Chapter 16 #2
She’s right, and we both know it. Every operation carries risk, every meeting with corrupt officials could be a trap, and every trip into hostile territory might be the last one.
I’ve survived this long through careful planning and superior firepower, but luck plays a role too, and luck eventually runs out for everyone in my business.
“I can’t guarantee your safety in Washington either. ”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to let me choose my own risks instead of having them chosen for me.”
The conversation has shifted from logistics to philosophy, from tactical considerations to questions about autonomy and partnership. She’s not just arguing about this specific trip but about the fundamental terms of our relationship going forward.
“If something happens to you because I brought you along, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“If something happens to you because I stayed behind, I’ll never forgive you either.”
We stare at each other across the small space between us, the tension thick and complicated.
This isn’t just about Washington or corrupt judges or federal investigations.
It’s about trust and control and what it means to be partners when one partner has spent years making life-or-death decisions alone.
“You’re incredibly stubborn.”
“So are you.”
The acknowledgment breaks something loose between us, diffusing the anger without resolving the underlying disagreement. We’re both right and both wrong, both trying to protect something that matters while ignoring valid concerns about methods and consequences.
“You’re not coming to Washington.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not.” I step closer, using my height to emphasize the point. “This isn’t a discussion, Celia. It’s too dangerous.”
“Everything is dangerous now.” She moves closer too, not backing down despite the intensity in my voice. “At least in Washington I’ll know what’s happening instead of sitting here wondering if you’re dead or captured.”
“You’ll be wondering that either way. The difference is that in Washington, you might end up dead or captured too.”
She shrugs. “So might you, but you’re still going.”
I huff out an angry breath. “It’s my job, my world, and my responsibility.”
“And I’m your partner, which makes it my responsibility too.”
The word partner carries deeper associations I’m not ready to accept. Partnership requires equality, shared decision-making, and mutual respect for each other’s judgment. What we have is protection and dependence, not partnership. “You’re under my protection. That’s not the same thing.”
“It should be.” Her voice carries frustration and something deeper. “I’m not a child or a possession, Yefrem. I’m a grown woman who helped you bury a federal agent and drove across the country to hide in your fortress. I’ve earned the right to make my own choices.”
I shake my head, balking. “Not when those choices could get you killed.”
“That’s my risk to take.”
We’re standing close enough now that I can feel her breath on my cheek when she speaks emphatically. The argument is making my pulse race, but not just from anger or frustration.
“It’s my risk too.”
The conviction in her voice startles me.
“You don’t understand what you’re asking.
” I touch her face, tracing the line of her cheek with my fingers.
The contact silences her argument, but it doesn’t resolve the tension between us.
If anything, it makes it more complicated.
“Why do you care so much about coming along?”
“Because waiting here, not knowing if you’re alive, will drive me insane.” Her voice drops to barely above a whisper. “Because I can’t lose you too.”
Too. The word is loaded like a shotgun. She’s already lost her home, her job, contact with her mother for months, her friends indefinitely, and everything in her normal life. The thought of losing me as well, of being left completely alone in a world she doesn’t understand, terrifies her.
“Celia…”
She steps close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her body. “I know this is complicated and you think I’m safer here, but I need to be with you, Yefrem. Not just protected by you.”
The distinction matters more than I want to admit. Protected suggests duty, obligation, and/or professional responsibility. With suggests choice, partnership, and something deeper than mere tactical considerations. “You’re asking me to risk everything that matters.”
“No.” She reaches up and touches my face the way I’m touching hers. “I’m asking you to let me choose my own risks instead of having them chosen for me.”
When she looks at me like that, with complete trust and something that looks dangerously close to deep affection, my carefully constructed arguments start to crumble.
This isn’t just about Washington or operational security.
It’s about what we mean to each other and what could build between us.
“I can’t guarantee your safety in Washington,” I whisper again.
“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to let me stand beside you instead of hiding behind you.”
The kiss happens without conscious decision.
One moment, we’re arguing about Washington and tactical considerations, and the next, my mouth is on hers as she’s pressing against me with desperate urgency.
She tastes like coffee and temptation. When she opens her mouth under mine, I lose track of every rational objection I’ve raised.
She fists her hands in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I back her against the wall beside her bedroom door.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. The argument about Washington seems distant now and less important than the heat building between us. “This doesn’t solve anything,” I murmur against her lips.
“It doesn’t have to.” She tugs at my shirt, pulling it free from my pants. “We can argue about Washington later.”
“Later.”
I capture her mouth again, deeper this time, tasting her thoroughly while I explore the curves of her body through her clothes. She feels perfect under my touch, soft and warm and completely focused on what’s happening between us.
Her fingers work at the buttons of my shirt with increasing urgency, and when she pushes the fabric off my shoulders, her hands immediately move to explore my chest. Her touch burns against my skin, tracing old scars with gentle curiosity.
“So many.” Her voice carries wonder rather than pity as she maps the evidence of my violent life. “Do they hurt?”
“Not anymore.” I catch her hands and press them flat against my chest. “Do they bother you?”
“No. They’re part of you.” She looks up at me with eyes that are dark with desire. “All of you.”
I reach for the hem of her sweater, and she raises her arms to let me pull it over her head. The sight of her in just a simple bra makes my mouth go dry, and when I trace the line of lace with my fingertip, she shivers and presses closer.
“Beautiful.”
“So are you.”
The compliment surprises me, but before I can respond, she’s kissing me again, her mouth hungry and demanding. I walk her backward toward the bed, taking my time with each step, each touch, and each kiss that makes her breath catch.
When the backs of her legs hit the mattress, she sits down and looks up at me with complete trust and desire. Her hands move to my belt, and I let her undo it slowly, enjoying the way her fingers brush against my stomach. “Tell me what you want.”
“You.” The simple word carries everything I need to hear. “All of you.”
I kneel between her legs and reach behind her to unclasp her bra, letting it fall away to reveal breasts that are still perfect in my hands. When I lean down to take one nipple in my mouth, she arches against me with a gasp that goes straight to my cock.
“Yefrem.”
I love the way she says my name, breathless and wanting. I work my way across her chest, using my mouth and teeth to find the spots that make her fingers tighten in my hair and soft sounds escape her throat.
Her jeans follow her bra, along with the simple cotton underwear I remove with reverent care.
The white fabric is translucent over her wet pussy, revealing every detail as I carefully peel them away.
When she’s completely naked beneath me, I take a moment to appreciate the sight.
Long legs, soft curves, skin that glows in the lamplight, and a shy clit peeking out her puffed lips.
“What are you thinking?” she asks.
I look from her pussy to her gaze. “That you’re perfect. I want to memorize every inch of you.”
“Then do it.”
I start with her feet, kissing and caressing my way up her legs while she watches with eyes that grow darker with each touch. When I reach the sensitive spot behind her knee, she gasps and tries to pull me higher.
I resist. “Not yet. Let me worship you properly.”
I take my time with her thighs, discovering that she’s ticklish on the inside and sensitive just below her hip bone. By the time I reach her pussy, she’s trembling with need.
“Please.” She practically whimpers the word.
I smile slowly. “Please what?”
“Touch me. Taste me. I need?—”
I silence her with my mouth, using my tongue to explore her slit. She tastes like salt and sweetness and I can’t get enough. I lick and lap at her sheath and clit, tracing my tongue up and down her. The sounds she makes when I find her most sensitive spots make me harder than I’ve ever been.
I build her pleasure slowly, learning what makes her arch off the bed, what makes her cry out my name, and what makes her thighs tremble around my head.
When she’s close to the edge, I pull back, earning a frustrated whimper.
I give her a look of sympathy. “Not yet. I want to feel how tight you are when come on my cock.”
I remove the last of my clothes and position myself above her, supporting my weight on my forearms so I can watch her face.
Grasping the base of my shaft, I run the head down her slick slit, making both of us gasp, before finding her opening.
When I push inside her slowly, savoring every inch, her eyelids flutter closed and her mouth opens in a silent gasp.
“Look at me.”
She opens her eyes, and I see everything there—desire, trust, and something deeper that makes my heart ache. This isn’t just physical release or temporary comfort. This is genuine connection that’s real and profound and terrifying in its different degrees.
We move together with increasing urgency, finding a rhythm that builds toward something inevitable.
I watch her face, memorizing every expression, every sound, and every sign that she’s climbing toward the edge of control.
Thrusting harder and deeper into her, I reach between us to stroke her clit, keeping my hips ever moving.
“Come for me,” I whisper. “Let me feel you.” As I say that, I gently pinch her clit, applying a touch of pain with the pleasurable pressure that makes her stiffen, and her eyes widen.
She comes hard, arching beneath me with a cry that she muffles against my shoulder.
The feeling of her sheath contracting around my cock and the way she says my name like it’s the only word that matters pushes me over the edge, and I follow her with a groan that carries everything I can’t say out loud, spilling my seed inside her.
Afterward, we lie tangled together in the lamplight, her head on my chest while I stroke her hair. The argument about Washington seems distant now and far less important than the connection we’ve just deepened.