Chapter 20 #2
He stretches me wider, and the fullness combined with the relentless pressure of his tongue makes my thighs shake. He works me with practiced attention, coaxing my pleasure higher with every stroke. When he sucks my clit while his fingers thrust deep, the orgasm builds slow and devastating.
"Show me," he says against my skin.
The words, the command in his voice, the feel of him inside me and his mouth on me—it all crashes together. I come with a cry, my whole body tightening as waves of pleasure pulse through me. He doesn't stop, gentler now but still focused, drawing it out until I'm shaking and breathless.
Only then does he move back up my body, kissing his way over my stomach and ribs and breasts. I taste myself on his lips when he kisses me, and my chest goes tight.
"Micah." I reach for him, needing him closer. "Please."
He strips off all his clothes and I finally get to see all of him—the hard muscles, the scars, his cock thick and ready. He settles between my thighs and I wrap my legs around him, pulling him close.
The blunt head of his cock presses against me, and then he's pushing inside, slow and steady, filling me completely. The stretch is perfect, still sensitive from coming, and I groan at the feeling of him seated deep.
He stays still for a moment, letting me adjust, his breath hot against my temple. "Okay?"
"Perfect." I rock my hips, urging him to move.
He groans and starts to move, finding a rhythm that's slow and deep and relentless. Every thrust drags against sensitive nerves, every withdrawal makes me desperate for him to fill me again.
I let myself be vulnerable in a way I haven't been before, let him see everything—the fear I carry, the walls I've built, the parts of myself I've kept locked away since he disappeared. And he meets me there, open and present, giving me the same vulnerability in return.
"Look at me," he says, and I open my eyes to find him watching me with complete focus. "I want to see you when you come."
The intensity in his gaze, combined with the slow grind of his hips, steals my breath. He shifts the angle slightly and hits deeper, and a moan escapes.
"That's it." His voice is rough. "Use me."
He reaches between us, thumb finding my clit, and the added sensation has me gasping. The pressure builds fast, coiling tight. Every thrust drives him deeper, every circle of his thumb pushes me higher.
"Micah, I'm—"
"Yeah, I feel you." His rhythm doesn't falter. "Feel you getting tight around me."
The combination of his words, his thumb, the thick slide of him inside me—it's too much. I come with tears pricking my eyes, clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. He follows moments later, teeth grazing my throat, groaning as he spills inside me, his hips jerking with each pulse.
We stay wrapped around each other afterward. He shifts to his side, pulling me with him so we're face to face in the dim light, still connected.
"I love you," I say quietly.
His palm presses against my heart. "I love you too. Have for a long time."
"Even when you were gone?"
"Especially then." His hand slides down my back. "The thought of getting back to you kept me going."
Tears spill over, and he wipes them away gently.
"This is real," I say quietly. "Even with everything coming."
"Yeah." He kisses my forehead. "It is."
"The missions won't stop. The danger won't stop. Webb won't stop."
"No." His arms tighten around me. "But we have each other. That's what we control."
I shift closer, tucking my face against his neck. "Stay with me."
"Always."
We drift into comfortable silence, tangled together. I'm nearly asleep when my tablet chimes from the nightstand—the specific tone that means encrypted message from a priority contact.
Micah reaches for it, pulling up the message while I blink sleep from my eyes.
"Cross," he says, his voice going flat in the way it does when he's processing tactical intel.
I sit up, suddenly alert. "What does it say?"
He hands me the tablet. Cross's message is brief and to the point:
Reeve broke. Committee leadership meeting in Brussels in the next few weeks. Webb consolidating power after recent losses. Multiple operations planned. Full intel follows.
Warning: Webb knows I'm feeding you information. He's putting pressure on my network. Targeting my contacts. This is retaliation.
I look at Micah. "He's going after her."
"Yeah." His jaw tightens. "The war continues."
Another message comes through. This one longer, detailed intelligence about Committee operations, leadership movements, Webb's consolidation of power—the kind of information that Cross risked everything to get.
"She's in danger," I say.
"She knows how to handle herself." But Micah's expression says he's already calculating contingencies. "We'll monitor the situation. Be ready if she needs extraction."
I set the tablet aside and look at him. "This is our life now. Intel that drops in the middle of the night. Threats that never stop. Danger around every corner."
"Yeah." He pulls me back against him. "It is."
"And we're choosing it anyway."
"We're choosing each other." His fingers trace down my spine. "The rest we handle as it comes."
I kiss him, slow and deep, pouring everything I feel into it. When I pull back, hunger darkens his expression.
We settle back into the bed, wrapped around each other. The tablet sits on the nightstand, Cross's intelligence waiting for morning analysis. Webb's retaliation is building momentum. The Committee's next moves are taking shape.
But for now, this is enough.
Victoria
London, England
The encrypted phone burns in my hand.
I stare at the message I just sent to Echo Ridge, warning them about Webb's retaliation, and wonder if I've made a fatal miscalculation.
My network is bleeding. I've lost contacts over the past week, more have disappeared.
Webb is methodical in his destruction, targeting the information brokers and intelligence sources who feed me data.
He knows I'm the leak, knows I've been selling Committee intel to Echo Ridge and anyone else who pays.
He's coming for me.
I should run. Disappear. I've done it before, built new identities, established new networks. But this time feels different. Webb isn't just trying to silence me. He's trying to destroy everything I've built over decades in this business.
A knock sounds at my door.
I freeze. Nobody knows about this safe house. Nobody should be able to find me here.
The knock comes again. Three sharp raps, followed by two, followed by one.
A pattern I haven't heard in years.
My heart stops.
I cross to the door, hand on the weapon at my hip, and check the security feed.
The man standing in my hallway is older than I remember—grey threading through dark hair, new lines around his eyes.
But the bone structure is the same, and so is the scar above his left eyebrow.
His stance speaks to years of tactical training.
Roman Frost—my former MI6 partner, the man I watched die in Budapest a decade ago.
I open the door.
He looks at me with those ice-blue eyes I thought I'd never see again. "Hello, Vix."
Nobody's called me that in years.
"You're dead," I say.
"So are you, according to multiple intelligence agencies." He glances past me into the apartment. "Can I come in? We have a lot to discuss, and Webb's people are closer than you think."
I step back and let him in, close and lock the door.
Roman Frost is alive and standing in my safe house.
Webb's people are hunting me, my network is burning, and the one person I thought I'd never see again just walked back from the dead.
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