8. Lyric
CHAPTER 8
LYRIC
He took me to his hotel room. It wasn’t as fancy as my suite at Hotel de Paris Monte-Carlo, tucked in a small, boutique establishment a few streets away from the glitz and glamour of the main harbor. The room was small but clean, with two queen-sized beds and a balcony that overlooked a narrow street lined with laundry strung between buildings. It felt real in a way that the opulence of the casino district didn’t.
And it was closer to the aquarium.
As soon as the door shut, I shoved him against the wall, my fingers in his hair, my mouth on his. He tasted like espresso and bad decisions, and I didn’t care. I didn’t care that we were teammates, or that he was the one person I wasn’t supposed to want.
All I knew was that I needed this. Needed him .
The kiss was molten. I poured myself into it, forgetting everything but the pressure of his mouth and the hard lines of his body against mine. I pushed his shirt over his shoulders, fingers greedy on his skin. His breath hitched, and I reveled in the feeling of power. That I could make a man like Flynn Shepherd—cocky, dangerous, always one step ahead—react like that.
His hands slid down my back, cupping my ass and lifting me against him in one smooth motion. My legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, the hard ridge of his arousal pressing exactly where I needed it.
“Bedroom,” I managed to gasp between kisses.
“Lyric—” he started, but I silenced him with another kiss.
I didn’t want to talk. Talking meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering all the reasons this was a terrible idea.
I wiggled the straps of my jumpsuit off my shoulders, hating that I chose this fucking impossible outfit this morning instead of the easy access of a skirt or dress.
Flynn’s laugh rumbled against my collarbone, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. “Impatient, princess?” His hands found the zipper at my back, dragging it down with torturous slowness.
“Three hours,” I reminded him, voice breathless as I caught his lower lip between my teeth. “Clock’s ticking, so shut up and help me out of this thing.”
The jumpsuit peeled away, the silky fabric sliding down to pool at my waist. I wasn’t wearing a bra, and my nipples tightened under his gaze. The hunger in his eyes made liquid heat pool between my thighs.
“Christ,” he muttered, one calloused thumb brushing over a hardened peak. “You’re?—”
“Don’t talk, Shepherd. There are better things you could be doing with your mouth right now.”
“Your wish is my command, princess.” Flynn shifted our positions, and my back hit the wall hard enough to rattle the generic art hanging there. His mouth replaced his thumb, hot and wet against my breast. Stars burst behind my eyelids as his tongue circled my nipple, teeth grazing just enough to send electricity racing down my spine. His hands gripped my thighs, holding me steady as I rocked against him, desperate for friction.
I tugged at his hair, urging him back up to my lips, suddenly desperate to taste him again. His mouth was hot, hungry against mine, as if he’d been starving for sex as long as I had.
Ha. Who was I kidding? Flynn Shepherd probably never went hungry for sex. But at that moment, I didn’t care. Not when his hands were everywhere, leaving trails of fire across my skin.
I fumbled with his belt, cursing when my fingers slipped on the buckle.
Flynn chuckled against my mouth and reached down to help me. His belt gave way with a satisfying clink of metal, and I wasted no time slipping my hand beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs.
“Fuck,” he hissed when my fingers wrapped around him, hot and hard and ready. I stroked him once, twice, savoring the way his breath caught, the way his eyes darkened to molten amber. His pulse throbbed against my palm, and I wanted more—wanted to feel him inside me, wanted to forget everything but this moment.
A knock shattered the illusion.
We froze, both of us breathing hard, my hand still wrapped around him, his mouth hovering over my nipple. For one insane moment, I contemplated telling him to ignore it.
Another knock, more insistent this time. “Outlaw? You in there?”
Mr. Grim Reaper himself. Ethan.
Reality crashed back like a bucket of ice water.
Oh, shit. My boss was on the other side of that door, and I was standing here half-naked in a hotel room I had no business being in.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Flynn muttered against my skin. “What the hell is he doing here? I thought he was in Seattle.”
“He doesn’t trust me.” I unwrapped my legs from his waist, stumbling slightly as my feet hit the floor. My legs felt like gelatin, and I hadn’t even orgasmed.
God, if Flynn and I ever made it to bed, he was going to ruin me.
Ethan pounded on the door again. “Open up. I hear you in there.”
Flynn tucked in his shirt and ran a hand through his mussed hair. “Yeah,” he called back, voice surprisingly steady. “Give me a minute.”
My hands trembled as I yanked the jumpsuit back up, fumbling with the zipper. I could become anyone in seconds, slide into a persona like a second skin, but right now I couldn’t even get back into my own clothes.
“Here, let me.” Flynn took me by the shoulders, gently turned me around, and tugged the zipper up. I held my breath, aware of everything—his touch, his nearness, the weight of everything that might have been. The desire to finish what we’d started was an ache beneath my skin, and I almost couldn’t stand it.
Once zipped, he spun me back to face him. His shirt was half open, his belt undone, his hair a mess. He looked like sex incarnate, like everything I’d been denying myself for far too long.
He searched my face, eyes still dark with heat and something that looked dangerously like longing.
“Later,” he promised, voice rough. “We’ll finish this.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. My body hummed with frustration, with desire that had nowhere to go. I smoothed my hands over my jumpsuit, trying to erase the evidence of what had just happened, but my skin still burned where his mouth had been.
“Your hair,” Flynn whispered, hands moving to fix the mess we’d made of my perfectly styled blonde locks.
I reached up to help, fingers still unsteady. “Does it look obvious?”
“Everything about you looks obvious right now.” His eyes darkened again as they swept over me. “Your lips are swollen, your cheeks are flushed, your nipples are hard.” His voice dropped to a seductive rumble. “And I bet if I dip my fingers between your legs, your sweet pussy will be soaked.”
“Ugh, stop.” I pushed him away before I climbed him like a tree right here. “You’re making it worse. Ethan can’t see me like this.”
He chuckled and jerked his chin toward a nearby closed door. “Bathroom’s there. I’ll distract him.”
I ducked into the bathroom, catching sight of myself in the mirror. He was right. I looked exactly like what I was: a woman who’d just been thoroughly kissed and interrupted right before getting thoroughly fucked.
I smoothed down my hair and splashed cold water on my face, willing my pulse to slow. I couldn’t face Ethan like this. He already looked at me like I was a poor substitute for Maya, an imposter in her clothes. If he saw me now, disheveled and desperate, he’d have even more reason to doubt my competence.
“Get it together,” I muttered to my reflection. The woman staring back at me looked wild-eyed and flushed. Not Elisa Deveraux. Not Agent Renard. Just Lyric, caught with her hand in the cookie jar—or more accurately, down Flynn Shepherd’s pants.
My lipstick was destroyed, smeared beyond salvaging. I wiped it away with a tissue, wincing as I heard Flynn opening the door, his voice impressively casual as he greeted Ethan.
“About time.” Ethan’s voice filtered through the bathroom door. “What the hell were you doing in here?”
“Sleeping. Jet lag’s a bitch.”
I could almost picture Flynn’s casual shrug, the way he’d run his hand through his already-mussed hair to sell the lie.
“Yeah?” Nolan ‘Maverick’ Riley said with a laugh, his Irish lilt turning the single word into a dare. “Who with?”
“Ah, I see you brought the whole Scooby gang,” Flynn drawled.
I groaned. Great. The whole team was here.
I took a deep breath and stared at my reflection again. Four hours. That’s all I’d asked for—four hours to just be myself. And I’d barely gotten one before reality came crashing back.
I smoothed my hands over my jumpsuit one last time. It was back in place, though I couldn’t help noticing that my nipples were still prominently visible through the fabric.
Nothing I could do about that now.
I schooled my features into professional indifference. Time to be Agent Renard again. Not Lyric. Not the woman who’d been moaning against Flynn Shepherd’s mouth two minutes ago.
When I stepped out of the bathroom, six pairs of eyes swiveled toward me. So not the whole team. Just most of it. Ethan and Nolan, plus Ethan’s too-serious second-in-command, Trent ‘Vigil’ Dalton, the brilliant but grumpy hacker, Osamu ‘Ozzy’ Sato, and medic Alistair ‘Preacher’ Shaw. The only ones missing were Kate, plus Leo ‘Sly’ Santiago, and Rafe ‘Sparky’ Castellanos, who were on medical leave, still recovering from the mission that killed Maya.
But the guys here didn’t exactly look mission-ready, either. Nolan’s eye sported multiple shades of purple fading to a sickly yellow at the edges, and a line of stitches marched along the hard edge of Trent’s jaw. Ozzy and Preacher had the least visible marks, but Oz’s wiry frame was more gaunt than usual, and Alistair’s normally warm eyes were shadowed with exhaustion.
“Renard.” Ethan’s tone was flat, his gaze moving between Flynn and me. “What are you doing here?”
I lifted my chin slightly. “Debriefing.” The double entendre hit me a second too late, and I caught Flynn’s smirk from the corner of my eye. Dammit.
“That’s what we’re calling it now?” Nolan burst out laughing. “You have lipstick on your face, Outlaw.”
Flynn wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, examining the smear of color with exaggerated interest. “Huh. Would you look at that?”
Ethan didn’t look amused. His face was always hard, but now it was so stony it would fit right in on Mount Rushmore. The man embodied his operational code name like no one I’d ever met. He was ‘grim’ in every sense of the word. “I don’t give a damn what you two do on your own time, but this isn’t your own time. This is an op, and I need everyone focused.”
“We’re focused,” I said, maybe a bit too quickly.
Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “Are you? Because right now you look like two teenagers caught making out in daddy’s car.”
“With all due respect, I’ve completed every assignment, secured every objective you’ve given me since I joined this team. My personal life doesn’t impact my performance or?—”
“It does when your ‘personal life’ is another member of my team during a critical mission.” Ethan’s jaw tightened. “Maya would never?—”
Something in me snapped. Maybe it was the frustration of being interrupted. Or maybe I was just sick of the comparisons. “I’m not Maya.”
Ethan’s expression darkened. “Believe me, I’m well aware.”
The hurt sliced through me, but I refused to let it show. I’d spent too many years perfecting my mask to let it crack now. “I understand your concern, but I assure you, we are both professionals. The mission comes first.”
Flynn moved to stand beside me. “There was no need to drag the team halfway around the world. We had things handled here.”
While I appreciated the support, the proprietary hand he set on my back undermined my claim to professionalism. I stepped away from his touch, putting distance between us that I instantly regretted. The warmth of his hand left a phantom imprint on my back, and I fought the urge to lean into it again.
“Maya always meant it to be a team operation,” Ethan said.
“But she died, and your team went through a meat grinder. I’m surprised Nolan can even see out of that eye.” Flynn jerked his chin toward the pilot, who grinned.
“Takes more than a black eye to ground me,” Nolan said, winking with his good one. “Besides, what else was I gonna do? Sit at home watching reruns while you lot have all the fun?”
Flynn ignored him and nodded to Ethan. “And you look like you haven’t slept in weeks. You brought me in to help Lyric because your team was in no shape to run point. And, honestly, from what I’ve seen, she never needed the help to begin with. She could’ve successfully run this op solo.”
He didn’t say it like a compliment. He just laid it out as if my competence were a fact, not an opinion. Like he didn’t just approve of my abilities, he trusted them.
And that shouldn’t have made me feel anything.
But warmth bloomed in the center of my chest, entirely at odds with the cold professionalism I was trying to project. My pulse tripped. My breath caught. And for one traitorous second, I wanted to lean back into him, to bask in his belief in me.
Which was dangerous. So dangerous. Because it meant I cared what he thought. Maybe more than I should, and if I let my guard down any more, I’d probably trip over my own ovaries.
Ethan’s jaw tightened. “The team’s had time to recover.”
“Two weeks isn’t recovery,” I said quietly. “It’s a band-aid over a bullet hole.”
“And y’all are still bleeding,” Flynn added softly. “Especially you, E.”
I didn’t think the man’s expression could get any harder. I was wrong.
“We’re done with this conversation,” Ethan said, his voice arctic. He turned on his heel and strode for the door. “Briefing. My room. Ten minutes.”
The door slammed behind him.
For a second, no one moved. Then Ozzy followed him out without a word, nose still buried in his phone.
Trent cleared his throat. “Alright, here’s how it’s going to work.” He glanced between Flynn and me, then at the bed. “Lyric stays at her suite and the Hotel de Paris, but Flynn, you won’t be sleeping there with her. We’ve got another room down the hall. Oz and I will take that one with Ethan. Nolan and Alistair, you’re in here with Flynn.”
Nolan picked up the duffle bag he’d dropped when he walked in and eyed the two beds. “I call dibs on the one that hasn’t been christened yet.” He tossed his bag onto the bed farthest from the door, his grin widening. “Unless you two already tried both?”
Heat crawled up my neck. “We didn’t try either.”
“Unfortunately,” Flynn muttered.
Nolan’s laugh was quick and delighted as he flopped back on the bed. “Interrupted at the good part, were you? That’s tragic.”
“Reckon that means I’m on the floor.” Alistair dropped his medical bag off his shoulder with a heavy thud. His accent was Southern, but not sweet—more mountain steel than molasses. A far cry from Nolan’s Irish lilt, which practically winked at you between syllables.
There was something about Alistair’s voice that made you want to trust him, made you believe every word he said. And suddenly I understood why the team called him Preacher.
“Nah,” Nolan smirked and rolled, patting the mattress beside him suggestively. “C’mon, Ali. Plenty of room. If you’re nice, I’ll even let you be the big spoon.”
Alistair gave him a flat, unamused stare. “I’d rather spoon with a porcupine.”
“Ouch.”
“A rabid porcupine.”
“Well, mate, you’re missing out. I’ve been told I’m an excellent cuddler.”
“By whom? The ugly blow-up doll you keep in your locker at HQ?”
Nolan gasped and pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Take that back! Helga has feelings!”
I watched their banter with a strange sense of displacement. It felt practiced, comfortable—the kind that came from men who had faced death together and survived to joke about it. These men were a unit. A family. And I was the outsider.
Trent grunted and shook his head. “All right, you two. Got it out of your system?”
“For now,” Nolan decided after a beat.
“Good. Get your shit together and let’s go. Ethan’s not in the mood for delays.”
Nolan’s smile vanished. He hopped off the bed and followed Trent out, leaving Alistair lingering in the doorway.
He watched us a beat, then said quietly, “Flynn’s not wrong.”
Flynn lifted an eyebrow. “About what?”
“The bleeding,” he replied. “Ethan’s holding it together by sheer force of will right now. Maya’s death gutted him, and work’s the only thing keeping him upright.”
“I know,” Flynn said, softer than I’d ever heard him. I looked at him sharply. There was a lot of weight in those two words. History. Maybe even regret. He’d said he was only a freelancer, but had he fought side-by-side with Ethan before?
Alistair nodded like he’d expected that. “Yeah, I know you do.” Then he turned to me. “Don’t take it personally, Lyric. Ethan’s not trying to be cruel. He’s just... running on empty and doesn’t know how to stop without falling apart. And unfortunately, right now, you’re the easiest target for his anger.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Just gave a faint smile and stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
I stared at the closed door. When I first signed on, I wanted to be part of this team. For someone who spent most of her life alone, wearing identities like coats, the idea of belonging, of being known, had been seductive.
But now…
I realized I never would be. Not really. Not to them.
“Hey,” Flynn said, his voice breaking through my thoughts. “You okay?”
I blinked, pushing down the unwelcome tightness in my throat. “Fine.”
“Liar.” His fingers brushed my cheek, tilting my face toward his. “You’re thinking too loud.”
I stepped back, suddenly unable to handle his gentleness. I wanted the cocky version of Flynn back. The one who smirked and teased and didn’t look at me like he saw me.
Because I knew how to handle him . This version, with worry in his eyes and softness in his touch? I didn’t know what to do with that.
So I took the coward’s way out and spun toward the door. “We should go. Grim’s waiting.”