Silent Night, Deadly Night (Mercenary Masters)

Chapter 1

FITZ

The Swiss Alps glitter like crushed diamonds under December moonlight as chauffer-driven limo winds up the mountain road toward Chateau Sommet.

My hand rests possessively on Jordan's thigh, feeling the warmth of her skin through the cashmere of the dress she's wearing.

The leather seat beneath us is broken-in soft, the kind that molds to your body.

Worth every pound for the privacy it affords us.

"Stop scowling," she says without looking at me, her lips curving into that sly smile I both love and want to use as an excuse to spank her ass until it's a very fetching shade of pink. "You promised me a holiday. An actual holiday. Those were your exact words."

"I'm not scowling."

"You've checked your phone fourteen times since we left the airport." She turns those dark eyes on me, the ones that still make my cock hard every single time. "Fifteen now."

I slip the phone back into my jacket pocket. She's right, damn her. I promised Jordan a proper Christmas. No ops. No rescues. Just us, a luxury resort, and a week of fucking my beautiful submissive wife in front of a roaring fireplace.

The phone buzzes against my ribs. Sully with an update on the Prague situation. Or Sawyer confirming the team made it to Lagos. Or Adam letting me know Baker Street hasn't burned down in the twelve hours since we left London.

Jordan's hand covers mine on her thigh. "Don't."

"Force of habit," I admit, pulling her closer.

The collar I gave her on our wedding day gleams at her throat—strands of seed pearls twisted together into a cord, the ruby clasp catching the moonlight.

I run my thumb across it possessively. "Sully has everything under control.

Sawyer's running ops. Adam's got Baker Street covered. "

"And yet you're wondering if they'll burn down everything we've built in seven days." She nestles into my shoulder, and I inhale the scent of her—warm spice and rose, something earthy and rich that reminds me she's never been sweet. "I am too, you know. Worrying."

"About what? Lily and Chelsea have the club's holiday events planned down to the last detail."

"About whether I can actually relax for an entire week." She tilts her head up, vulnerability flashing in her eyes. "About whether we can just... be normal people for a few days."

I bark a laugh. "Sweetheart, we were never going to be normal people.

" I capture her chin, forcing her to hold my gaze.

The pulse in her throat flutters against my fingers.

"But we can be us. Away from London, away from missions and responsibilities.

Just you, me, and that very large bed I specifically requested. "

"And the hot tub on our private balcony?"

"And the hot tub." I kiss her, slow and deep, tasting the champagne we shared on the plane. Her tongue slides against mine, and she makes that little whimper that goes straight to my cock. "And the bearskin rug. And the steam shower. And every other surface I plan to fuck you on."

She shivers, and I feel her nipples harden against my chest even through the layers of clothing between us. "Is that a promise, Master?"

"That's an order, Mrs. Fitzwallace."

The car pulls up to the resort's entrance, and I take in the security with a professional eye.

Good sight lines. Controlled access points.

Cameras at every entrance. Two guards at the main door trying to look like greeters.

Armed, judging by the way their jackets hang.

Not that I'm working. Just... observing.

The main building rises four stories, all stone and timber in that classic Alpine style that probably costs a fortune to maintain. Windows glow with warm light. A Christmas tree towers in the courtyard, easily twenty feet tall, dripping with gold ornaments and white lights.

"Down, boy," Jordan murmurs. "No tactical assessments. You promised."

"Can't help my training, love."

"You can try." She squeezes my hand. "For me?"

And because she asks, because she's Jordan and I'd give her the fucking world if she wanted it, I take a breath and let the tactical assessment fade to background noise. Not gone—never gone—but quieter.

A doorman opens Jordan's door, and I slide out my side, coming around to take her hand. She's dressed simply—cashmere dress, leather boots, that gorgeous pearl collar—but every eye in the lobby turns to watch her move. Pride swells in my chest. Mine. All mine.

A woman in her thirties with diamond studs glinting in her ears glances at Jordan, then away, then back with thinly veiled envy.

Her companion, silver-haired and distinguished, doesn't bother hiding his appreciation.

Jordan doesn't notice. She never does. Doesn't realize the power she wields just by existing.

"Monsieur and Madame Fitzwallace?" A young woman in an impeccable suit approaches with a tablet. "Welcome to Chateau Sommet. I'm Celeste, your personal concierge for the week."

"Just the Fitzwallaces," Jordan says warmly, though I catch the slight tension in her shoulders.

She hates formality almost as much as I do.

Too many years of being dismissed as just another pretty face when she was building her empire.

Too many men who underestimated the sharp mind beneath the beauty.

"Of course. If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your suite. We have you in our premier accommodation—the Alpine Suite. Private balcony, hot tub, and complete privacy."

As we follow Celeste through the lobby, I catalog the other guests automatically. Wealthy. International. A few faces I recognize from the society pages Jordan makes me look at occasionally. No one who screams "threat," but then, the best threats never do.

The elevator is all mirrors and brass. Jordan catches my eye in the reflection, and I see the heat building there. Years of marriage, and she still looks at me like she did that first night at Baker Street. Like she wants to crawl inside my skin and live there.

"The Alpine Suite is our most exclusive accommodation," Celeste says as we ascend. "You'll have the entire fourth floor to yourselves. The nearest occupied suite is two floors below."

"Good," Jordan says, and her hand finds mine.

No one to hear her scream my name.

The elevator doors open directly into our suite, and I take in the space with satisfaction.

The main room is enormous, all exposed timber beams and stone walls.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook snow-covered peaks that glow silver in the moonlight.

A massive stone fireplace dominates one wall, already crackling with flames that cast dancing shadows across the polished hardwood floors.

The bed is enormous, covered in white linens that I'm already imagining stained with my wife's arousal. King-sized doesn't do it justice. It's a fucking playground.

To the left, a seating area with leather furniture and a bar stocked with top-shelf liquor. To the right, I catch a glimpse of the bathroom—marble and glass, with a shower big enough for a platoon.

"The balcony is through here," Celeste says, leading us to French doors. "The hot tub is heated and ready. We've stocked it with champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries."

"Will there be anything else?" she asks, turning back to us.

"Privacy," I say firmly. "Complete privacy. No housekeeping unless we call. No disturbances."

"Of course, Monsieur. The resort's Christmas Eve gala is tomorrow night if you'd like to attend. Black tie. It's quite spectacular."

I look at Jordan, who's already shaking her head. "We're here to avoid people, not socialize with them."

"As you wish. Please don't hesitate to call if you need anything." Celeste disappears into the elevator with a practiced smile, and the doors close behind her.

The elevator descends, taking her with it, and we're alone.

The moment the door closes, I have Jordan against it, my hand wrapped in her dark hair, pulling her head back to expose that gorgeous throat. "Alone at last."

"Fitz," she breathes, her hands clutching at my shoulders. "We just got here."

"And I've been hard since we boarded the plane, thinking about all the ways I'm going to use you this week." I trace the pearl collar with my tongue, feeling her pulse hammer against my lips. Salt and sweetness. Jordan and need. "Strip. Now."

Her hands go to the zipper of her dress, but she pauses. "What about unpacking?"

"Jordan." I use the voice that makes every submissive at Baker Street drop to their knees. Low. Controlled. Absolute. "Did I ask you a question?"

"No, Master." The words come out breathy.

"Did I give you an order?"

"Yes, Master."

"Then what should you be doing right now?"

Her hands find the zipper again, and this time she doesn't hesitate.

The dress pools at her feet in a whisper of expensive fabric.

She's wearing the black lace lingerie I picked out before we left London—a balconette bra that showcases her breasts, a garter belt, stockings, and absolutely no panties.

Because Jordan doesn't wear panties unless I specifically allow it.

"Beautiful," I growl, circling her slowly. The firelight plays across her skin, turning her golden. Every curve, every line—I've memorized them all, but they still steal my breath. "Turn around. Hands on the door."

She complies, and I run my hands down her back, feeling the delicate ridge of her spine, the subtle tension in her muscles.

She's wound tight, still carrying London stress in her shoulders.

Over the curve of her ass, perfect and round and made for my hands.

Between her legs, where she's already wet.

Already ready. My perfect, responsive wife.

"Do you know what I thought about on the plane?" I ask, spreading her legs wider with my knee. The stockings rasp against my trousers. "I thought about taking you in the lavatory. Bending you over the sink, watching your face in the mirror as I fucked you."

"Why didn't you?" Her voice is breathy, needy.

"Because when I finally get inside you after a day of travel, I want to take my time.

" I unfasten my belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a whisper of sound that makes her shiver.

She knows that sound. Knows what it means.

"I want to hear you scream without worrying about other passengers.

I want to see you spread out on that bed, taking everything I give you. "

"Yes, Sir. Please, Master."

"Not yet." I step back, and she whimpers at the loss of contact. "Get on the bed. On your back. Legs spread. I want to see what's mine."

She practically runs to the bed, and I take my time undressing, letting her watch. Jacket first, then tie. I fold them carefully over the back of a chair, making her wait. Shirt next, one button at a time. Her eyes track every movement, hunger written across her face.

My cock is rock hard, pressing against my abdomen when I finally strip off my trousers and boxer briefs. Her eyes lock onto it, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips.

"Touch yourself," I order, walking slowly toward the bed. "Show me how much you missed my cock."

Her hand slides between her legs, and she moans as her fingers find her clit. The sound shoots straight through me. I stroke myself slowly, watching my wife pleasure herself, watching her back arch off the bed, watching her free hand come up to cup her breast through the lace.

"That's it, love. Get yourself nice and wet for me. But you don't come. Not until I'm buried inside you. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir," she gasps, her hips rocking against her hand.

"Good girl."

The praise makes her moan, makes her fingers move faster. She's close. I can see it in the flush spreading across her chest, in the way her thighs tremble.

"Stop."

Her hand freezes. Her eyes fly open, dark and desperate.

"Fitz, please," she gasps.

"Please what?"

"Please fuck me. I need you. I need—" Her words cut off in a moan as I grab her ankle, yanking her down the bed until she's at the edge.

I'm done waiting. I cover her body with mine, capturing both her wrists in one hand and pinning them above her head. My cock finds her entrance, and I pause, making her wait, making her beg with her eyes.

"Who do you belong to, Jordan?"

"You," she whispers. "Only you."

"Damn straight."

I drive into her in one hard thrust, and she screams my name. Tight. Wet. Mine. I set a brutal pace, fucking her into the mattress, and she takes it all, her pussy clenching around my cock, her nails scoring my back when I release her wrists to brace myself above her.

"Look at me," I growl, and her eyes lock onto mine. Dark and drowning and absolutely wrecked. "That's it. Let me see you. Let me see my wife coming apart on my cock."

"Fitz, I can't—I need—"

"Come for me," I growl against her ear. "Come on my cock, wife."

She shatters, her whole body convulsing, and I follow her over the edge, spending myself deep inside her with a roar that echoes off the stone walls.

We lie tangled together, both breathing hard, and I stroke her hair back from her face. Sweat-dampened. Beautiful. Mine.

"Welcome to our holiday, sweetheart."

She laughs, the sound slightly hysterical. "If this is relaxation, I might not survive the week."

"Oh, you'll survive." I roll onto my back, pulling her onto my chest. Her head fits perfectly in the hollow of my shoulder. Her hand rests over my heart. "You always do."

Through the window, snow begins to fall, fat flakes drifting past the glass. In the distance, headlights cut through the dark, winding up the mountain road.