32. Lyric
CHAPTER 32
LYRIC
Flynn’s hands trembled slightly as they framed my face, his touch so gentle it almost undid me. In the shadows of his bedroom, his amber eyes were dark with an emotion I couldn’t quite name. Desire, yes, but also promise. I guided his hands to the buttons of my blouse, my own fingers steady despite the storm of feelings inside me. This wasn’t like our other times together—the frantic, adrenaline-fueled sex after a mission, or the demanding, desperate claiming that happened at Moreau’s estate. This was deliberate, careful, tender. Tonight was all about healing.
“We can stop anytime,” he whispered, his fingers hovering at the top button.
I shook my head. “I don’t want to stop.”
He undid each button with painful slowness, his eyes never leaving mine. When the last one slipped free, he parted the fabric but didn’t push it off my shoulders. Instead, he skimmed his hands down my ribs, cupping my waist and pulling me closer. Such a simple touch, yet it sent shivers across my body that had nothing to do with cold.
But then a flash of memory intruded—Moreau’s fingers on my ribs while I couldn’t move—and I tensed. Of course Flynn noticed and his hands stilled.
“Where did you go?” he asked softly.
“Just a memory.” I swallowed hard. “Keep going. Please.”
Flynn nodded, understanding without needing more explanation. He slid his hands under the open blouse, his palms warm against my shoulders as he eased the fabric down my arms. The air in the apartment was cool against my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms.
“You’re beautiful.”
His rough, whispered words helped anchor me to this moment, to him. I dragged my hands down his chest, needing to feel his skin against mine. I paused at the fresh scar slicing across his ribs, then bent to kiss it. “Thank you for staying alive.”
His laugh was more breath than sound. “I’m pretty fond of being alive right now.” He slid a hand around to my back, fingertips grazing the clasp of my bra. “May I?”
I nodded, unable to find my voice as his fingers made quick work of the hooks. The straps slipped down my shoulders, and I let the garment fall between us. Flynn’s eyes darkened, but his touch remained reverent, almost worshipful as his palms skimmed my sides, never rushing, giving me time to adjust to each new sensation.
“Still with me?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through me.
“Yes,” I breathed, stepping closer until our bodies touched.
Flynn’s lips found my neck, trailing soft kisses down to my collarbone. Where Moreau had taken, Flynn asked. Where Moreau had claimed, Flynn offered.
But then his fingers grazed my ribs again, and suddenly I was back in that room, paralyzed, with unwanted hands on my body. I stiffened, my breath catching.
“Lyric?” Flynn’s voice pulled me back.
“I’m okay.” I placed my hand over his, guiding it to my hip instead. “Just don’t touch me there. Not tonight.”
He nodded, accepting the redirection without question. “You pace, your rules. Tell me what you need.”
I laced our fingers together and led him toward the bed. “Touch me like I matter.”
Something broke open in his expression as I pulled him down on top of me. “You matter more to me than anything in this world, Lyric.”
His hand moved then, caressing every inch of exposed skin—except my ribs—with a tenderness that made my throat tight. When his fingers skimmed the waistband of my pants, he paused, waiting for permission.
“Yes,” I said, helping him with the button and zipper.
He slid the fabric down my legs with the same careful attention he’d shown my blouse, his eyes taking in every newly revealed part of me with appreciation rather than possession.
But when his fingers brushed against my inner thigh, I tensed again, a flash of panic rising unbidden.
“Not ready?” he asked, already moving his hand away.
“No, wait.” I caught his wrist. “I want this. I’m just—” I didn’t know. I wasn’t scared of him, but at the same time I was also terrified that one wrong touch would send me hurtling into memories I did.
“It’s okay.” His understanding nearly broke me. I’d spent so many years being strong, never showing fear, never admitting vulnerability. And here was Flynn, seeing my fear and accepting it without judgment.
“Try something for me?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Close your eyes and focus on my voice. On my touch. If another memory comes, tell me, and we’ll chase it away together.”
I did as he suggested, letting my eyes drift closed as his hands resumed their gentle exploration, touching me everywhere while his deep, sexy voice rumbled dirty nothings in my ear.
When the unwelcome memory of Moreau surfaced again, I whispered, “He’s here.”
“No,” Flynn said firmly. “He’s not. He’s dead. You killed him. There’s only you and me here.”
He was right. I had killed Moreau. I had taken back my power in the most final way possible. That realization washed through me like a cleansing wave, and I felt myself relax more fully.
“Kiss me,” I whispered, opening my eyes to find Flynn watching me with such tenderness it made my chest ache.
He lowered his mouth to mine, the kiss deep and unhurried. His hands framed my face again, thumbs stroking my cheekbones as if I were something precious. When we broke apart, I felt steadier, more present in my own skin.
“Better?” he asked.
I nodded, reaching for the button on his jeans. “Your turn.”
Flynn stood to remove them, and I allowed myself to really look at him—the lean muscle, the scars both old and new that mapped his survival, the unmistakable evidence of his desire for me. His cock sprang free, thick and ready, jutting proudly from his body as he rejoined me on the bed. Warmth pooled between my thighs at the sight of him, my body responding despite the shadows still lurking in my mind.
He settled between my thighs, the weight of him above me feeling like shelter rather than confinement.
“How do you want this?” he asked, his voice a low rumble against my neck.
I traced the planes of his face with my fingertips, memorizing every line, every angle. “I want to see you,” I whispered. “I need to know it’s you.”
“Tell me if anything feels wrong,” he murmured, lips brushing my shoulder.
“Everything about this feels right.” I guided his hand between my legs. “Touch me.”
His fingers moved with exquisite care, stroking me through the thin fabric. I thought I would freeze, would flash back to that horrible moment Moreau violated me, but I didn’t. All I felt was Flynn touching me. All I saw was his worried eyes as he watched me.
“Flynn,” I groaned, arching into his barely there touch. “Please. I won’t break.”
The tightness in his expression eased a fraction. “I just want to get this right. For you.”
“You are.” I pulled him closer, needing the weight of him now, the solid reality of his body against mine. “You’re exactly what I need.”
He groaned softly and I felt a tremor go through him. His control was hanging on by a thread. “I’m trying to be gentle.”
“I don’t want gentle,” I whispered against his lips, curling my fingers around his wrist and grinding my hips against his hand. “I want you .”
His breathing hitched as I guided his hand beneath the fabric of my underwear, both of us groaning when his fingers slid through my wetness. The feeling was electric, his touch igniting something deep inside me that had nothing to do with the physical sensations and everything to do with choice—my choice to be here, with him, like this.
“Christ, Lyric,” he murmured, his voice strained as he circled that sensitive bundle of nerves. “You’re so wet.”
I arched into his touch, my body responding with an urgency that surprised me. There were no shadows here, no unwelcome memories—just Flynn and me, tangled together in the half-light of his bedroom. I slipped my hand between us, wrapping my fingers around his cock, feeling him pulse against my palm as I stroked his slowly. His sharp intake of breath made me smile.
“Need you,” I whispered, guiding him closer. “Now.”
His eyes darkened to burnt amber. “Do you want me to put on a condom?”
“We didn’t use one last time.”
“I know, and that was reckless of me,” he said, brushing his thumb across my lower lip. “But I’m clean. I get tested regularly.”
“Me too. Standard protocol. And I have a birth control implant.”
“I need to be sure you’re comfortable with everything tonight.”
The concern in his voice made something warm bloom in my chest. I tightened my grip on his cock, enjoying the throb of him against my palm.
“I’m sure,” I whispered. “Just you. Nothing between us.”
He nodded, his throat working as he swallowed hard. The vulnerability in his eyes matched my own as he positioned himself at my entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against me without pushing in.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
I did, our gazes locking as he slowly, carefully entered me. The stretch and fullness made me gasp, my body accommodating him inch by inch until he was seated fully inside me. We both stilled, breathing heavily, adjusting to the sensation of being joined so intimately.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.
“More than okay,” I assured him, wrapping my legs around his waist to draw him even deeper. “Move, Flynn. Please.”
He began to rock into me with slow, deliberate strokes, his eyes never leaving mine. Each thrust felt like reclamation—of my body, my choice, my power. Flynn watched me with an intensity that should have been unnerving but instead felt like an anchor, keeping me present in the moment rather than lost in the shadows of memory.
“You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “So strong. So brave.”
I shook my head, unable to accept the praise when I still felt so broken inside. “I’m not?—”
“You are,” he insisted, punctuating each word with a deep, measured thrust that sent sparks of pleasure racing up my spine. “The bravest person I’ve ever known.”
My chest tightened, eyes burning with unexpected tears. I turned my face away, not wanting him to see how deeply his words affected me, but Flynn gently turned me back to face him.
“Don’t hide from me,” he whispered, brushing away a tear that had escaped despite my efforts. “Not tonight.”
The tenderness in his touch undid me. I surged up to capture his mouth, pouring everything I couldn’t say into the kiss—my fear, my gratitude, my desperate need for connection. Flynn responded, kissing me back like he was desperate for a taste of me, his hips never faltering in their steady rhythm as he drove me higher.
“Flynn,” I gasped against his lips as heat began to build low in my belly. “I need?—”
“Tell me,” he urged, shifting slightly to change the angle of his thrusts. “Whatever you need, it’s yours.”
“More,” I pleaded, digging my fingers into his shoulders. “Harder.”
“Like this?” He scooped one of my legs onto his shoulder, his hips snapping forward with a primal intensity that made me gasp. The cheap metal bed frame creaked beneath us as he drove deeper into me.
“Yes!” The new angle hit something exquisite, and I cried out, my back arching off the bed. “God, yes!”
My body sang under his touch, pleasure building with each stroke. This wasn’t just sex—this was reclamation, validation, healing. Each place he touched erased Moreau’s violation, replacing unwanted memories with new ones I’d chosen. With Flynn, I wasn’t a victim or even a survivor. I was just a woman wanting—and being wanted.
“Flynn,” I gasped as the tension coiled tighter, my body trembling on the precipice. “I’m close.”
His hand slid between our bodies, his fingers unerringly finding my clit, circling with just the right pressure. The dual sensation—his cock deep inside me, his fingers working their magic—sent me spiraling over the edge. I cried out his name as pleasure crashed through me, my body clenching around him in rhythmic pulses.
Flynn groaned, his control slipping as my release triggered his own. His movements became more urgent, more primal, as he chased his pleasure. I wrapped my legs tighter around him, urging him deeper, wanting to feel every moment of his surrender.
“Lyric,” he gasped, his voice breaking on my name as he shuddered above me. The warmth of his release filled me, his body tensing then gradually relaxing as he came down from his high.
For several heartbeats, we lay tangled together, our breathing gradually slowing. Flynn’s weight pressed me into the mattress and I traced idle patterns across his back, marveling at how different this felt from every other time we’d been together. The urgency was gone, replaced by something quieter but infinitely more powerful. I felt anchored, present in a way I hadn’t been in years—maybe ever.
When he finally moved to roll off me, I tightened my arms around him.
“Not yet,” I whispered.
He settled back against me, careful to brace some of his weight on his forearms. “I don’t want to crush you.”
“You’re not. I like feeling you.”
“How about this?” He rolled, dragging me onto on his chest.
I nuzzled in closer. “This is perfect.”
“Yes, it is.” His hand moved to my shoulder, fingers finding the jagged scar that ran from my collarbone to just below my shoulder blade, a souvenir from a mission gone wrong in Caracas. He traced its outline with a gentleness that made my throat tight. “Does it have a story?”
“Machete. I zigged when I should have zagged.”
His quiet chuckle vibrated under my ear. “Rookie mistake.”
“I was green.” I smiled against his skin. “Thought I was invincible.”
“And you don’t now?”
“Oh, I’m still invincible,” I said, lifting my head to grin at him. “Especially since I’ve learned when to zag instead of zig.”
He laughed again, captured my hand, and brought it to his lips. Against my knuckles, he whispered, “Jesus, I love you so much,” the words a warm breath across my skin.
It wasn’t the first time he’d said it. Each time before, I’d deflected, or flinched, or changed the subject, or simply let the words hang in the air without acknowledgment. Each time, I’d seen the flash of resignation in his eyes, the acceptance that I might never say it back. Yet he’d kept saying it anyway, offering the words like a gift that required nothing in return.
But something had shifted tonight. The walls I’d built after Elodie died, the barriers I’d reinforced through years of loss and betrayal, had finally begun to crumble. Not all at once—not completely—but enough that I could see beyond them to what waited on the other side.
I thought of all the reasons I’d held back. Fear of loss. Fear of vulnerability. Fear that loving someone meant eventually losing them. But hadn’t I already learned the hard way that walls didn’t protect you from pain? They just kept you from fully living.
Flynn had started to trace patterns on my back again, giving me the space he always did, expecting nothing. He’d whispered those three words against my skin so many times, never demanding them in return. He’d wait forever, I realized. He’d keep loving me even if I never said it back.
But I didn’t want that anymore.
“Flynn.” I shifted in his arms, moving up so our faces were level, our noses almost touching.
“I think—” I stopped and shook my head.
No, dammit. No qualifiers. No half-measures. Not with him.
“No, I know—” Again, the words caught in my throat.
“It’s okay, princess,” he murmured, pushing a wayward strand of hair back from my face. “You don’t have to say it.”
God, who would’ve thought there was so much sweet patience under all that swagger when we first met?
I was under no illusions—he wasn’t perfect. Far from it. He was still cocky as hell and sometimes infuriatingly stubborn. He’d make me crazy with his recklessness and his habit of charging into danger and his alpha male possessiveness. But he was also loyal and brave and kind in all ways that mattered. He’d been patient with me in a way no one else had ever been, taking the time to peel away all my other identities to find the real me. And, in the process, he had become the person I trusted most in this world.
No, he wasn’t perfect.
But he was perfect for me and I would be an idiot to let him go.
I cupped his face between my palms, enjoying the feel of his rough stubble against my skin.
“I love you,” I said, the words finally breaking free.
Flynn went completely still, his breathing suspended as if he were afraid the slightest movement might shatter the moment. I watched the emotions play across his face—surprise, disbelief, and then a cautious, dawning joy.
“Say that again,” he whispered.
“I love you, Flynn Shepherd.” I smiled, feeling something unravel inside my chest, a tightness I’d carried for so long I’d forgotten it was there. “I’m in love with you and I’m done pretending I’m not. I don’t want to do this without you. Any of it. The missions, the team, this life—I want you there beside me for all of it, making me crazy, making me laugh… making me come when our team is standing right on the other side of the door.”
A slow smile spread over his face. “Really like that last one.”
“I figured you would.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice rough with emotion. “Because if you let me love you, if you love me back—that’s it for me. There’s no reset button.”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” And it was true. For someone who calculated risks for a living, who weighed every variable before making a decision, this felt strangely simple. Loving Flynn wasn’t a choice anymore. It was as inevitable as gravity.
His smile widened into that cocky grin I’d grown to love, but there was something vulnerable beneath it—a brightness in his eyes that looked suspiciously like tears. It was the most unguarded I’d ever seen him, all his usual defenses down. His hands came up to cover mine where they rested against his face.
“I told myself I’d wait however long it took. That loving you without hearing it back was better than not having you at all.” His thumb traced my lower lip. “But hearing you say it... Christ, Lyric.”
He pulled me to him, kissing me with a rawness that took my breath away. This wasn’t like the careful, healing touches we’d shared earlier. This was hunger and joy and relief all at once, his fingers tangling in my hair as he held me against him like he was afraid I might disappear.
When we finally broke apart, both breathless, he pressed his forehead to mine. “I thought I’d have to wait years to hear that.”
“I’m not exactly known for my emotional transparency,” I admitted with a soft laugh.
“No kidding.” His fingers traced idle patterns on my bare shoulder. “You know what this means, right?”
“That we’re going to scandalize the entire Edge Ops team with excessive PDA?”
“Well, that’s a given.” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “But I meant that I’m going to need a bigger closet. Your wardrobe alone could fill this entire apartment.”
I blinked at him, not quite processing his words. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”
“I thought that was implied by showing you the apartment I bought for you.” His expression turned serious. “Unless it’s too soon. I know we’re doing this backward—life-threatening situations first, then sex, then actual dating...”
I pressed my fingers to his lips. “It’s not too soon. But this place is...”
“Empty,” he supplied. “I know. That’s the point. I want us to fill it together. Make it ours, not just mine.”
The thought of building something permanent, something real, with Flynn sent a strange mix of terror and exhilaration through me. I’d spent so long living in temporary spaces—temporary identities, clothes, homes—never allowing myself to just… be myself. Never letting myself believe I could have anything that might last.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admitted, my voice small. “The whole domestic thing. I’ve never...”
“Me neither. But we figured out how to disarm a killer drone together. I think we can handle furniture shopping.”
I laughed, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly. “When you put it that way...”
“Is that a yes?” His amber eyes searched mine, that rare vulnerability still there beneath the surface.
“Yes,” I whispered. “But I’m warning you now, I have strong opinions about throw pillows.”
He groaned dramatically and flopped back on the bed. “I knew there’d be a catch.”
I curled against him, my head finding that perfect spot on his shoulder again. Outside, rain had begun to patter against the windows, a gentle percussion that only made our cocoon of warmth feel more secure.
“What happens tomorrow?” I asked quietly.
His arm tightened around me. “Tomorrow we go to work, pretend we’re professional adults who don’t make out in supply closets, and try not to give Ethan an aneurysm.”
“And after that?”
“After that...” His fingers trailed lazily up my spine. “We come home.”
Home.
With Flynn.
A man who loved me for me.
It was mind-boggling.
For so long, I’d believed that love was a liability—that caring too much made you vulnerable, made you weak. I’d watched my mother wither after Elodie disappeared, had seen operatives compromise missions for loved ones, had witnessed how attachment could be leveraged as a weapon.
But lying here in Flynn’s arms, I understood something I’d missed before: love wasn’t the liability. Fear was. Fear of loss, fear of pain, fear of the very connection that made life worth living.
“Flynn,” I whispered against his neck.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.”
He didn’t ask what for. He just pressed a kiss to my forehead and held me tighter, as if he understood everything I wasn’t saying. And maybe he did. Maybe that was part of what made us work—this ability to read between each other’s lines, to understand the silence as clearly as the words.
Outside, rain began to patter against the windows, a gentle percussion that only enhanced the cocoon of warmth we’d created. In Flynn’s arms, with his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, I felt something I hadn’t experienced since Elodie’s death: peace.
I was home.