She Came Back Knowing Everything, So I Chased Her novel · Chapter 2 of 3

Chapter 2: The Order She Follows

In the back of a tracking truck, Passion tests whether Jamison can take direction without turning it into command, and the encounter escalates physically until she catches his wrist and asks him to tell her this is not another order, leaving him with the next command waiting on his tongue.

The truck door shut behind him with a hollow metal sound.

The snow went quiet. The wind became a distant pressure against the walls, and inside there was only the dark and the smell of pine needles and the sound of her breathing.

Jamison did not move from the door.

He stood with his back against it and let his eyes adjust to the black. The bench seat ran along the far wall. She sat at the end of it, her hands folded in her lap, her face turned toward him.

He could not see her expression. He could feel her watching him.

The cold had followed them in. It settled over his skin, over the wool of his coat, and he felt the weight of it in his lungs with every breath.

She had told him to get in. He had gotten in.

Now neither of them spoke.

He waited. This was a different kind of waiting. The next word belonged to her, and he had promised himself he would not take it from her.

Passion shifted on the bench. Fabric against metal.

'Why did you follow me?' she asked.

Her voice was low, careful, the way she spoke when she was deciding whether to trust a thing.

'Because you asked me to,' he said.

'That is not an answer.'

'It is the only one I have.'

She was quiet again. He heard her exhale, a slow breath that fogged the air between them.

'I don't know what you want from me,' she said.

He almost laughed. The sound would have been bitter, and wrong, and he swallowed it down.

What he wanted from her was thirty years of a voice in his head and a daughter he had never met and a life he had already spent without her.

What he wanted was another chance.

He could not say any of that.

'I want you to tell me what you want,' he said.

Another silence. Longer this time.

The truck creaked as the wind pushed at it.

'That is not how this works,' she said.

'Then tell me how it works.'

She stood. The movement was sudden, fluid, and he heard her boots on the metal floor as she crossed the narrow space toward him. She stopped close. Close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body against the cold, close enough that he could smell the snow in her hair and something else underneath it.

'You are the Alpha,' she said. 'You give the orders. You make the decisions. That is what you do.'

'Not with you.'

'Why not?'

'Because I have already decided too much for you.'

She went still.

He could see her now, the faint outline of her face in the dark, the shine of her eyes. She was close enough to touch. He did not touch her.

'You want me to believe that,' she said.

'I want you to believe what you see.'

'What I see is a man who has never once come himself, standing in the back of a tracking truck in the middle of the night, telling me he has changed.'

'Yes,' he said.

She made a sound. Not quite a laugh. Something smaller and harder.

'Fine,' she said. 'Put your hands on me.'

The words landed in the cold air and stayed there.

He did not move.

'Is that an order?' he asked.

'It is a test.'

'Then I will fail it.'

She took a step back. He felt the loss of her warmth like a door opening.

'Why?' she asked.

'Because you are testing whether I will take what I want without asking. And I will not.'

'That is not what I am testing.'

'Then what?'

She was quiet. He waited.

The wind outside picked up, a low moan along the truck's frame.

'I am testing whether you can take direction,' she said.

Something moved through him. It was want, sharp and clean, and it had nothing to do with his head.

She had said it in the dark of a truck that smelled of pine and old coffee, and she had said it like a dare.

'Then direct me,' he said.

His voice came out lower than he intended.

She stepped back toward him. One step, then another, until the space between them was gone. Her coat brushed his chest. He felt the heat of her through the layers of wool and cotton.

'Undo my coat,' she said.

He raised his hands slowly. He kept them where she could see them, even in the dark, and he let his fingers find the buttons of her coat. They were cold. His hands were not steady.

He undid the top button. Then the next. Then the next.

She watched him the whole time. He could feel her eyes on his face.

'You are shaking,' she said.

'I know.'

'Good.'

The coat fell open. Under it she wore a sweater, soft and dark, and beneath that the shape of her body was warm against the cold air. He did not touch her yet.

'Now yours,' she said.

He shrugged out of his coat and let it fall to the floor. The cold hit him at once, sharp through the thin white shirt, but he did not feel it. He felt her.

'Put your hands on my waist,' she said.

He did. His palms settled on the curve of her hips through the sweater, and she was warm, so warm it burned through the fabric. His fingers flexed once.

She caught her breath.

'Under the sweater,' she said.

He slid his hands up, under the hem, and the skin of her stomach was smooth and hot under his palms. She made a small sound, a soft intake of air, and he felt it against his chest.

'Stop,' she said.

He stopped. His hands went still against her skin, and he did not move them, did not press, did not slide them higher. He waited.

'You stopped,' she said.

'You told me to.'

'I know.'

She said it like she was surprised. Like she had expected him to keep going, to push past the word, to take what his hands were already touching.

'Keep going,' she said.

His hands moved again. Up, over the ribs, and she shivered under his palms. He felt the lace edge of her bra, the warmth of her skin above it, and then his thumbs brushed the underside of her breasts.

She made a sound. Low, in the back of her throat. It went through him like a blade.

'Take it off,' she said. 'The sweater.'

He pulled back just enough to grip the hem and lift. She raised her arms. The sweater came off over her head, and then she was standing in the cold truck in her bra, her dark skin glowing in the faint light that leaked through the rear window.

The cold made her nipples tighten against the lace. He could see it. He could not look away.

'Your turn,' she said.

He unbuttoned his shirt. His fingers were clumsy with it, and she watched him struggle with the buttons, her eyes on his hands, and something like satisfaction crossed her face.

'You want this,' she said. It was not a question.

'Yes.'

'Say it.'

'I want this.'

'More than you want to be right?'

He let the shirt fall. 'Yes.'

She stepped into him. Her body pressed against his bare chest, skin to skin, and the heat of her was a shock that drove the breath out of him. Her breasts pressed against his ribs. Her stomach against his. He could feel her heartbeat, fast and hard, or maybe it was his own.

'Put your hands on me again,' she said. 'And this time, don't stop until I tell you to.'

His hands found her waist, then her back, then the clasp of her bra. He did not ask. He unhooked it, and the straps slid down her arms, and then her breasts were bare against his chest.

She gasped.

He did not stop.

His hands moved over her back, down to the curve of her ass over her jeans, and he pulled her against him. She was soft and hot and real, and he was hard already, pressing against her through the denim.

She felt it. Her hips shifted against him, a small, involuntary movement, and he made a sound he did not recognize.

'Passion,' he said.

Her name came out broken.

'Don't talk,' she said. 'Just touch me.'

He did. His hands found her breasts, cupped them, and she arched into his palms. Her nipples were hard against his fingers. He rolled one between thumb and forefinger, and she cried out, a sharp, bitten sound that echoed off the metal walls.

'More,' she said.

He gave her more. His mouth found her shoulder, her collarbone, and she tilted her head back, offering him her throat. He took it with his mouth, dragging his lips up the column of her neck, and she shuddered against him.

'Jamison,' she whispered.

'Tell me what you want,' he said against her skin.

'Your hands,' she said. 'Lower.'

He moved his hands down her stomach, over the waistband of her jeans, and she was trembling now, every muscle in her body wound tight. He popped the button. He pulled the zipper down.

The sound was loud in the quiet.

'Under,' she said. 'Under the denim.'

He slid his hand inside. Over the thin cotton of her underwear, and she was hot, wet, and he could feel it through the fabric. She made a sound that was half sob, half moan, and her hips bucked against his palm.

'There,' she said. 'Right there.'

He pressed the heel of his hand against her. She rode it, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, her hands gripping his shoulders hard enough to bruise.

'Tell me this is not another order,' she said.

She caught his wrist, her fingers tight around the bone, and held it still against her.

He looked at her. Her eyes were wide in the dark, her lips parted, her chest heaving. She was half undressed and shaking, and she was asking him for the one thing he did not know how to give.

He was breathing hard. The next command was already forming on his tongue, the word again or more or let me, and he swallowed it down.

She waited.

The truck creaked around them. The wind pushed at the walls.

He could feel her pulse under his palm, fast and wild, and he did not move his hand.

'Passion,' he said.

'Tell me.'

He opened his mouth. The command was there, waiting, and he did not know if he could stop it.

He did not know if he wanted to.

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