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)
He cups my face, kisses me slower, like a fine wine tasting. I melt against him, palms roaming his torso, down the slope of his abs to the top button of his pants. He intercepts my hand, eyes sparking. “Bed, first,” he growls. It’s a playful command that shoots straight to my core.
We tumble onto the mattress, laughter tangled with moans. He props over me, arms bracketing my head, studying me like I’m the final fuse he must cut just right. Then his mouth trails down my throat, over my collarbone, to the heavy ache of my breast. His tongue flicks over my pebbled nipple, his hand cupping the other, and my back arches off the sheets.
I explore him too. His shoulder blade ridges, a bullet scar along his flank, each discovered with lips and fingertips. He mutters half-sworn promises against my skin. Don’t stop. You own me. Never leave. Each vow counters the fear that has dogged me since the first threat note.
When he finally divests the last barrier—silk sliding, trousers kicked away—the world shrinks to heat and breath and the way we fit together perfectly, like two halves realigning.
“You handle my cock like such a good girl, Cam.” He sinks into me with exquisite slowness, and the hush that follows isn’t silence; it’s a chord finally resolving.
The mountains could fall, and I would barely notice.
We move together, rhythm guided by instinct and the deep hum of shared adrenaline. I clutch his shoulders, nails scoring lightly. He groans, thrusts deeper. I gasp, meeting him with rising abandon. Each glide is a brushstroke, layering color onto canvas until the picture bursts in brilliance—my release, his, mingling in a wild crescendo that leaves us trembling, panting, clinging.
After, he doesn’t roll away. Instead, he gathers me close, my cheek to his chest. Our breaths sync with the distant hush of pines swaying outside steel shutters.
“I told your father I’d keep you whole,” he murmurs, fingers tracing lazy spirals on my arm. “I intend to keep that vow.”
“My father worries about stock prices,” I mumble into his skin. “I worry about you running into bombs for me. Seems lopsided.”
He chuckles, a rumble under my ear. “Bomb defusing is easier than resisting you.”
I smile, pressing a kiss to the sternum scratch I left earlier. “We have forty-eight hours before we head back. How do we spend them?”
“Layering defenses. Loving you. Not necessarily in that order.”
The word love slips so naturally it stuns me. I lift my head, search his face. No flinch. No back-pedal. Just truth shining in those gray eyes.
I tuck closer, letting his heartbeat lull me. Tomorrow will bring forensic calls, suspect lists, maybe another threat. But tonight, inside steel-sealed walls on a lonely mountaintop, I finally feel like the attack dog at my side and the tempest in my chest are on the same side.
And that, I decide as sleep steals me, is a masterpiece worth any fight.
17
Sawyer
08:04 — Safe-house rec room
Morning sun cuts through clerestory windows, scattering trapezoids of light across the padded floor. Camille bounces on her bare toes in black yoga pants and my charcoal BRAVO tee tied at the back, determined to look fierce even with cobalt streaks still ghosting her forearm. She stretches her wrists, watching me set a metronome pulse on the smart speaker—steady, not frantic.
“Self-defense 101,” I say, motioning her to the center mat. “Goal isn’t to trade blows. It’s to break contact and run.”
“Run?” She shakes her head, braid loosening. “That’s anticlimactic.”
“Survival usually is.” I demonstrate a basic stance—feet triangular, weight on the balls of my feet. “Show me.”
She mirrors with surprising accuracy. “Like this?”
I nod my approval. “First move is the wrist release. Predator grabs your arm? Rotate toward the thumb, and yank free. Strike soft tissue, and then retreat.” I reach gently, clasp her right wrist. Her pulse flutters against my fingers—impossibly distracting, but I lock focus. “Ready?”
She inhales, rotates, yanks, then snaps her elbow down—textbook. She springs back, eyes bright. “Again!”
We cycle through variations: single-hand choke defense, knee strike to groin, heel stomp to instep. Each repetition she grows more confident, laughter slipping through grunts.
After a combo that ends with her knee nearly grazing my abdomen, she backs off, panting. “How’d I do?”
I wipe a bead of sweat from her brow with my thumb. “If I were the perp, I’d rethink life choices.”
She grins. Then—without warning—lunges, hooks my dominant wrist, and executes the thumb-break release perfectly. I let it happen, half proud, half aroused. She skips away, raising her fists in mock triumph.
“Unexpected attack,” she taunts.
“Solid tactic,” I admit. “Except you forgot the retreat.”
Two strides and I catch her waist, spinning her until her back kisses the padded wall. She laughs breathlessly. Our faces hover inches apart, heat pulsing. I want to kiss her, but the comm in my ear crackles.