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)
“Color’s nearly matching the lake,” I murmur, tracing the lace edge.
“Wait until you see the set.” She smirks, stepping back to shimmy out of her leggings, leaving a matching lace thong. I drink her in—sun-kissed curves, and strength from this morning’s training.
“You are lethal,” I whisper. I approach, trapping her between me and the wall. Our bodies align, and heat leaps. She drags her nails lightly down my spine, eliciting a rumble from my chest.
I pepper kisses along her neck, over her collarbone, and down the slope of each breast restrained by lace. Her breaths hitch into tiny gasps. I slip a hand behind her back, unclasp her bra, and let the fabric drop. The sight steals the air from my lungs. I lower my mouth, and worship her. Gentle, then greedy. She tugs my hair, whispering my name like a prayer.
We move toward the bed but stumble, laughing, and land on the plush rug instead. I lay her down, moonlight silvering her skin through the skylight. She looks up—eyes dark, trusting, blazing.
“Your turn,” she says, tugging at my pants’ waistband. I strip away my pants and briefs, the remaining barrier. Her gaze rakes eagerly, then softens. “Beautiful,” she whispers, palming my cock. It hardens instantly from her touch.
“You’re the one who is beautiful.”
Kissing her again is like coming home to a storm you crave. Our hands explore familiar terrain made new by hunger. Her thigh hooks around my waist, and I drag my fingers up her calf, savoring all of her.
“Ready?” I murmur against her lips.
She rolls her hips in answer, desperate. “Now.”
I guide her thighs, position, then enter her with a slow slide. We gasp together, our passion igniting. I hold still, letting her adjust. “Fuck, this is…” my words fall away.
She presses her forehead to mine, finishing my thought, “Perfect.”
With that, my self-control unravels.
We find a rhythm, slow deep strokes that savor rather than rush. Each thrust pushes soft sounds from her throat. Her hands roam my back, her nails leaving trails. I kiss along her jaw, her ear. She arches, murmuring encouragement—“more, Sawyer, please.”
Heat coils tight. I change the angle, hitting a spot that makes her cry out. She shatters first, body trembling, pulling me deeper. Seeing her unravel triggers my own release.
I groan her name, riding waves of pleasure that blur edges of reality.
After, we remain tangled on the rug, hearts drumming. I stroke her hair from her damp forehead as she traces lazy circles on my chest.
“No bombs, no reporters,” she whispers. “Just us.”
I kiss her temple. “World can burn. We’ll paint it back brighter.”
She smiles sleepily. “Promise?”
“On every brush you own.”
When we finally crawl into bed, exhaustion tugs but peace settles deeper. She sprawls across my chest as I adjust the duvet, then key the bedside panel to arm the night sensors.
Because here, on this mountain, behind encrypted doors, our line is more than lasers and steel. It’s skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat—until the outside world recedes into hush and only our breaths map the future.
18
Camille
Nothing smells like new beginnings the way fresh paint does—oily, mineral, a hush of possibility hovering the second the cap twists off. The great room at Bastion is our studio today: tarps taped to slate slabs, windows thrown open so pine air spins inside and mixes with the scent of turpentine. Early light pours down the A-frame ceiling, and Sawyer stands at my side, sleeves rolled, expression equal parts curiosity and latent battle readiness.
“I’m trusting you not to mock my inner Picasso,” he warns, eyeing the blank canvas perched on an easel we hauled from the supplies closet.
“I would never,” I say, dipping a flat brush into cerulean. “But be aware I own photographic evidence of your first attempt.”
“Blackmail material,” he grumbles, but a smile tugs at his mouth.
I hand him a palette already dabbed with cobalt, burnt umber, titanium white. “Lesson one: paint speaks faster than words. Don’t overthink. Lay color, then decide what it’s trying to say.”
His brow furrows. “That sounds… spiritual.”
“It is.” I guide his fingers around the brush handle, our skin touching, sparks flaring up my arm. “Like your bomb work—muscle memory plus instinct. The only consequence here is ugly wall art.”
He exhales, raises the brush, and—after a glance at me for permission—drags a wide swipe of cerulean across the canvas. The stroke is hesitant, straight as a laser. I laugh softly.
“You paint like you’re drawing a security perimeter,” I tease.
He huffs. “Occupational hazard.”
I lift my own brush, slash a diagonal streak of raw sienna right through his blue—a reckless, messy Z. “There. Now soften the edge.”
He tilts his head. “How?”
I step behind him, pressing my chest to his back, guiding his hand with mine. Together we feather the wet edge, blue and brown bleeding into smoky twilight. His breath catches as my heart trills. The sensation of his muscles flexing under my palms is dangerously distracting.