Chapter 2
JJ
Iwake to find Fitz already awake, watching me with that intense gaze that still makes my stomach flip after years of marriage.
Morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the snow-covered peaks in shades of pink and gold.
The fire's burned down to embers, and the room carries the faint scent of wood smoke and sex.
"Creepy," I murmur, stretching like a cat. Every muscle aches in the best possible way—thighs, core, even my shoulders from how he had me braced against the wall last night. "How long have you been staring?"
"Long enough to decide I'm keeping you in this bed all day." His hand slides up my thigh, possessive and warm, calluses rasping against my skin. "How sore are you?"
"Sore enough to know you kept your promise about using me thoroughly." I trace the line of his jaw, feeling the stubble there. He needs a shave, but I like the roughness. Like the evidence that we're on holiday, that he's not in commander mode. "But not so sore I can't handle more."
His eyes darken, pupils dilating. "Careful, love. That sounds like a challenge."
"Maybe it is." I sit up, letting the sheet fall away from my breasts.
The collar gleams at my throat—I never take it off, even to sleep.
Especially not to sleep. The weight of it centers me, reminds me I'm his.
That I chose this. "Or maybe I'm just enjoying having your undivided attention. No missions. No emergencies. Just us."
"Finally," he murmurs, pulling me closer. "Feels like we've been running non-stop since—"
"Since the wedding." I touch the raised line on my abdomen where the bullet grazed me.
The corset Fitz had me wearing that day saved my life—the steel boning deflected the trajectory just enough to avoid any major damage.
Three inches to the left, and I'd have been dead before I hit the ground.
"When I got shot protecting Julia from her psychotic husband. "
The memory makes him grimace. "Not my favorite day."
"But I survived. And the scar is actually kind of badass." I trace the raised tissue. "Lily says it makes me look dangerous."
"You are dangerous," Fitz mutters, his hand covering mine over the scar. His fingers are warm, protective. "Just not always to the right people."
"Don't remind me how close I came to losing you." He pulls me down for a kiss that's equal parts tender and possessive, his tongue sliding against mine until I'm breathless. "And don't think I've forgotten that you deliberately put yourself in danger, which we've discussed at length."
"Discussed. That's a nice word for it." I remember that discussion vividly.
My ass remembers it even more vividly. He'd taken me over his knee in the club's private room, made sure every member within earshot knew exactly what happened to subs who endangered themselves.
Three days before I could sit comfortably.
"I seem to recall you being very... thorough in your displeasure. "
"And yet here you are, still inclined toward reckless behavior." Fingers wind through my hair until they reach my scalp. He tugs, just enough to make me gasp. "Which is why keeping you isolated in the Swiss Alps for a week seemed like a good idea."
"No rescues to mount. No club drama. No Cerberus missions." I tick them off on my fingers, though the hair-pulling makes it difficult to concentrate. "Just us, snow, and—" My stomach growls loudly, betraying me. "Apparently, breakfast."
Fitz laughs, the sound rich and warm, and releases my hair. "I'll order room service. What do you want?"
"Everything. I'm starving." I slide out of bed, padding naked to the window. The floor's cold against my feet, but the view makes it worth it. Endless peaks, pristine snow, and far below, tiny figures in bright colors carve paths through white. "It's beautiful here."
"Not as beautiful as you."
I roll my eyes but can't stop the smile. "You're getting sappy in your old age, Fitzwallace."
"I'll show you how a sappy, old man handles a sassy smart-mouthed wife in need of a little reminder regarding who is dominant and who is submissive.
" He stalks toward me, all coiled muscle and intent.
Still, every time feels like the first. "I was planning to let you shower first, but plans change. "
"Fitz! Put me down!" I'm laughing even as I protest when he tosses me over his shoulder, my ass in the air, completely vulnerable. Blood rushes to my head, and I pound his back with my fists. "I take it back! You're not old at all!"
"Too late, love. You've questioned my virility."
He carries me to the bathroom—which is almost as large as our bedroom at home, all marble and chrome and ridiculous luxury—and sets me on my feet in the enormous shower. The tile chills my skin, makes goosebumps rise.
"Stay," he commands, and something in his voice shifts. Not playful anymore. Pure dominance.
The command makes me still instantly, even as heat pools between my legs. He turns on the water, adjusting the temperature with care, and the multiple shower heads create a curtain of steam around us. Water pounds against my skin, hot enough to sting.
"Hands on the wall," he orders, his voice dropping into that register that makes me melt. The one that reminds me he commanded soldiers, led men into combat, made life-and-death decisions without hesitation. "Legs spread. Arch your back."
I comply, presenting myself to him, water cascading over my skin. The steam makes it hard to see, but I can hear him moving behind me. Anticipation coils in my belly.
Then his hand connects with my ass—not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough to make me gasp. Enough to remind me exactly what I am to him.
"This ass belongs to me." Smack. The sound echoes off marble. "This pussy belongs to me." His hand slides between my legs, finding me already wet. Not just from the water. "Everything belongs to me. Don't you forget it."
"Yes, Sir," I breathe, pushing back against his touch. Need more. Always need more from him.
"Good girl." He rewards me by sliding two fingers inside me, curling them just right to hit that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. "You're always so responsive for me. So eager to please."
"Because you make it so easy," I manage, though coherent thought is becoming difficult. His thumb brushes my clit, and I nearly lose my balance. "Because you know exactly what I need."
"I do, don't I?" His thumb finds my clit properly now, circling it with maddening precision. He's learned my body, knows exactly what makes me come apart. "And right now, what you need is to come on my fingers before I fuck you against this wall."
I'm already close, my body primed from last night and this morning's teasing. His fingers work inside me with practiced skill, his thumb maintaining that pressure, and I feel the orgasm building at the base of my spine. Heat spreads through my core, muscles tightening.
"That's it, love. Let go. Come for me."
I shatter, crying out his name, my legs shaking with the force of it. Only his arm around my waist keeps me upright. He keeps touching me through it, drawing it out until I'm boneless and gasping, until I'm whimpering from oversensitivity.
Then he spins me around to face him, and I barely have time to process before he's lifting me, my back against the cool tile, my legs wrapped around his waist. His cock finds my entrance, and he slides home in one smooth thrust that steals what's left of my breath.
"Fuck," he groans against my neck, teeth scraping skin. "You feel incredible."
"More," I demand, digging my nails into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. "Harder."
He gives me what I ask for, pounding into me with controlled fury, and I can already feel another orgasm building.
Water streams over us, steam rising, and there's nothing in the world but Fitz and the pleasure he gives me.
The stretch and burn, the perfect angle, the way his pelvis grinds against my clit with every thrust.
"Come again," he commands, and my body obeys without hesitation, clenching around him as I cry out. He follows me over the edge with a roar, spending himself inside me, his fingers bruising my hips.
We stay like that for a long moment, both breathing hard, letting the water wash over us. My heart hammers against my ribs. His forehead rests on my shoulder, breath hot against wet skin.
Finally, he sets me down gently, making sure my legs will hold me before releasing his grip.
"Now," he says, sounding entirely too pleased with himself, "let's actually get clean before breakfast arrives."
An hour later, I'm wrapped in the world's softest bathrobe, sitting on the balcony despite the cold, watching skiers on the slopes below.
My hair's still damp, curling at the ends.
The hot tub bubbles invitingly beside me, but I'm content just to sit and breathe the crisp mountain air.
Fresh snow, pine trees, and something clean that you can't find in London.
Fitz is on the phone in the bedroom—I can hear the rumble of his voice but not the words. So much for no work calls. I should be annoyed, but I know him well enough to know he needs to check in with his team. It's who he is. The man who can't fully relax because too many people depend on him.
Breakfast sits on the table beside me. Pastries, fruit, cheese, coffee that smells like heaven. I'm working my way through a chocolate croissant when he joins me on the balcony, frowning at his phone.
"Problem?" I ask, though I can already tell the answer. His jaw's set in that way that means he's processing threat assessment.
"Sawyer's concerned about increased chatter regarding a high-value target." He sits beside me, pulling me into his lap despite the chair not really being big enough for both of us. I end up half on him, half on the armrest. "Nothing concrete. Just... noise."
"And you're wondering if we should cut our holiday short."