Chapter 20
SARAH
"Sarah." My name on his lips sounds like a prayer and a promise. He pulls back enough to look at me, water still dripping from his hair onto my skin. "Tell me you want this."
"I want this." The words come out breathless. "I want you."
He kisses me again, slower this time, thorough, and then his mouth moves down my neck, across my collarbone, lower. When he takes my nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing before he soothes with his tongue, I gasp, hands gripping the sheets beneath me.
He works his way down my body with deliberate intent, kissing and tasting, learning every response. His mouth trails over my ribs, my stomach, the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. By the time his shoulders press my thighs wider, I'm already trembling, already so wet I can feel it.
The first touch of his tongue has me arching off the bed.
He knows exactly what he's doing, broad strokes that pull his name from my lips, then focused attention on my clit that has my hips lifting off the mattress.
When his fingers push into me, curling to hit that perfect spot while his mouth works, pleasure coils tight and sharp.
"Micah—" His name breaks on a moan.
He hums against me, the vibration making my thighs shake, and increases the pressure of his tongue.
He circles my clit with relentless precision while his fingers curl and thrust, hitting deeper.
The orgasm slams into me, pulsing through my core in waves that have me crying out, fingers tangled in his hair.
He doesn't stop and doesn't let up. His tongue gentles but stays focused, drawing out each aftershock while his fingers work inside me.
I'm still trembling when he stretches me wider, and the fullness combined with his relentless mouth pushes me over the edge again.
This time I come shaking, my whole body taut.
When he finally moves up my body, I can barely form words. He kisses me and I taste myself on his tongue, musky and intimate.
"Micah—" I reach for him, needing him inside me. "Please."
He releases my hands and kisses me hard, deep and consuming.
Then finally, finally, he positions himself and pushes inside me.
The stretch is perfect, the fullness everything I needed.
He's thick and I'm sensitive from coming twice, and the sensation of him filling me inch by slow inch drags a groan from my throat.
He stays still for a moment once he's fully seated, letting me adjust, his forehead pressed to mine. I can feel his breath hot against my skin, feel him pulsing inside me.
"Fuck, Sarah." His voice is wrecked. "You feel incredible."
"Move," I beg, wrapping my legs around his waist. "Please."
He does. He pulls almost all the way out and drives back in, setting a rhythm that's deliberate and deep. Each thrust hits perfectly, the angle stealing my breath. The slick slide of him inside me and the sound of skin on skin fills the room.
He shifts, changing the angle, and hits that spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyelids.
"There," I gasp. "Right there."
"Yeah?" He does it again, harder this time, and a moan tears from me. "What do you need?"
"Harder. Faster. I need—" The words dissolve into a cry as he gives me exactly what I asked for, his hips snapping against mine with perfect force.
The pressure builds fast, coiling tight at the base of my spine. His mouth finds my neck, teeth scraping, and that combination of pleasure and bite pushes me over. I come with his name torn from my throat, clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that feel endless.
He follows moments later with a groan, his hips jerking as he spills inside me, his mouth pressed to my shoulder.
We stay tangled together afterward, hearts still racing. The room smells like sex and soap. Eventually he shifts to pull the blanket over us, tucking me against his side. He's softening inside me, the warm slide of our combined wetness between my thighs.
I press my face into his neck, breathing him in. This. Us. Real.
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back as my breathing evens out. Sleep pulls at me, warm and heavy, and for the first time in two years, I let myself drift without the nightmares waiting.
When I wake, Micah's already dressed in his tactical pants and grey t-shirt. He sits on the edge of the bed, lacing his boots.
"Morning," he says, glancing over his shoulder. His mouth curves into something soft. "Coffee's ready."
I sit up, pulling the sheet with me. "You made coffee?"
"Had to do something while you were sleeping." He finishes with his boots and leans over, dropping a kiss on my forehead. "Ops center in twenty. Kane wants a status update on the Reeve intel."
Right. Back to work. Back to the mission.
But when he leaves, his duffel bag sits by the door. His jacket hangs on the hook next to mine.
Over the next several days, this becomes our rhythm. Operational briefings and intelligence analysis during the day, quiet moments in our quarters at night.
The protocols we implemented are holding.
Committee communications traffic shows no awareness of our internal operations, no signs of the intelligence leaks that plagued us before we identified Reeve.
Cross sends daily updates on his interrogation—he's talking, slowly, giving up information about Webb's network and operations.
Each piece of intel she extracts gets cross-referenced against what we already know, building a clearer picture of Committee structure.
The team adjusts to me and Micah as a unit faster than I expected. Kane makes one joke about operational security, Dylan reminds everyone that more than half the team is paired up anyway, and that's it. We're integrated, part of Echo Ridge's operational fabric.
I'm in our quarters when the shift fully registers. Our quarters. Not mine. Ours.
Micah's things appeared gradually. A duffel bag the first morning. Tactical gear the next day. Now his weapons case sits beside mine in the closet, his clothes hang next to mine on the rack.
I'm reorganizing the dresser to make more room when he comes in from the operations center, still in his black tactical pants and grey t-shirt. There's tension in his shoulders that speaks to hours spent monitoring satellite feeds and encrypted communications.
"Hey." He crosses to me, dropping a kiss on my temple. "What are you doing?"
"Making space for your stuff." I gesture to the drawer I've cleared.
He looks at the empty drawer, then at me, and his expression softens. "You don't have to do that."
"I want to." I close the drawer and turn to face him. "This is our space now. I want it to feel like yours too."
He pulls me close, his arms wrapping around me. For a moment we just stand there, breathing together in the quiet of our quarters. It's real beneath my hands, something I can hold onto.
"I never thought I'd have this again," he says quietly against my hair. "A place that feels like home. Someone who feels like home."
I pull back enough to look up at him. "You have it now."
His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "Yeah. I do."
He kisses me, slow and deep, and I sink into the taste of him, the feel of his hands on my body, the solid warmth of him against me.
His hands slide down my back, pulling me closer.
Heat pools low in my belly when I feel him hardening against me—not the desperate rush from before but something deeper. Deliberate.
When he pulls back, hunger darkens his expression.
He leads me to the bed, his hand firm on my wrist, then turns me to face him.
His hands slide under my shirt, pulling it up and off, then unhook my bra.
His gaze tracks over me with an intensity that steals my breath, and my nipples tighten under his attention.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he says, and there's something raw in his voice that makes something twist behind my ribs.
I reach for his shirt, pull it off, run my hands over the hard planes of his chest and the scars that mark years of violence. "So are you."
He huffs a quiet laugh. "I'm not—"
"You are." I meet his eyes. "To me, you are."
His pupils dilate. He guides me onto the bed, following me down, and this time when he kisses me, it's different. Tender enough that I have to blink back tears. His mouth moves over mine slowly, thoroughly, like he has all the time in the world.
He takes his time undressing me, removing each piece of clothing with deliberate care. When I'm finally bare beneath him, he just looks at me for a long moment, his gaze tracking over every inch of exposed skin. The attention makes me squirm. I'm already wet.
"What?" I ask.
"I'm memorizing you." His hand traces down my side, over my hip, and I shiver. "Right here. Mine."
I reach up and pull him down into a kiss. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Good." He kisses me again, then moves lower. His mouth finds my breast, tongue circling my nipple before he draws it into his mouth and sucks. The pull goes straight to my core, and I arch into him with a gasp.
He works his way down with deliberate care, kissing and tasting, building heat slowly instead of the desperate rush of before. His mouth trails over my ribs, my stomach, the jut of my hipbone. When his mouth moves lower, breath warm between my legs, I'm already trembling, already aching.
"Let me take care of you," he says, and then his mouth is on me.
This time is different. There's no urgency, no rush.
He explores me with his tongue, learning what draws whimpers from my throat, what makes my hips roll against his mouth.
Broad strokes alternate with focused attention on my clit, building pleasure in slow waves.
When his fingers work into me, they move with complete focus, curling to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids.
"Micah—" I clutch at his hair, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away from the intensity.
"That's it," he murmurs against me, voice rough. "I want to hear you."