THIS IS US
Sara
There is a strange kind of energy in the room. The plates are cleared. Cash washed, I dried, and Chris restored every dish with soldier-level precision, because apparently even assassins insist on kitchen order.
I sometimes forget what they are, what they do. They don’t bring it up around me, not even when there are guns involved, or maybe I’m choosing to ignore it.
This place gave me the comfort and safety I never expected. I know it won’t last much longer. So I hold on to what I can, every moment, every touch, every connection. Even if it leaves a mark.
Chris wipes his hands on a towel, takes a last look around, then glances my way. “I’ve got a few things to wrap up upstairs. Route planning, timing, and other stuff.”
Other stuff. His next job. He says it as if it’s nothing more than checking the weather.
I nod, pushing away thoughts of what that implies.
As he passes behind me, he squeezes my shoulders comfortingly and whispers a “good night” into my hair.
Chris anchors me. Cash tilts the ground beneath my feet, and somehow, I desire both.
After Chris’s footsteps fade overhead, Cash’s gaze settles on me. My skin prickles, like my whole body knows he’s watching.
I turn to see his mouth tilted in a half-smile, but there’s a question lingering in his eyes.
A strange flutter rises in my stomach.
“It seems,” he says slowly, “we have the couch to ourselves tonight.”
My blood is too hot in my veins. The thought of what I agreed to sends a jolt of reckless energy through me. “You two talked about tonight, didn’t you?”
He doesn’t dodge it. “Yeah, we did.” He sets two glasses on the table and pours a splash of whiskey into each. “There are no secrets between us. He's okay with this, Sara.”
It’s strange that I’m allowed to want this, to want both of them, and to be wanted back without repercussions, without being turned into a problem someone needs to fix.
Here, in this space they created, my want is the starting point, something to be met.
For the first time, I don’t feel like I’m performing.
I feel like I’m finally, truly being seen.
Eyeing the amber liquid, I make it sound playful. “Trying to get me drunk?”
He tips the glass toward me, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Not drunk. Relaxed.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“I’d rather you be a little tipsy than terrified,” he adds without a trace of humor.
“I wouldn’t be,” I blurt out too fast, the lie bitter enough to taste.
I’m about to cross a line I’ve never even been close to, giving him a part of my body that has always been, by definition, an exit only.
It’s not just letting someone inside you.
It’s letting them into a place that is so private, so fundamentally mine, that the idea of it being breached by another person, by him, scares me.
What if it hurts? What if I hate it? I want it to be good for us both, and I’m worried I’ll be a disappointment, as usual.
Cash doesn’t argue. He sips his whiskey and watches me over the rim as I sit down, reaching for my glass. He knows better.
My consent feels like a distant, abstract concept.
Underneath the fear, a tiny spark of curiosity stops me from backing out.
The whiskey helps too, its warmth blurring the edges of my nerves, giving my voice the steadiness to ask, “Are you going to tie me up?” The question slips out smaller than I intended. I’m not sure which answer I want.
Cash reaches across the table and takes my hand, his thumb stroking across my knuckles. His eyes hold mine. “No,” he says gently. “Not tonight. We’ll work up to it. Trust me, okay?”
I nod and take a sip of the whiskey, barely reacting to the burn.
“So, we’re staying down here?” I ask, my words laced with uncertainty.
“Yes,” he says, smiling affectionately. “I think the couch suits us better. Fire’s going. That’s us.”
The answer sets me at ease. He’s right. The living room and the memory of yesterday fit. It’s ours.
He keeps my hand in his while the other is occupied with the whiskey. The rhythm of my pulse thrums against his fingertips.
When our glasses are empty, he stands. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Everything inside me is light, too light, like I might float or fall, or both.
He stops in front of the flames and turns to me, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. His kiss is slow and tender and quiets the storm within me. There’s no rush, no urgency. As if we had all the time in the world.
His hands trace the hem of my top, grasp it at the sides and lift it over my head. My hair falls down my back as the fabric hits the floor.
I follow his lead with his shirt, but it rides high and I can’t pull it over him.
He helps, tugging it free, and it joins mine.
I can’t get used to how unreal he looks.
My hands press to his chest, sliding lower over the hard ridges of muscle, following the lines of the ornate patterns of his tattoos, taking in every inch.
“Pull my sweats down,” he coaxes when my eyes finally lift back to his.
My fingers tremble as I reach for the waistband.
I ease them down, keeping my focus on his face, not brave enough to look anywhere else.
The intensity of his stare sears into me, as if he can see right into my soul.
He steps out of his pants, completely bare now.
His erection brushes against my belly as he draws me back into his arms.
There’s restraint in how his mouth meets mine, a deliberate softness that speaks of patience and intention. Skin to skin, I melt into him, hands roaming his back. His palms trail down my sides before sliding my leggings away, leaving me exposed in front of him.
He steps back slightly, his eyes sweeping over me. Pure appreciation shines in his gaze. “You’re insanely gorgeous,” he murmurs. His hands glide over my arms, a ghost of a touch, leaving goosebumps in their trail.
I lower my head, my shy smile disappearing as I glance away.
His palms cup my face, thumbs moving along my jaw as if trying to memorize the shape. “Don’t worry, I’ll fit.”
Another kiss, more intense now. He takes my wrists and places them at his neck. “Hold on,” he says, and lifts me with effortless strength, arms hooking under my thighs as though I weigh nothing. He carries me to the couch and sits, settling me across his lap so I straddle him.
The fire flickers at our side, the world narrowing to the feel of him beneath me and the way he holds me.
His kisses grow more urgent, his hand cradling my nape, keeping me close with a steadily growing need. The other holds me firmly at the small of my back, keeping me pressed to him. Heat rolls off him, the intensity of his desire, and a pulsing need deep inside me answers.
His hand drifts lower, sliding between my thighs with mindful care. I tense at the shift, but his touch stays gentle. He’s tracing a new path, fingers slick with my arousal, spreading it with a tenderness gripping my lungs. A sound escapes my mouth, torn between uncertainty and wanting.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, his voice low and reassuring. “Let me in.”
I pull in a shaky gasp as he eases a finger into the most private part of me.
The pressure is strange, new, but his patience is soothing.
He moves so carefully it almost calms me, each stroke coaxing my body to soften around the sensation.
The unfamiliarity begins to change, teetering toward pleasure.
“Just like that,” he whispers. “You’re perfect.”
The nerves haven’t gone away. I’m unsure of what’s ahead, but I don’t want him to stop.
He reaches under the blanket next to us, and a plastic cap pops open. “This will make it easier.”
Liquid drips between my cheeks from the bottle he’s holding. He smears it further down and slides a second finger in. The pain ebbs as I settle into the stretch. Then he rubs his fingers against each other. I can hardly contain myself and push back against his hand.
“Ready for more?” The question is a hush between us.
I nod vigorously.
He shifts, guiding me with a touch that’s firm but never forceful. He presses against me, exposing how thick, how hot he is. “Take your time,” he says softly. “Move down on me when you’re ready.”
I lower myself inch by inch. A pressure blooms, more burn than pleasure, and I wince before I can stop it.
Cash’s grip settles more firmly at my hips, his gaze locked on mine. “I know,” he murmurs. “It’s intense. Take it slow. Let your body adjust.” Beads of sweat form on his forehead.
I sink onto him further, my trust in him stronger than my fear. It’s almost too much, the pressure, the ache, but I stay with it.
“That’s it,” he rasps, a mix of control and awe.
His touch is encouraging, his voice an anchor in the torrent of sensations. I take him deeper. Each breath eases the tension, each shift of my hips bringing him further inside until finally, completely, he fills me.
“There you go,” he says, satisfaction threaded with tenderness. He exhales like he’s been holding it for ages. “You feel amazing.”
The ache subsides. I am held. I am cherished. Every touch is care wrapped around me.
“Trust me enough to let me take over?” Cash’s voice is laced with certainty and intent.
“Okay,” I manage, and he moves us with ease, rolling me beneath him. His weight settles over me, his body covering mine.
“You don’t need to think right now,” he murmurs near my ear. “Just feel.”
So I let go. I stop trying to anticipate. I surrender to the way he moves, how each motion of his hips redefines my limits, pushing me to experience depths I never knew existed. His touch is sure, guiding me past hesitation into pure passion.
His hand slides between us, thumb finding that sensitive spot, circling with precision.
The jolt of sensation pulls a moan from me, my body arching toward him.
His thumb matches the rhythm of his thrusts, the pleasure intensifying.
I'm lost in the sensations, the way he's taking me to new heights, a force building deep in my core.
“Come for me, Sara,” he urges, voice rough with restraint. “Let me feel you come around me.”
The command unravels me as I crush into a thick wall of pleasure. I cry out, clinging to him, lost in the light and the heat and the way he holds me through the storm.
He tenses, his rhythm faltering into urgency. His breath turns ragged, and with one deep thrust he follows me over the edge, shuddering as his own release tears through him.
“That’s my girl.” His voice is husky with contentment and affection, lips brushing my temple as we both ride out the waves of our climax.
Our bodies stay entwined as the pounding in our chests levels out. Our skin is damp with sweat and warmth. He gathers me into his arms, holding me close with a devotion meant only for me, as if the world has collapsed into this single moment.
“You’re incredible,” he praises, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “That was everything.”
This isn’t just a moment. His arms wrap more firmly around me. This is us.