Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
“Let’s not test that again.”
Cam bursts in as soon as Rae opens the door, eyes wet but blazing. “Sawyer!” She throws her arms around my neck, heedless of bomb sweat and talc dust. I hold her hard.
“Neutralized,” I whisper into her hair.
She trembles. “I was watching on the cameras. Rae and I both watched. You were so,” she breathes in deep, “methodical.”
“I had a job to do.” I keep a hold of her.
She gazes into my eyes. “Who leaves a bomb at a charity gala?”
“Someone with a vendetta and knowledge of the layout.” I pull back, and tilt her face. “We’ll find them.”
Her hands cup my jaw, eyes bright. “Don’t ever do that alone.”
“It’s what I do.”
“It’s who you are,” she corrects. Then, softer, “It’s why I …” She trails off but I know. I press our foreheads together.
Behind us, Rae coughs discreetly. “What’s next, Boss?”
I draw a breath, keeping Cam tucked close. “Next? We end this. Tonight proved an escalation. Tomorrow we hunt.”
14
Camille
I replay the cellar feed so many times the image blurs—Sawyer, tux jacket shed, gloves on, kneeling before a silver bomb ticking down our destruction. He doesn’t flinch when the timer clicks below thirty. He merely breathes, steady and sure, hands moving with lethal grace. One clip, one twist, and the second hand stops. A war fought in murmurs and micro-movements. A war he wins for me.
The recording ends. My lungs ache as if I’d held the bomb myself. All evening I greeted donors and thanked dignitaries, but my mind remained six feet underground, ticking toward ruin with him. Sexy—and terrifying—that the man who guarded my brushstrokes could disarm death while still smelling faintly of gun oil and midnight rain.
A soft knock draws me from the monitor glow. My bedroom door creaks open, and Sawyer steps in, hair damp from a quick shower, black t-shirt untucked. Moonlight frames him like a storm given shape. I rise from the desk before thought can intervene.
“Bomb squad’s hauled the device,” he says, voice low. “Guests will never know.”
I swallow the fist of fear clawing my throat. “You could’ve died.”
“Could have,” he agrees, crossing to me. “Didn’t.”
His calm frays my composure. I rush forward, fists balling in his shirt. “What if you hadn’t? One wrong wire—” My voice cracks. “I can’t lose you.”
He folds me against his chest, chin resting atop my head. His heartbeat—steady even now—echoes through my ribs. “Not planning on going anywhere.”
I lean back, and search his eyes. “Stay tonight. Please.”
He brushes a curl from my cheek. “I’ll always say yes to you.” The promise vibrates deeper than a vow.
Heat blooms. I tip my face, capturing his mouth. The kiss is hungry. Indecent. It’s no polite brush, but more like a claiming. He answers in kind, hands sliding down my spine, gathering the satin of my gown until my body molds to the hard planes of his. I gasp as his tongue coaxes mine, teasing and tasting.
“Cam,” he rasps against my lips, “tell me to stop if—”
“Don’t you dare,” I breathe, threading my fingers through his hair. I tug lightly, and a groan rumbles in his chest, thrilling me. His palms splay over my hips, drawing me closer, until not even air fits between us.
We stumble toward the bed, mouths never parting. He sits first, pulling me astride his lap. The split of my gown pools around us like sapphire waves. I cradle his jaw, kissing him slow and deep. He answers with reverence, as though mapping every contour to memory.
His hands glide up my back, finding the hidden zipper. He hesitates—granting me the choice. I whisper “yes,” and the gown loosens, sliding off one shoulder. His lips follow the path, pressing fire along my exposed skin. I arch, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
When he lifts his head, pupils blown, breath ragged, I see battlefields and sunsets and every line he’s drawn finally erased. He cups my face. “You are color and oxygen.”
“And you’re my shield,” I whisper, kissing the corner of his smile.
I guide him down onto the pillows as the moonlight strokes the angles of his face. Our mouths meet again—slow, then faster, matching the gallop of our heartbeats. His hands roam with aching care, as if memorizing sacred art. I let the gown fall completely, baring silk and skin, and his breath hitches—a sound of wonder that steals mine.
We tumble sideways, laughter catching on our mouths, kisses turning greedy and then soft, urgent and tender in the same breath. The sheets caress my shoulder blades; his chest is heat and cedar, the steady drum of his heart against mine. When his fingertips skim the curve of my thigh, a shiver sparks low and bright—I arch into his touch, shameless, silently asking for more.
He pauses, searching my face like he’s reading a map he already knows by heart. I hold his gaze and let yes flood every inch of me—chin tipped up, breath trembling, hand guiding his wrist higher. Consent isn’t a word; it’s a pulse thudding in my throat, in the press of my palm over his.