CHAPTER 15 #2
I shouldn't want this right now. I should be calling Sven.
I should be planning the retaliation hit.
But I can't look away from her. I tape the final piece of gauze over the clean wound.
The bandage is neat, white, professional.
My hands linger on her skin, palms flat against her bare shoulders.
I stay right there on my knees between her legs, looking up at her with a hunger that has nothing to do with the hit we just survived.
My fingers trace the edge of the bandage, light as a feather. "There. All patched up." I let my eyes drag up to her mouth. "You saved my life today. Do you think that makes us even?"
She’s waiting for me to strike. Or to kiss her. I can’t tell which one she wants more. Her pupils dilate, swallowing the dark brown of her irises, and her mouth parts slightly, her breath hitching in a rhythmic, controlled pattern.
I stand up, but I don't step back. I wedge myself fully between her knees, forcing her legs wider apart until my hips are flush against the edge of the tub.
I place my hands on the marble on either side of her thighs, caging her completely.
The air between us is thick with the scent of cordite, sweat, and the raw, unwashed reality of our survival.
My belt buckle clinks against the edge of the tub, a sharp, metallic sound that makes her eyes jump down and back up.
"You’re not going anywhere, Alessia," I tell her, my voice dropping to a rough growl. "The adrenaline is a hell of a drug, isn't it?"
She leans forward slightly, her forehead almost touching my chest. I reach out and wipe a smudge of blood from her lower lip with my thumb, feeling the soft dampness of her mouth.
"You looked like you belonged at my side," I say, rewriting her entire fucking morality right here in the bathroom. "The FBI wouldn't know what to do with a woman like you. But I do."
I’m going to ruin her. I’m going to make her forget she ever carried a badge.
The tension snaps violently. Alessia reaches out, her fingers tangling deep into the front of my blood-stained shirt.
She pulls me down by my collar with a desperate, angry strength.
My watch scrapes hard against her collarbone as I grab the back of her head.
I don't resist. I lunge forward, my mouth seeking hers like she’s the only oxygen left in the room.
"Finally," I groan against her lips.
"Don't you dare stop," she breathes back, right before our teeth clash.
My mouth is a hammer, crushing against hers.
I taste the iron of blood and the salt of her sweat.
I grip her jaw with one hand, squeezing just enough to force her mouth open so I can dominate her completely.
My other hand is buried in her hair, pulling the strands back to expose her throat, making her gasp into my mouth.
My knee hits the side of the tub with a dull thud, but I don't fucking flinch.
"Give me everything," I demand against her wet lips. "You’re mine. Do you hear me?"
She isn't a passive participant. She’s a goddamn aggressor.
Her good hand claws at my shoulders, her nails digging right through the expensive fabric of my shirt.
Her heavy, tactical boot scuffs the marble as she tries to pull her body closer to mine, seeking the same grounding reality I am.
Her movements are frantic, driven by the lingering cortisol and the absolute terror of the last hour.
"More. Fuck, Leon, more," she begs, her voice ragged. "Don't be gentle."
I strip the remains of her clothing with ruthless efficiency.
The ruined jacket is tossed over my shoulder.
I grab the hem of her shirt and pull it over her head, ignoring the tearing seams. A button from her shirt pings off the mirror, a sharp, tiny sound that gets lost in the heavy sound of our breathing.
I don't look away from her eyes as I expose her.
I want her to feel the weight of my gaze. The absolute, undeniable ownership.
"Beautiful," I mutter, staring at her chest heaving under the harsh vanity lights. "Even with the bruises." I drag my thumb down her sternum. "Look at what they almost took."
I shed my own shirt, ripping the buttons free, the fabric damp with my own sweat.
I toss it to the floor. Alessia’s eyes travel over the scars crisscrossing my chest, the heavy muscle, the dark hair.
She reaches out, her palm slapping flat against my pec.
She feels the frantic, heavy thud of my heart.
She traces a long, silver scar on my ribs with her index finger, cataloging me.
"You’re still here," she whispers.
"So are you."
I grip her waist and lift her straight off the tub.
Her legs instinctively wrap around my waist, locking tight.
I carry her the two steps to the massive glass shower enclosure and pin her back against it.
The cold glass against her bare back makes her gasp, her spine arching.
The shower door rattles violently in its frame under our combined weight.
"Hold onto me," I order her. "I'm not letting you go."
I bury my face in the crook of her neck. My breath fogs the glass right next to her ear as my voice drops into a dark, velvet weapon. I whisper exactly what I’m going to do to her. I praise her lethality. I tell her that her gun was just an extension of my own hand today.
"You were so fucking brave for me," I murmur, kissing down her jawline. "Tell me you liked the feeling of the recoil. Tell me you liked watching them drop."
I’m seducing the agent right out of her fucking soul.