat from contact.  

“What do you want, Dany?” he said, his voice a low rasp. He watched the plump curve of her lower lip, moistened by a flash of her pink tongue. Sexy. Jon’s hands kneaded her hips, restless and hungry.

“I don’t want to fuck this up,” he said in a harsh whisper. Dany leaned closer, a centimeter away.

“I want you,” she whispered, the puff of her breath tickling his chin. Jon grinned, shaking his head. He nuzzled her cheek, his beard rasping her soft skin.

“Not good enough. I need specifics. Do you want me to be your boyfriend? Do you want me to fuck you? Is it a one-and-done type thing? Or more?” His buddies, especially Theon, would be cringing. Guys, according to Theon, didn’t press the where-is-this-relationship-going angle, under any circumstances.

Dany bumped his forehead with hers. It was a surprisingly tender gesture that undid him like a knot on a string. Oh fuck. Who was he kidding anyway? He’d be whatever she wanted. Boyfriend, fucktoy, masseur, whatever. Just whistle and here comes Jon trotting at her heels.

“I like you. S—Sex isn’t something that comes easy to me. Commitment either. I know we don’t know each other very well, but I know I want you.”

“Mmm,” Jon said, his eyes falling closed.

Those words sounded so good in her uppity Crown district accent. His brain dissected and poured over the second sentence. Had The Asshole ridiculed her in bed? If so, he might be next on the growing list of people Jon needed to kick the shit out of. Slow and easy then, lad. Jon breathed a kiss on her lips.

“Come here, then,” he whispered with a wicked smile.