Chapter 7 Nightingale
NIGHTINGALE
Tag’s arms tightened around me as I shifted against him, and he kissed my temple.
“Are you all right?” His voice was rough with concern. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” I said, though when I moved again, I couldn’t hide my wince. The truth was, my body ached in unfamiliar ways—a deep soreness between my legs, tender places where his mouth had been, muscles I’d never used before protesting new activity.
“Leila.” He shifted so he could see my face. “I should have been gentler. I should have—”
“You were perfect.” I touched his cheek. “It was perfect.”
His hand moved to my hip, not with desire this time but with care. “Give me a few minutes, then I’ll come get you.”
I sat up when he got out of bed. “Wait. Where are you going?”
“I’m going to run you a bath.”
I was about to protest, given how cold it was, then realized that sometime in the last hour, the heat must’ve kicked on. When he turned on the light, I knew the generator had too.
“Stay where you are, Nightingale.”
My heart lurched at his use of the code name I’d received from him, and while I waited for his return, I thought about that night.
It was the third week of training for the unit, and the focus was on communications when there were multiple assets to manage, each requiring a different accent, and sometimes a different persona.
I’d switched between a Russian arms dealer’s mistress, a frightened British tourist, an elderly Syrian grandmother, and a young French student, pushing myself to prove to him specifically that I’d not only get through the training, but I’d excel at it.
Afterwards, Tag had pulled me aside. “You sing in any voice needed,” he’d said, his expression as unreadable as ever. “Like a nightingale. In fact, that’s your code name.”
“Yeah?” I’d asked, trying to sound casual despite the way my pulse quickened at his approval.
“It suits you,” was all he’d said before turning away, leaving me with a memory more intimate than he’d probably intended. Or maybe that was my imagination, the same that had been reading too much into every word he said since we’d met.
“Come on,” he said, stepping out of the bathroom and over to the bed.
“Time for me to take care of you.” Before I could stand, Tag lifted me in his arms as if I weighed nothing.
I buried my face in his neck as he carried me to the oversized claw-foot tub and gently set me in it before climbing in behind me.
I sighed as the warm water enveloped me, easing the ache between my legs and soothing my muscles.
“Let me,” he said when I reached for the washcloth and soap.
His touch was infinitely gentle as he moved over my skin with reverent care. He washed my hair, massaging my scalp until I was nearly purring. When he helped me lean back to rinse, his hand supported me.
“Better?” he asked.
“Much.” I caught his hand, bringing it to my lips. “Thank you.”
“I’m not finished yet,” he said with a sly grin as he reached between my legs, parting my folds with soapy fingers. “Does this hurt?” he whispered.
I quivered when his thumb pressed against my clit. “Not at all,” I managed to say even as my brain struggled with remembering what words were.
“Come for me, Leila,” he murmured as his fingers worked their magic.
As if responding to his command, my body clenched, and pleasure like I’d never known until tonight seized every muscle.
“Breathe, love,” he said, trailing kisses down my neck, making me shudder all the more.
We sat in the warm water for a few more minutes, but when it cooled off, he shifted me forward.
“Stay here,” he said.
Tag returned with one of his shirts and a towel he’d warmed by the fire. He helped me from the bath and dried me off, patting me dry as if I were made of glass. The shirt was soft from wear and smelled like him.
“Sleepy?” he asked when I tried to hide my yawn.
“Aren’t you?”
He smirked. “Honestly?”
“Always.”
“I can’t imagine closing my eyes with you beside me, wearing nothing but my shirt.”
We crawled under the blankets, and soon, the shirt was on the floor and our naked bodies were once again pressed together.
“Teach me,” I said, shy as I reached for him.
He took my hand and wrapped it around his length. “You won’t break me, love,” he said, tightening my grip as he showed me how to move up and down. When he shuddered like I had in the bath and closed his eyes, I was more empowered than I had been when I was invited to officially join Unit 23.
“What did I do wrong?” I asked when he covered my hand, then removed it.
“Nothing, love, but when I come again, I want to be inside you.” He reached for a packet on the nightstand and opened it with his teeth.
“Can I help?” I asked.
He held out his palm, and I picked up the condom. “Put it on the tip, then roll it down,” he said, resting his arms at his sides.
“What if I don’t do it right?”
His eyes had drifted closed, but he opened one. “You’re doing it right, Leila. So right.”
When he smiled, I did too, and when he rolled me over, spread my legs with his knee, then pressed against me, I strained, trying to get nearer.
“So anxious,” he said, moving through my wetness.
“My God, that feels amazing,” I said, arching my back more as a reflex than anything intentional.
“You are amazing, sweet Leila.” His jaw tightened, and I watched, wanting to see—to remember—how he looked when he came.
After making love again the next morning, we lay in bed, both quiet after experiencing another mind-blowing climax.
“Hungry?” Tag asked.
“Ravenous.”
We made our way to the kitchen, where he insisted I sit while he prepared food. He moved around the space like he’d lived here all his life, scrambling eggs, toasting bread, and brewing tea.
“I used to imagine this,” I admitted. “You cooking for me. Us being domestic together.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah? What else did you imagine?”
Heat crept up my neck. “Things.”
“What kind of things?” He set a plate in front of me, then took the chair across from me. “Tell me.”
“Tag…”
“I want to know.” His foot found mine under the table. “I want to know everything you thought about. Everything you wanted.”
I took a bite of eggs to buy time, but he wouldn’t relent.
“I used to imagine you coming to Damascus and not leaving. Staying in my apartment. Waking up with you.”
“What else?”
“You touching me.” The words came out barely above a whisper. “I was in love with you,” I said quietly. “Even then.”
He froze. “Leila—”
“I know.” I forced a smile. “I don’t expect you to say it too. I know this is…whatever this is. But I wanted you to know.”
He stood abruptly, coming around the table to pull me to my feet.
His hands framed my face, and when he kissed me, it was with a tenderness that made my chest ache.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he said against my lips.
“Let me show you…let me…” He struggled for words, then gave up, kissing me again instead.
This time when we made love, he treated me like I was precious. He laid me out on the bed, worshiping every inch of my skin with his mouth, avoiding the places that were too sore. When I tried to reciprocate, he caught my hands.
“This is for you,” he said. “Let me give you this.”
He used his mouth and fingers to bring me to the edge over and over, easing off each time until I was begging, my mind blank from the intensity of it.
When he finally let me come, it was with his mouth on me, his fingers gentle inside me, and I shattered so completely I thought I might never find all the pieces again.
Afterwards, he held me, whispering soft words against my hair. “So beautiful. So perfect. Mine.”
“Yours,” I agreed, and he shuddered against me.
We dozed for a while, wrapped around each other. When I woke, gray light was filtering through the windows. The rain was still falling, but lighter now, less violent. The storm was breaking.
Tag was awake, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare shoulder.
“Morning,” he murmured.
“Is it?”
“I’ve no idea, to be honest. How are you?”
I took inventory. Sore in places, but not unbearably so.
“Good,” I said. “Really good.”
“Liar.” But he was smiling. “Stay here. I’ll run you another bath.”
“Stay with me instead.”
He didn’t need more invitation than that. We made love again, slow and tender as he watched for any sign of discomfort. There was some—I was too new at this for there not to be—but the pleasure far outweighed the pain.
“I could get used to this,” I said afterwards, sprawled across his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
His arms tightened around me, but he didn’t respond, and that should have been my first warning. Instead, I was too lost in the afterglow, too drunk on the sensation of finally having what I’d wanted for so long, to fret over the way he’d tensed at my words.
We stayed in bed a couple more hours, talking and touching.
He told me about his childhood at Glenshadow, about the cattle he raised, about his sister, who lived in Edinburgh, and his brother, who worked in Glasgow.
I told him about growing up as a diplomat’s daughter, about learning languages by necessity, about how lost I’d been after Idris died until Unit 23 gave me purpose again.
“I was terrified that first day,” I admitted. “When you and Typhon came to the funeral, it was as though you were cataloging my weaknesses.”
“We were,” he admitted. “As you know, it’s what we do. Assess threats, capabilities, weaknesses.”
“I was so afraid I’d fail.”
“You didn’t. In fact, you were magnificent.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “You still are.”
It was midafternoon when hunger finally drove us to the kitchen.
Tag insisted on making a late lunch while I showered.
The hot water stung in places that made me blush, remembering how they’d gotten so sensitive.
When I emerged, dressed in one of his shirts and a pair of leggings I’d found in my bag, the heat in his eyes had desire pooling between my legs again.
We were halfway through the meal when a knock came at the door.