Chapter 13
13
CHERISE
N ick stands across the room, tall and quiet, his body humming with restraint. His fingers twitch once at his side before stilling. That little movement tells me everything. He’s on edge. Has been since we walked into this place. Since the sting... since Fortier... since me.
I pad toward him slowly, the cool floor biting at my bare feet, the oversized black shirt I stole from him brushing my thighs. He watches my approach like a man tracking an incoming storm.
"You're still wound tight," I murmur, my voice barely more than a breath as I step into his space, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. My fingers hover just above his chest, not touching yet, waiting for that final invitation. The air between us hums—charged, dangerous, filled with all the things we haven’t said. I see it in his eyes, that dark flicker of need he keeps buried under layers of control. He’s holding on by a thread, and we both know it’s about to snap.
He doesn’t answer. Just lifts his gaze to mine, dark and unreadable.
"Let me help," I whisper.
His jaw ticks, the tension in his body vibrating just beneath the surface. "This isn’t the time," he says, but his voice betrays him—low, tight, full of strain. It’s not a rejection. It’s a warning. A final barrier he doesn’t have the strength to hold much longer.
I close the distance, press my palms to his chest. His heart pounds beneath my hand like a war drum. "Then tell me when it is," I say, tilting my head back to meet his eyes. "Because I’m tired of you pretending you don’t want this as badly as I do."
His hand comes up, fingers brushing the edge of my jaw, slow and possessive. He cups my face, thumb grazing my cheekbone.
"You’re dangerous when you’re like this," he murmurs. "Soft. Willing. Beautiful."
"I’m yours, Nick. You already claimed me in front of a man who could’ve gotten us both killed. Don’t pretend this is something you can ignore."
Something shifts in his eyes. He moves with the speed and predatory grace of a wraith. In a blink, I’m off the floor, in his arms, my legs wrapping around his waist as he walks us across the room like he owns the very ground we move over. Every step is measured, predatory, his grip sure and commanding, as if surrendering to him is the only option that ever existed. My breath catches as I cling to him, heart hammering in my chest, the silk of his shirt brushing my bare thighs, igniting my skin. The movement is effortless. Controlled. Possessive. Dominant.
He places me on the bed; the mattress dipping beneath me, but he doesn’t let go. One hand pins my thigh to the sheets. The other curls around my throat, thumb resting against the rapid flutter of my pulse.
“You want to surrender?” he asks, voice low, rough, like gravel laced with heat. “Then say it—say the words so I can take what’s already mine.”
My breath hitches. "Yes."
His gaze darkens. "To me."
His voice is like velvet-wrapped steel, and it sends a fresh wave of heat surging through me. He holds my gaze, daring me to look away, but I don’t.
"To you... only to you."
His grip tightens, fingers pressing into the sides of my neck with deliberate control—not painful, but firm, a claim as much as a question. "And the rules?" His voice wraps around me like a velvet leash, coaxing obedience with nothing more than tone.
My breath catches, thighs clenching, nerves crackling with anticipation. He doesn't move, just waits, dominance etched into every line of his body. The weight of his control settles over me like an impenetrable veil, inescapable and wanted.
My body arches into him instinctively. "Yours."
He groans low in his throat and captures my mouth with his. It’s not a kiss. It’s a taking. His tongue claims me, his body presses down, every inch of him demanding. His knee parts my thighs, spreading me wide as he settles between them.
“Don’t move,” he growls, dragging his mouth down my neck. “Hands above your head.”
I obey.
The shirt I’m wearing rides up as he pushes it higher, exposing my breasts. He palms one, thumb teasing the nipple until I whimper.
“So fucking responsive,” he murmurs, dragging his thumb along the slick heat between my thighs. “Every inch of you, mine to command, mine to ruin, mine to worship.” His voice is rough silk, layered with heat and control, and the way he looks at me—like I’m the most exquisite thing he’s ever had the right to claim—sends a rush of molten need spiraling through my core. “Say it,” he demands, his eyes locking onto mine, fierce and unyielding. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“You,” I gasp, my voice breaking on the edge of a moan. “I belong to you.”
His groan is low, primal. “Damn straight.”
I nod, biting my lip, my breath catching as his hand trails lower. My legs tremble—not from fear, but anticipation—as his fingers graze the inside of my thigh with slow, deliberate strokes. Each pass ignites a fresh surge of heat under my skin, the pads of his fingers coaxing soft shudders from deep within. He doesn’t rush—he studies me as he touches, savoring every reaction, every tremble, as if memorizing the exact path to undo me piece by piece.
“No panties this time,” he notes, pleased. “Learning quickly.”
I grin. “Figured you’d confiscate them again.”
His grin is wicked, intoxicating, lethal. “Damn right I would.”
Two fingers slip into me, slow and firm, curling just right to stroke that devastating spot deep inside. My back arches instinctively, a cry tearing from my throat as fire licks up my spine. I claw at the sheets; the pressure building fast, uncontrollable, as his fingers work with unerring precision. Each deliberate curl sends another bolt of pleasure spiraling through me until I’m trembling beneath the weight of it.
“Nick,” I gasp, but it’s more a plea than a protest.
He leans in, voice velvet and iron. “Feel how you open for me. How your body begs. You were made for this. For me.”
And when he adds a third finger, stretching me just enough to sting, I break again—louder this time, breathless and utterly undone.
“Good girl,” he breathes.
The praise undoes me.
He moves lower, mouth tracing the path his fingers took, until I feel his breath against the heat between my legs. Then his tongue—hot, skilled, relentless. My fingers clutch the sheets above my head as he devours me.
I shatter. Hard. My cry is swallowed by his mouth as he kisses his way back up my body, his fingers still buried deep inside me, working me through every tremor.
“More,” I beg.
He doesn't answer. He just flips me over, dragging my hips up until I’m on my knees, face pressed to the pillows. His hand comes down, a firm smack to my ass, followed by a soothing stroke.
“You don’t get to come again unless I say.”
I whimper. “Yes, Sir.”
He groans behind me, low and guttural, as the rasp of his zipper cuts through the quiet like a warning. The rustle of fabric follows—a whisper of anticipation—and then I feel the blunt, heated press of him against me. His hand slides along my spine, not gentle, but claiming, holding me in place as he takes a moment to savor it.
“Stay still,” he commands, the growl in his voice sending a shiver down my back. “I want to feel you fall apart around me.”
The anticipation coils tighter, my pulse pounding in my ears, and when he finally thrusts into me—one long, unrelenting stroke—I cry out, the sound caught between pain and exquisite pleasure. He doesn’t give me time to adjust. Doesn’t need to. Because my body is already his, primed and open, desperate.
“Just like that,” he breathes, his fingers digging into my hips. “So goddamn perfect.”
He sets a pace that’s fierce and consuming, and I brace myself against the bed, the slick slide of our bodies filling the space between breathless moans and the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin. With every thrust, he pushes deeper, harder, as if trying to erase the distance that ever existed between us.
He leans over, wrapping an arm around my waist to pull me tighter against him, and I feel his breath against my ear as he growls, “Mine.”
A moment later, he thrusts inside me, one long, deep stroke that makes me cry out.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “So tight. So wet. You were made for me. You were always mine.”
He sets a rhythm that’s hard and punishing, one hand tangled in my hair, the other gripping my hip with bruising intensity. Every thrust pushes me closer to the edge, but I bite my lip, remembering his command.
He leans over me, voice dark against my ear.
“Come for me.”
I let go.
The orgasm crashes over me, white-hot and devastating, pulling a raw cry from my throat as every muscle in my body tightens, then releases in a wave of liquid heat. I convulse around him, wrung out and undone, the intensity splintering through me like wildfire. My fingers claw at the sheets, seeking something to anchor me as I fall apart completely. Nick’s low, guttural groan rips free as he thrusts once, twice more, and then he follows me over the edge—hips jerking, rhythm breaking, his release spilling deep as he collapses over my back, bracing himself on his forearms.
For a moment, there’s nothing but our ragged breathing, the heavy press of his body, and the slick warmth between us. Then he gently lowers us both to the mattress, curling his arms around me from behind, holding me close as the tremors fade.
He holds me there, breath ragged. He turns me around, his lips soft against my forehead.
“You destroy me,” he murmurs.
“You put me back together,” I whisper.
For a long time, we lie there tangled in silence. No mission. No threats. Just us.
* * *
I wake to the scent of him on my skin.
It’s subtle at first—leather and smoke and something darker, something uniquely Nick. It clings to my bare shoulders, curls beneath the collar of his shirt that’s bunched around my waist and wraps itself around me like the memory of his hands.
My thighs ache, the tender kind of sore that whispers every time I shift. My pulse still hums low and slow, like it hasn’t yet decided if it’s ready to return to normal. I stretch beneath the sheets, muscles protesting, body deliciously wrecked, and the memory of last night presses into every cell like a brand.
I should feel sated. I should feel safe. But I don’t. Not completely. Because the man responsible for every shattered moan, every bruising kiss, every unraveling touch—is still lying beside me.
Nick’s arm is slung low over my waist, anchoring me to the bed like he means to keep me here. Like I belong here. Like last night wasn’t just about dominance and submission or covering up the adrenaline of a dangerous op.
It felt like more... a whole lot more, and that scares the hell out of me.
His breathing is steady and deep. His chest rises and falls in a rhythm that speaks of exhaustion—not just physical, but emotional. A rare kind of vulnerability I don’t think he lets anyone else see. I study him in the soft morning light. The faint crease between his brows. The pale scar beneath his bottom lip. The shadow of stubble on his jaw.
I could stay. Let him pull me back in, hold me there until the weight of the day forces us both to move. But something prickles at the back of my neck. A pulse of restless energy. A whisper of defiance. A need to remind myself that I’m not just the woman he brought back to life in a Monaco safe house.
I’m still Cherise fucking Pardo.
I ease from beneath the sheet, careful not to wake him. His fingers twitch once where they’d curled around my hip, like his body feels the loss before his mind does, but he doesn’t wake.
His shirt, rumpled, warm from the night, and saturated with his scent brushes my thighs, sleeves too long, fabric worn and soft. My legs ache with each step, but I don’t stop.
The elevator hums quietly as I descend. Each level down, my resolve hardens. I’m not sneaking around. I’m not running away. I’m reclaiming something. A sliver of agency. Of purpose. Of control.
When the doors slide open into the ops room, the glow of monitors greets me first. The silence comes next. Well… mostly silent.
Logan’s alone at the console, sleeves rolled, tie abandoned somewhere hours ago, a porcelain mug in one hand and a scowl aimed at the glowing screen like it’s just insulted his mother. He doesn’t glance up when I walk in. Doesn’t need to.
“Morning, sunshine,” he drawls, tone drier than the Sahara. “Didn’t think we’d see you upright before noon.”
I step into the ops room like I belong here. The scent of sex and Nick’s voice still echo in my head, clinging to my skin.
“Sorry to ruin your expectations.”
His gaze flicks over, slow and assessing. Hair tousled. Nick’s shirt hanging off one shoulder. Legs bare. His eyes narrow—not with disapproval or lechery—but with calculation. Like he’s trying to solve for X and I’ve just rewritten the equation.
“You’re alone,” he says. Not a question. Just a statement, loaded and precise.
“Wasn’t planning on staying that way.” I stroll to the monitors, ignoring the burn of scrutiny between my shoulder blades. “Came to check the sat feed. See if Vallois’ supply corridors are holding. Any new traffic pings near Lyon?”
One eyebrow lifts, mildly impressed. “You speak fluent ops now, do you?”
I shoot him a sidelong glance. “Was that a compliment?”
“Hardly.” He sets the mug down with a dull thunk. “It was a warning.”
My fingers freeze just above the desk’s edge. “Let me guess. This is where you tell me I’m a liability.”
He stands—slow, deliberate, arms folding like shutters closing over a view. “No. I’m telling you, I don’t give a damn who you’re shagging.”
I narrow my eyes. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“I care,” he says, stepping forward with that quietly lethal MI6 grace, “that you came to us half-shattered, looking for cover—and now you’re wrapped round Ryeland like seduction was the mission brief all along. Like you were running your own op from day one.”
My spine goes rigid. “Excuse me?”
“What are you playing at, Cherise?” His voice stays low, but the steel cuts deeper for it. “You here to dismantle Vallois? Make Hector bleed? Or is this some twisted revenge plot dressed in lingerie and a collar?”
“I’m not…”
“Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re using the man who had himself be declared dead to keep you safe. One moment you’re crying, the next you’re riding him like it’s your job. Pick a lane.”
He’s in my space now, close enough that I can smell the coffee and cold fury coming off him. But I hold my ground. I don’t flinch. I won’t.
“What do you want?” he demands, tone dropping to something dangerous. “Truly. Deep down. What’s the endgame here, love?”
“I want to scorch the bastards who tried to disappear me,” I snap. “I want Hector begging. I want Vallois bankrupted and bleeding. And I want to stop being treated like a bloody chess piece.”
His mouth twitches. Not a smile. A warning. “Even if it gets Ryeland killed?”
The question doesn’t echo. It lands—quiet, final, brutal.
I breathe, slow and hard. But I don’t look away. “Not pertinent. He’s already been dead once. And if we die trying to do this, at least we died for something that fucking matters.”