Chapter 3
SARAH
Micah's back and everything’s changed. His apartment surprises me.
It's smaller than I expected, cleaner too.
There's no clutter, just minimal furniture, everything positioned with the same efficiency he applies to operational planning.
A couch that looks rarely used. A coffee table with nothing on it.
The kitchen is visible through an archway, counters bare except for a coffee maker that's clearly seen heavy use.
I stand in the middle of his living room while he locks the door behind us, suddenly aware that we crossed a line by coming here instead of meeting at another anonymous restaurant.
This is his space, his private territory, and he's letting me in—a time and place where we don't have to pretend this is casual.
"Coffee?" he asks.
"Sure."
He moves through the kitchen, pulling mugs from a cabinet, measuring grounds with the same precision he probably uses to assemble weapons.
No more of the dance we were doing. No more stealing hours between my briefings and his training cycles, never quite admitting what we both knew was happening.
The classified work keeps us in separate worlds most of the time, but this weekend our operational timelines finally aligned.
He's between assignments. I have two days before I'm back at Fort Meade analyzing intercept patterns.
He hands me coffee, black the way I take it, and our fingers brush in the exchange. The same jolt of electricity I felt at the gun range, in restaurants across the DC metro area, every time we've been close enough to touch.
"You're thinking too hard," Micah says.
"Occupational hazard."
"Turn it off for a minute."
I take a sip of coffee that's stronger than it needs to be, buying myself time. "I don't know if I can."
"Try."
He's watching me with that focused intensity I've seen during briefings when he's cataloging tactical details, except now it's aimed at me and I'm not sure what he sees.
An analyst who spends her days tracking signal patterns and building probability models.
Someone used to finding answers in data streams, not navigating the messy unpredictability of want and need and the risk of letting someone in.
"We've been dancing around this for a while," I say finally.
"Yeah."
"And you're deploying again, soon."
"Couple of weeks."
"Extended timeline. Deep cover." I set my coffee down on his spotless counter. "Months where I won't hear from you."
Micah moves closer, eliminating the careful distance we've maintained. "Will it bother you?"
"Yes."
"Good."
I look up at him. "Good?"
"Means you care." He reaches up, tucks my hair behind my ear the way he has a dozen times, except now we're alone in his apartment with nothing between us but truth. "I care too, Sarah. More than I should."
My breath catches. "Micah—"
"I know all the reasons this is complicated." His hand slides from my hair to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "Different agencies. Operational security. My deployment schedule. Your career trajectory. I know."
"But?"
"But I'm tired of being careful."
He kisses me before I can respond, and it's different from the gun range. No public space keeping us measured. No need to pull back before someone notices. Just heat and want, months of tension finally burning free.
I kiss him back, hands fisting in his shirt, and he makes a low sound in his chest that shoots straight through me. His other hand finds my waist, pulling me closer until I'm pressed against him and I can feel exactly how much he wants this.
When we finally break apart, our breathing comes in ragged gasps.
"Bedroom," I manage.
"You sure?"
"Yes."
He takes my hand and leads me down a short hallway to a room as spartan as the rest of his apartment. A bed with military corners. A nightstand with nothing on it. A window with blackout curtains that block the city lights.
I turn to face him in the dimness, suddenly nervous in a way I haven't been since I was too young to know better. This matters. He matters. And I'm about to cross a line we can't uncross.
Micah seems to sense my hesitation because he stops, hands gentle at my waist. "We don't have to—"
"I want to." I reach up, frame his face with both hands. "I'm just scared."
"Of me?"
"Of how much I want this." Truth tastes like fear and hope mixed together. "Of what happens when you leave again and I'm waiting for you to come back."
"Sarah." He leans his forehead against mine. "I can't promise it'll ever be easy. I can't promise I won't deploy into situations where anything could happen. But I can promise I'll do everything possible to make it back to you."
"That might not be enough."
"I know." His grip tightens at my waist. "But it's all I've got."
I kiss him again, decision made. We can figure out the rest later. Right now I want this, want him, want to stop being careful and see what happens when we finally let go.
Micah responds immediately, deepening the kiss while his hands slide under my shirt.
His palms are rough against my skin, callused from weapons training and tactical work, and I arch into the touch.
He breaks the kiss long enough to pull my shirt over my head, then his follows, and I get my first real look at what I've only glimpsed in training photos.
Scars cover his torso—more than I expected, some old and faded, others relatively new. A bullet wound on his left shoulder. What looks like a knife slash across his ribs.
I trace the scar on his shoulder with tentative fingers. "Prague?"
"Tehran. Different op." He catches my hand, brings it to his mouth, presses a kiss to my palm. "You don't have to—"
"I want to know." I meet his gaze. "All of it. Everything you can tell me."
"Later." He guides me backward toward the bed. "Right now I want you."
We fall onto the mattress together, a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses. I work his belt buckle while he deals with my bra, both of us moving with more urgency than grace. When we're finally skin to skin, he pauses.
"I need you to know something," Micah says, voice rough. "I'm clean. Got tested after my last deployment. But I don't have—" He stops, jaw tight. "I don't keep condoms here."
"You don't bring people here."
"No."
"Only me."
"Only you." His thumb traces my jawline. "But if you want to wait, if you want me to go get—"
"I'm clean too," I interrupt. "And I have an IUD. Have had one for years." I pull him closer. "I don't want to wait, Micah. I want you. Now."
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. "You're sure."
"Very."
He kisses me again, slower this time, taking his time exploring my mouth while his hands map the rest of me. When he moves lower, trailing kisses down my throat to my collarbone, I arch into the sensation.
"Tell me what you want," he murmurs against my skin.
"This. You."
"More specific." His mouth finds my breast, tongue circling my nipple. "Show me, Sarah."
The analytical part of my brain that catalogs patterns and builds probability models shorts out completely. "I don't know. I've never—" I stop, suddenly embarrassed.
Micah lifts his head, eyes dark. "Never what?"
"Been with someone who asked." I force myself to meet his gaze. "Most guys don't."
"I'm not most guys." His hand slides lower, between my thighs, and I gasp. "And I want to know exactly what makes you come apart."
He touches me with the same focused intensity he applies to everything, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me arch, what makes coherent thought impossible.
His fingers slide through my wetness, circling and teasing until I'm writhing beneath him.
When he moves lower still and settles between my legs, I try to pull him back up.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." He presses a kiss to my inner thigh, then higher. "Let me taste you."
Any protest I might have made dies when his mouth finds me, tongue sliding through my folds with deliberate precision.
He's methodical about it, paying attention to what makes me moan, what makes my fingers tangle in his hair, what makes my hips buck against his mouth.
When he seals his lips around my clit and sucks, I nearly come apart right there.
The man who plans tactical operations with ruthless efficiency is applying the same approach to taking me apart with his tongue, and I'm helpless against it.
When I finally come, trembling and gasping beneath him, my thighs clenching around his head, my entire body goes boneless.
Micah moves back up, kissing me so I can taste myself on his mouth—salt and sex and something uniquely mine. "Not done with you yet." He positions himself between my legs, and I feel the thick head of his cock pressing against my entrance. "Still okay?"
"More than okay."
He pushes inside slowly, giving me time to adjust, and the sensation of being filled by him—stretched and full and complete—is almost overwhelming. I wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him deeper until he's buried to the hilt, and he groans against my neck.
"Sarah." My name sounds like a prayer and a curse. "You feel incredible. So fucking tight."
We move together, finding a rhythm that's both familiar and brand new.
He's not gentle, exactly, but he's careful in a way that tells me he's paying attention to every response.
When I shift my hips and gasp at the angle, he adjusts immediately, driving deeper, hitting that spot again and again until I'm clinging to his shoulders and begging.
"That's it." His voice is rough in my ear, hips snapping harder. "I've got you. Take it."
The coil of tension winds tighter with each thrust. I can feel every inch of him, the drag and slide, the way he fills me completely. When he reaches between us and finds my clit with his thumb, circling in rhythm with his thrusts, I shatter.