23. Flynn
CHAPTER 23
FLYNN
I’d counted every exit twice, mapped every security camera, and memorized the guard rotation schedule by the time I heard the shower turn off. Seventeen minutes. That’s how long she’d been in there, washing away Moreau’s touch while I paced the polished marble floor like a caged animal. My reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows showed a man barely holding it together—hair disheveled from running my hands through it, jaw tight enough to crack teeth. Behind me, the king-sized bed with its silk sheets and too many pillows sat pristine and untouched, mocking the chaos in my head.
The way Moreau had been looking at her since we set foot on his yacht made my skin crawl. I’d seen that look before—on warlords, arms dealers, men who collected beautiful things like trophies. And the way she’d played along, smiling, leaning in when he whispered in her ear—it was textbook undercover work, but it scraped something raw inside me.
The bathroom door opened in a billow of steam, and there she was, wrapped in a plush white towel, water droplets still clinging to her shoulders. Her platinum hair was darker when wet, slicked back from her face. She looked younger, more vulnerable somehow, without her carefully constructed Elisa armor.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded, glancing at the door. “How did you get in?”
I didn’t move from my position by the window. “Security in this place is good, but not good enough. Not when they’ve got four cameras down in the east wing that they’re scrambling to fix.”
Her gaze swept the room before she lowered her voice to a hiss. “You shouldn’t be here. If Moreau has the rooms bugged?—“
“He doesn’t. His business is built on his discretion, remember?”
“I don’t trust his discretion?—”
“I also did a sweep when I came in. We’re clear.” I took a step toward her, unable to stay still. “What the hell did he say to you?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Who, Decker?”
“Don’t play dumb.” My words came out harsher than I intended. “Moreau. That little dance on the terrace.”
“That ‘little dance’ is me doing my job. You know, the one where I get close enough to Moreau to access Sentinel?”
“There’s close and then there’s what he was suggesting. He wants you in his bed, Lyric.”
“Yeah, it’s called a honeytrap,” she said in a tone that suggested she thought I was a sandwich short of a picnic.
“That isn’t part of the plan.”
“Yes, it is. Always has been. Ask Trent. Or Decker. He probably knows since he’s also apparently part of this team that doesn’t fucking trust me.”
The bitterness in her voice surprised me. “I didn’t know they were coming, either—” I stopped, shook my head. She was trying to distract me. “But that’s not the issue right now.”
“Oh?” Her tone went syrupy sweet. “So, tell me, what is the issue?”
“The job is to bid on Sentinel, not to fuck the arms dealer!”
“Lower your voice,” she whisper-yelled, closing the distance between us. “Sometimes maintaining cover means doing things we’d rather not do. You know this. You’ve done this.”
“Not this.” I jabbed a finger at her. “This isn’t just about the mission for you. This is about proving something. To Ethan. To the team. To yourself.”
She didn’t flinch outwardly, but I saw it in her eyes. “And what if it is? What business is that of yours?”
“Because I care about what happens to you!” My voice cracked. It wasn’t just caring, but I knew if I threw the L-word at her again, it would send her running—and she’d land in Moreau’s bed just to spite me. “I want you safe. I want you to come back from this mission whole, not splintered into pieces because you pushed yourself too far.”
She laughed, a sharp, bitter sound that held no humor. “Whole? I haven’t been whole in years, Flynn. That ship sailed a long time ago.”
“Lyric—”
“Get it through your thick skull.” She tapped my forehead with each word. “I make the calls on how I handle my cover. Not you.”
I caught her arm as she tried to move past me. “How far are you willing to go, huh? Where’s the line?”
She whirled and shoved against my chest hard enough to make me step back. “There is no line! There’s just the mission. There’s just the job. There’s just what needs to be done!”
Jesus. She really didn’t believe there was a limit, did she? My gut clenched at the thought of her crossing lines she couldn’t uncross, all for a mission, for approval, for whatever drove her to push herself over every edge.
I stepped closer, eliminating the space between us.
“And what about after?” I asked softly. “When the mission’s over and you’ve crossed every line, compromised every part of yourself, what then? Who are you then, Lyric?”
Her eyes flashed dangerously. “It’s my op. My body. My choice.”
“Your op, yeah.” I pulled her in so tight against me until I could feel her shuddering breath on my face and her pounding heart against my chest. I could smell her shampoo, something clean and citrusy, and underneath it, her skin. Steam from the shower still clung to her, making her almost glow in the dim light. “But last night, that pussy was mine. Every whimper. Every goddamn moan. You gave it all to me, and that gives me a say now. No other man is going to touch you while I’m still breathing.”
“You don’t get to decide that. You’re not my handler,” she breathed. “You’re not my keeper. And you’re sure as hell not?—”
“Say it,” I challenged, my face inches from hers. “I’m not your what?”
The silence between us crackled with electricity. Her chest heaved with each breath, and the edge of her towel slipped to show the curve of her breast. I was suddenly, painfully aware of how close we were standing, how little she was wearing, how easy it would be to?—
“You’re not mine,” she whispered, her voice catching on the last word.
Something inside me broke at that—at the wounded defiance in her eyes, at the way she was staring at me like I was both the problem and the solution. I wanted to shake her. I wanted to walk away. I wanted to drag her into my arms and not let go until she understood.
“Yes, I am. Wholly, violently, maddeningly yours. You had me the second you moaned my name, the second your nails clawed down my back and marked me as yours.” I caught her face between my hands, unable to keep myself from touching her any longer. “Even if you don’t want me. Even if you walk out that door and straight into his bed, I’ll still be yours. And God have mercy on the bastard if touches you, because I won’t.”
Her eyes darkened, pupils dilating as she stared up at me. For a heartbeat, I thought she might push me away. Instead, she grabbed the front of my shirt and yanked me toward her. Our mouths crashed together with bruising force, teeth clashing before we found our rhythm. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was all fire and fury, a continuation of our argument by other means.
I backed her against the wall, lifting her by the backs of her thighs. The towel came loose in the process, falling forgotten to the floor. Her legs wrapped around my waist as I pressed her harder against the wall, my mouth leaving hers to trail hot kisses down her neck.
“I hate you,” she gasped even as she clawed at my shirt, popping buttons in her haste to get to skin.
“I know,” I growled against her throat, my hands sliding up her bare sides, feeling her shiver against me. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
She answered by ripping my shirt open the rest of the way, buttons scattering across the marble floor like tiny gunshots. Her fingernails raked down my chest, leaving trails of fire that went straight to my cock. I groaned into her mouth as she bit my lower lip hard enough to sting.
“Bed,” she gasped against my mouth, and I didn’t need to be told twice.
I carried her to the bed, our mouths never breaking contact, my hands gripping her ass, fingers digging into her soft flesh. We fell onto the silk sheets in a tangle of limbs, her naked body writhing beneath me as I struggled out of my remaining clothes.
“You drive me fucking crazy,” I muttered, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand while the other trailed down her body. She was already wet, her thighs parting eagerly despite the anger still flashing in her eyes. I slid my fingers through her slick folds, watching her arch into my touch despite herself.
“Feeling’s mutual,” she gasped, her head thrown back as I circled her clit with my thumb.
“You want to be reckless? Want to push every boundary?” I growled, working my finger in and out of her soft, slick heat. “Let me show you what reckless feels like.”
She arched against my hand, a soft moan escaping her lips. “Flynn?—”
I silenced her with my mouth, swallowing whatever she was about to say. I didn’t want words right now. Words were where we got lost, where we hurt each other. This—her body trembling beneath mine, her pulse hammering against my lips as I kissed down her throat—this was honesty.
I knew her body now, knew exactly how to touch her to make her come apart. Her hips bucked against my hand, seeking more friction, more pressure.
“Tell me you’re mine,” I demanded against her ear, nipping at the sensitive skin beneath it. “Say it.”
“I’m not—” she gasped as I curled my fingers, hitting that spot that made her eyes roll back. “I can’t?—”
“You can.” I withdrew my fingers, and she cried out, bucking up to keep them until I wedged my hips between her thighs and positioned myself at her entrance. I dragged the head of my cock through her folds. “Say it, Lyric.”
Her eyes flew open, blazing with defiance even as her body trembled with need. “Make me.”
The challenge in those two words snapped the last thread of my control. I thrust into her hard, burying myself to the hilt in one swift movement that had us both gasping. I wasn’t wearing a condom and the sensation was indescribable—her hot, silky walls gripping me without any barrier between us. I nearly lost myself right then, overcome by the raw intimacy of it.
“Fuck,” I breathed, my forehead dropping to hers as I fought for control. “You feel?—”
“Move,” she commanded, her nails digging into my shoulders.
I withdrew slowly, savoring every inch of friction, before slamming back into her. She cried out, her back arching off the bed. I set a punishing pace, driving into her with all the frustration and fear and need that had been building since the moment she walked into the mission briefing.
“Say you’re mine,” I demanded again, my voice rough with exertion.
She shook her head, her eyes squeezed shut, lips parted around breathless moans. Even now, she was fighting me, fighting this connection between us.
I shifted my angle, hitting deeper, and her eyes flew open. “Flynn!”
“Say it.” I slowed my thrusts, making each one deliberate, deep, torturous. “Say you’re mine, Lyric.”
“I—I can’t—” Her voice broke on a sob as I ground against her, circling my hips to hit that spot inside her that made her walls clench around me.
“Why not?” I whispered, pressing my lips to her temple, tasting the salt of her sweat. “Why won’t you let yourself have this?”
Emotion flickered across her face. Vulnerability, fear, something else I couldn’t name. For a moment, I thought she might actually answer, might let me see past her walls.
Instead, she hooked her legs around my waist and flipped us over with surprising strength. Now straddling me, she took control, rising up on her knees before sinking back down, taking me impossibly deeper.
“Fuck,” I groaned, my hands flying to her hips, guiding her movements. The sight of her above me, wild and beautiful in the dim light, her body gleaming with sweat as she rode me—it was almost enough to make me forget my question.
Almost.
“You’re running away again,” I panted, sitting up so we were chest to chest, my arms wrapped around her back as she continued to move against me. “Even now.”
“Shut up,” she whispered, burying her face in my neck. “Please, just—shut up.”
I felt wetness against my skin—tears, not sweat—and something in my chest cracked open. I cradled the back of her head, gentling my touch even as our bodies continued their frantic rhythm.
“I’ve got you,” I murmured into her hair. “I’ve got you, Lyric.”
She came with a broken cry, her body shuddering around mine, walls pulsing and clenching.
My protective instincts, the ones that had sparked our fight, transformed into something more primal. I turned us again, pressing her into the mattress, my body covering hers. My mouth found the curve where her neck met her shoulder, and I bit down gently, marking her, claiming her in some ancient, instinctual way.
Mine , my brain chanted with each thrust. Mine, not Moreau’s, not anyone’s.
“Flynn,” she breathed, her head falling back as her nails dug into my shoulders and her legs trembled around my hips. “Oh, God. It’s too much.”
I kissed a path from her collarbone to her breast, relishing the way she arched into my touch. Her fierce independence was melting beneath me, her usual iron control surrendering to sensation. It was the greatest victory I’d ever won—Lyric Renard, coming undone in my arms.