Queen Industries, Steel Manufacturing and Welding Plant.
The factory had been closed and abandoned even before the Queen's Gambit incident. Laurel hadn't expected to be held here. She still couldn't decide whether Jack Kadere actually intended to kidnap her or had some other motive entirely, but either way, she was going to investigate him thoroughly.
She wasn't the only one.
Far away in Gotham, Batgirl Barbara Gordon and her father James Gordon were also looking into Jack Kadere. Talia al Ghul was conducting her own quiet investigation. And beyond all of them, a much larger organization had taken notice.
A.R.G.U.S.—the Advanced Research Group Uniting Super-Humans—was an official underground organization of the U.S. government, similar in function to Marvel's S.H.I.E.L.D. Its current commander, Amanda Waller, was a formidable woman. She had already assembled a team called Task Force X, but she wasn't satisfied. As A.R.G.U.S. commander and warden of Belle Reve Penitentiary, she wanted to recruit supervillains and anti-heroes for a squad specifically designed for dangerous, suicidal missions—the kind of dirty work the government couldn't openly sanction and ordinary agents couldn't survive.
When the Gotham incident broke out, Waller had seized the opportunity to propose the Suicide Squad to her superiors. But before approval came through, the crisis resolved itself, and the project was shelved. Because of that, Waller had turned her attention to Jack Kadere. She ordered an investigation and classified all known data on him at high-level access restrictions, keeping local police out of the loop to avoid complications.
Jack Kadere knew nothing of any of this. Even if he had, he wouldn't have cared. He might have even joined the Suicide Squad voluntarily, just for the excitement.
At the moment, he was humming a tune while making dinner in Felicity's apartment.
Where did the grocery money come from? Laurel's wallet.
How did he get in without a key? It was only the fifth floor. Not particularly high.
One dish after another appeared on the table. Then came the sound of a key turning in the lock.
"Perfect timing." Jack Kadere smiled brilliantly, took off his apron, and walked toward Felicity as she opened the door.
"It smells amazing. What is that?" she said instinctively the moment she stepped inside.
"Dinner."
He came over, took her bag, set it aside, then helped her out of her coat and hung it up. Felicity stared at him. First he made dinner, and now he was greeting her like this—gentle, attentive. What was this boyfriend energy? Was she still dreaming?
Smack.
She felt his lips brush her cheek. "What are you staring at? Go wash your hands and change. Dinner's ready."
Felicity found herself pushed toward the bathroom in a daze. She washed her hands, wandered into the bedroom, changed into comfortable clothes, and came back out still slightly bewildered.
She sat down at the table and watched Jack busying himself. Only when he finally sat across from her did she speak. "You seem to be in a really good mood."
"I am," he said with a smile.
"Did something happen? You said you didn't have any money—where did all this come from? And did you go out? How did you even get in without a key?" The questions came tumbling out.
"That's not important. What's important is eating first."
"Oh. Oh." She could only suppress her curiosity.
She hadn't expected his cooking to be this good—far better than any of the takeout they'd ordered before. Felicity started the meal slightly bewildered and ended it as a full-blown glutton.
"It's so good," she said contentedly, patting her stomach with a sigh. "I'm going to get fat again."
"Some people are born beautiful, some people are born thin. Skinny people get full after two bites. You get full and say, 'I could have more.'" He chuckled softly.
Felicity's face flushed. "That's your fault for making it too delicious."
"Dishes are yours," Jack said.
Felicity couldn't cook, but she could wash dishes.
Jack leaned back on the sofa and turned on the TV. Soon Felicity finished and came to sit beside him. "Now can you tell me what's going on with you?"
He chuckled softly, then lay down and rested his head in her lap. She stiffened. Then his hand slipped under her T-shirt, and she flinched, grabbing his wrist. "What—what are you doing?"
"Relax. Let go."
Dark eyes. Gentle voice. Felicity let go without quite knowing why. Her face flushed. Her body trembled slightly. Her hands clenched in her lap, unsure where to go, and a soft sound escaped her throat—something between a gasp and a purr, entirely involuntary.
Felicity really is more interesting than Harley Quinn.
Watching her reactions, Jack suddenly smiled. "After Snow White was revived by the seven dwarfs, she lived in the forest for a while, until the prince came on his white horse and took her away. She married him. But after the wedding night, the prince abandoned her."
Felicity blinked, breathless. "Why?"
"Because the prince discovered that Snow White had dark places on her body too."
He tilted his head, looking up at her.
"Are you Snow White?"
Felicity stared at him, expression dazed and blank, for a long moment before she managed to speak. "Of course not!"
"Then let me see."
He turned over, sat up, and before she could react, scooped her into his arms. Her startled cry echoed through the apartment as he carried her into the bedroom.
---
The bedroom was dark save for the glow of streetlights filtering through the blinds, casting pale stripes across the unmade bed. Felicity's heart hammered against her ribs as Jack set her down on the mattress, the sheets cool beneath her back, still carrying traces of her shampoo and the faint chemical sweetness of fabric softener.
"Wait—" she started.
He didn't wait. His mouth found hers, swallowing the rest of her sentence. The kiss was slow, deliberate—nothing like the quick peck he'd given her when she walked through the door. This one lingered, his lips parting hers gently, tongue brushing against hers with lazy confidence. Felicity's hands rose instinctively to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. She could feel the heat of his skin through the cotton, the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath her palm.
I should stop this, she thought distantly. I barely know him. He's dangerous. He's—
His teeth caught her lower lip, tugging lightly, and the thought dissolved.
"Mmh—"
Jack pulled back just enough to look at her, his dark eyes unreadable in the half-light. One hand braced beside her head, the other sliding up her thigh, fingertips dragging the hem of her T-shirt higher as they went.
"You're shaking," he observed.
"I'm not—" She was. Her whole body trembled, a fine vibration running through her muscles, her skin prickling with goosebumps despite the warmth of the room. "Okay, maybe I am. This is—I don't usually—you're very—"
"Breathe."
She exhaled shakily. He smiled, something almost tender flickering across his features before it vanished behind that familiar amusement.
His hand continued its path beneath her shirt, palm flat against her stomach now. She sucked in a breath at the contact—his skin was warmer than she'd expected, slightly rough at the fingertips. He traced the line of her ribs with maddening patience, each brush of contact deliberate, exploratory. When he reached the edge of her bra, he paused.
"You can still say no," he said. His voice was low, unhurried.
Felicity's throat worked. She reached down and grabbed the hem of her own shirt, yanking it over her head in a graceless motion that left her hair staticky and her glasses askew.
"Does that answer your question?"
She's bolder than she looks. Jack's smile widened. He reached up and straightened her glasses with two fingers, gentle, almost mocking. "Keep those on."
"Why?"
"Because I like seeing your eyes."
Heat flooded her cheeks. She wanted to say something clever, something cutting—but then his mouth was on her collarbone, and all that came out was a soft, breathless sound.
He worked his way down slowly. Lips tracing the curve of her throat, the hollow between her collarbones, the upper swell of her breasts above the plain cotton of her bra. His hands stayed busy—one sliding around to her back, finding the clasp, the other stroking up and down her side in long, slow movements that left trails of warmth in their wake. The clasp gave with a soft click. He drew the straps down her shoulders, unhurried, watching her face as the fabric fell away.
Felicity resisted the urge to cover herself. Her chest was not so modest—she'd always been self-conscious about it, but the way Jack was looking at her now made her forget why. His gaze was appreciative, hungry, drinking in the sight of her bare skin like a man studying something precious.
"Pretty," he murmured, more to himself than to her.
His thumb brushed across one nipple, already stiff from the cool air and anticipation. Felicity's breath hitched. He circled it slowly, watching her reaction with dark, intent eyes, then bent his head and took it into his mouth.
"Oh—"
The sensation shot through her, sharp and electric. His tongue swirled against the sensitive peak, alternating between gentle licks and firmer suction. She arched into him without meaning to, fingers tangling in his hair, and he rewarded her with a low hum of approval that vibrated against her skin.
He switched to the other breast, giving it the same thorough attention while his hand continued to tease the first—pinching lightly, rolling the nipple between his fingers until she squirmed beneath him. The smell of him filled her senses: clean sweat and something faintly spiced, warm and masculine.
"Jack—"
"Hmm?"
"You're still dressed."
He lifted his head, hair disheveled, lips slightly swollen. "So I am."
He sat back on his heels and pulled his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. Felicity's breath caught. She'd seen glimpses of his body before—that morning in her apartment, the night before—but this was different. This time she was allowed to look.
His torso was lean and defined, muscles shifting beneath pale skin as he moved. A faint scar curved along his ribs, silver in the dim light. She reached out before she could stop herself, tracing its path with her fingertips.
"Where did you get this?"
He caught her wrist, brought her hand to his lips, kissed her palm. "Later."
Then he was on her again, and there was no more room for questions.
His hands found the waistband of her sweatpants, tugging them down over her hips. She lifted her hips to help, and the fabric slid away along with her underwear, leaving her bare beneath him. The air was cool against her skin, raising goosebumps along her thighs.
Jack sat back, taking in the sight of her. Felicity squirmed under his scrutiny, fighting the urge to press her legs together.
"Don't hide," he said softly. His hand settled on her knee, applying gentle pressure until her legs parted. "I told you—I want to see."
This is insane, she thought, even as her body obeyed. I'm letting a man I barely know—a man who kidnaps people—look at me like this. What is wrong with me?
But the way he was looking at her didn't feel dangerous. It felt like worship.
His fingers trailed up the inside of her thigh, feather-light, raising shivers in their wake. He watched her face as he touched her, gauging every reaction—the flutter of her lashes, the quickening of her breath, the way her hips shifted restlessly against the sheets.
"Sensitive," he observed, when his fingertips finally brushed the slick heat between her legs. She was wet already—embarrassingly so—and the sound of his fingers sliding through her arousal was obscene in the quiet of the room. "That's good."
"Don't—ah—don't narrate—"
"Why not?" He found her clit with his thumb, circling it slowly, and Felicity's complaint dissolved into a moan. "I like watching you fall apart. Why shouldn't I tell you about it?"
He's doing this on purpose, she realized dimly. Drawing it out. Making me crazy.
He was. And she couldn't bring herself to ask him to stop.
His fingers explored her with infuriating patience, mapping the contours of her folds, testing what made her gasp and what made her squirm. He found a rhythm—slow circles around her clit, interspersed with teasing dips toward her entrance that never quite gave her what she wanted.
"Jack—please—"
"Please what?"
"I don't—I need—" She couldn't find the words. Her hips rocked against his hand, chasing more pressure, more friction, more.
He leaned down and kissed her, swallowing her whimper. "Tell me what you want."
"You," she managed against his lips. "Inside. Please."
Good girl.
He withdrew his hand and sat back to unfasten his jeans. Felicity watched, breathing hard, as he pushed them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, curving slightly upward. She swallowed. He was bigger than she'd expected—bigger than the ex-boyfriend she tried not to think about—and suddenly her nervousness returned in full force.
Jack noticed. He always noticed.
"Relax." He settled between her thighs, one hand bracing beside her head, the other guiding himself to her entrance. She felt the blunt head of him press against her slick folds and tensed. "Look at me."
She did. His dark eyes held hers, steady and warm.
"I've got you," he said.
And pushed inside.
"Ohhh—"
The stretch was intense—almost too much—but he moved slowly, giving her time to adjust. He eased forward inch by inch, pausing when her breath hitched, waiting until she relaxed before continuing. By the time he was fully seated inside her, she felt impossibly full, her walls clenching around him in reflexive pulses.
"Fuck," he breathed, the first crack in his composure. His jaw was tight, a muscle twitching beneath the skin. "You feel..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
For a long moment they stayed like that—perfectly still, connected, breathing each other's air. Felicity could feel his heartbeat against her chest, faster now than it had been before. His cock throbbed inside her, thick and hot, and when she shifted her hips experimentally, they both gasped.
"Move," she whispered. "Please."
He did.
The first few thrusts were slow, measured, each one drawing almost all the way out before sliding deep again. The friction was exquisite, dragging against nerve endings she hadn't known she had. Felicity clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into skin, tiny sounds escaping her throat with every push.
"That's it," Jack murmured against her temple. "Let me hear you."
He picked up the pace gradually, building from those long, deliberate strokes into something faster, harder. The mattress creaked beneath them. The headboard tapped against the wall in an uneven rhythm. The air grew thick with the scent of sweat and sex, the wet sounds of their bodies meeting filling the room.
"Don't—" Felicity gasped, then: "—stop—"
Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. His angle shifted, and suddenly he was hitting something deep inside her that made stars burst behind her eyes.
"There?" He was panting now, dark hair falling across his forehead, but his eyes stayed locked on her face. "Right there?"
"Yes—yes—don't stop—don't—"
The words blurred together, losing meaning. She was climbing toward something, tension coiling tight in her core, and he seemed to sense it—his thrusts grew shorter, sharper, grinding against her clit with every stroke.
"Come for me," he said, low and commanding. "Let go."
She shattered.
The orgasm crashed through her in waves, her whole body seizing, inner walls clenching rhythmically around his cock. She cried out—something wordless and desperate—and heard him groan in response, his hips stuttering, losing their rhythm.
"Felicity—"
He buried himself to the hilt and followed her over the edge, pulsing inside her, his breath ragged against her neck.
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