Chapter 20
ARCHER
Iguide her back down onto the pillows, positioning her exactly where I want her with practiced efficiency. Her injured shoulder needs support, and I arrange pillows with the same attention to detail I'd use checking weapons before a mission. Because she matters more than any mission ever has.
I retrieve the silk rope from the nightstand. She watches without hesitation as I bind her good wrist to the headboard, knots firm, secure, never painful. The arm with the injured shoulder remains free, placed exactly where it won’t strain.
When I settle beside her, my hand traces down her sternum, slow and possessive.
She took control because I let her.
She’s mine now because she chose this.
And I’m going to remind her exactly how safe that choice was.
"I'm going to worship every inch of you," I say, mouth following the path my fingers traced. "Going to reclaim every part of you. Going to make you remember exactly who you belong to."
"You," she breathes. "I belong to you."
"Say it again."
"I belong to you, Sir."
"That's my girl."
I take my time, mapping her body with hands and mouth and teeth.
My palms are rough against her skin, callused from years of weapons training, and I feel her shiver beneath my touch.
I start at her collarbone, tongue tracing the line of bone before teeth scrape just hard enough to make her gasp.
Every touch is intentional. Every kiss claims. Every bite leaves marks that declare possession—my mouth working down her sternum, across her ribs, teeth closing on the curve of her hip hard enough that she'll see the bruise tomorrow and remember who put it there.
I'm mindful of her injured shoulder, keeping her body positioned so there's no strain, but the rest of her is fair territory for my worship.
When my mouth closes over her nipple, sucking hard while my hand works the other, she arches into the sensation despite the restraint holding her wrist. I can feel heat building in her body, building with every pull of my mouth, every roll of my fingers.
"Beautiful," I murmur against her skin. "So fucking responsive for me."
When I kiss lower, moving down her stomach with agonizing slowness, her thighs fall open without conscious thought.
I settle between her legs, and the first stroke of my tongue makes her cry out.
The sound goes straight to my cock, but I ignore my own need.
This is about her. About reclaiming what doubt tried to poison.
I explore her like I'm learning every nerve ending, tongue circling her clit with maddening precision before sliding lower to taste her fully. She's wet and ready, and the taste of her on my tongue is addictive.
"Archer," she gasps, pulling against the silk binding. "Please."
I look up at her from between her thighs, and the sight of her—flushed, desperate, completely at my mercy—makes satisfaction surge through me. "You taste like mine," I say, and then my mouth is on her again, tongue working in slow deliberate strokes.
Pleasure builds in her with agonizing slowness, and I read her body like a language only I know—backing off when her breathing changes, adding pressure when she starts to beg. I bring her to the edge and hold her there, watching her come undone beneath my mouth.
"Please," she sobs. "Archer, please, I need—"
I pull back just enough that she feels the loss of my mouth like physical pain. "You come when I give you permission. Not before. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Sir," she manages, and the submission in those words makes heat coil in my gut.
"Good girl." I return to my worship, and this time I'm relentless. Two fingers slide inside her while my tongue circles her clit, and the dual sensation makes her back bow off the mattress. I set a rhythm that's maddening—slow, deep thrusts of my fingers while my mouth works magic.
I bring her to the edge repeatedly, holding her there until she's shaking and begging incoherently, words dissolving into sounds that might be my name or pleas or both.
Only when she's completely undone, when surrender is absolute and walls are shattered, do I finally pull back and position myself above her.
I read her body—pupils blown, thighs trembling, breath coming in desperate gasps. She's green. I don't need to ask.
"I know what you need." I settle between her thighs, mindful of her shoulder, and the first press of my cock against her entrance makes us both groan. "I've got you. I've got you, love."
The word slips out before I can stop it, but I don't take it back. It's truth. She's love and need and everything I never knew I wanted.
I enter her with slow precision, giving her every inch with agonizing care.
The way she stretches around me, the heat of her body accepting mine, makes my vision blur at the edges.
I'm mindful of her shoulder, keeping my weight braced on my forearms, but there's nothing gentle about the way I claim her once I'm fully seated.
"Look at me," I order, and her eyes snap open to meet mine. "I want to see you when I make you come."
I move inside her with measured rhythm, building heat gradually, driving deeper with every thrust. The angle hits something perfect inside her, and I feel her clench around me involuntarily. My hand slides between us, finding her clit and circling with perfect pressure while I fill her completely.
The dual sensation pushes her higher, and I can see it in her eyes—pleasure building impossibly high, coiling tight until she's balanced on a knife's edge.
"Come for me," I order, voice rough with my own need. "Now, Marissa. Let me feel you."
She shatters beautifully. Her body clenches around me in waves, pulling me deeper, and the sound she makes is pure pleasure and surrender. I watch her come apart beneath me, and the sight of it—her eyes unfocused, her mouth open, her body trembling—pushes me over the edge.
My rhythm falters as I drive deep and hold there.
Her name falls from my lips like prayer and possession all at once, and my release tears through me with an intensity that leaves me shaking.
I feel myself pulse inside her, feel the shudder that runs through my entire body as I come apart above her.
Afterward, I release her wrist from the binding, checking for circulation with professional efficiency before gathering her into my arms. Her injured shoulder rests comfortably against pillows while I hold her, my hand moving through her hair in repetitive strokes.
"I love you." Simple. True. No hedging.
"I love you too."
"Good." I pull her closer. "Because you're mine now. All of you. We clear?"
"Crystal clear, Sir."
She falls asleep in my arms, and I watch her in the candlelight. No walls between us now. No doubt. Just Marissa breathing softly while the Mediterranean whispers beyond the windows.
Morning arrives with golden light and the sound of waves. I'm already awake, propped on my elbow, watching her sleep. The sunlight paints her skin in shades of gold and rose, and I trace the line of her body with reverent touch.
She stirs, eyes opening slowly. "Morning," she murmurs, stretching with care. "How long have you been awake?"
"Long enough to think about how you changed everything." My hand traces down her side, claiming and reverent all at once. "I was an eliminator. Good at killing. Better at staying alone. Then I found you in that villa, sent to kill you, and you made me want to be more than weapons and death."
"You made me want to be more than covers and performance," she counters. "Made me remember that Marissa exists beneath Nocturne."
"Marissa," I say, using the name. "Is that what you want to be called now?"
"Yes." The certainty in her voice is absolute. "Nocturne is the operative. Marissa is the woman. I want to be both, but I want you to know the difference."
"Marissa." I capture her jaw, forcing her eyes to mine. "Mine. Say it."
"Yours."
"That's right." My mouth claims hers with heat that's anything but gentle. "Don't forget it."
I settle back against the pillows, pulling her against my chest with care for her shoulder. The morning light paints golden stripes across the bed, and I can hear waves through the open window.
"I don't want to go back to solo operations," she admits. "Don't want to work alone again after this."
"Neither do I." I lace my fingers through hers. "I'm going to request partnership status with Cerberus. Official pairing. We work together going forward."
"You think Fitz will approve?"
"After Monaco?" I laugh, feeling the rumble in my chest. "We're more effective together than separate. He'd be stupid to split us up."
"Partners in everything," she says. "Professional and personal."
"Everything," I confirm. "No separation. No walls. Just us building something real."
She's about to respond when my phone buzzes on the nightstand. I reach for it, frowning at the screen. Fitz. At this hour. Never good news.
"Fitz," I say, voice shifting to operational mode. "What's wrong?"
"Situation in Prague," Fitz says without preamble. "Nitro needs backup. How fast can you and Nocturne get to Opus Noir?"
I glance at Marissa, who's already reading the situation in my expression. "Give us thirty minutes."
"Make it twenty. This is bad, Archer. Really bad."
"Understood. We'll be there soon."
I end the call and look at her. "Get dressed. We need to get to Opus Noir immediately."
"What happened?"
"Situation in Prague." I'm already moving, pulling on clothes with practiced efficiency. "Nitro needs backup. Fitz wants us ready to deploy."
Prague. Nitro. Backup required. The familiar adrenaline surge hits my system despite the morning-soft intimacy we just shared. This is who we are. What we do. Protectors and eliminators and everything in between.
She meets my gaze across the room. "You and me?"
"You and me," I say. "Every damn time."