Chapter 8
Ego
My cock is so hard right now I could hammer fucking nails with it.
That’s the problem.
That’s always the problem.
So I turn away from her—fast—before I do something that’ll ruin everything.
Before I come in my damn boxers like some greenhorn who’s never been kissed by a woman who smells like cookies and warmth and home.
Jesus.
She looks so good and wrecked.
Perfectly wrecked.
Her hair’s a mess, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and glossy from my mouth. Her blouse is rumpled, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, chest rising and falling like she just ran a mile—or like she just let me kiss her senseless in her living room.
Which I did.
And fuck if I don’t want to do it again.
I grip the edge of the doorframe and breathe through my nose, forcing the animal part of me to heel.
Because, yeah—I want her. I want her badly.
I want to turn around, pull her back into my arms, finish what we started on that couch.
I want to feel her under me. Around me. Mine.
But wanting her isn’t the priority.
Keeping her safe is.
That’s the job. That’s the line. That’s the one thing I cannot afford to screw up.
She’s not some hookup. Not a distraction. Not a way to blow off steam between ops.
She’s more than that.
So much more.
She trusts me enough to let me into her home. Who lets me bring her tea and cinnamon buns. Who looks at me like I’m not a weapon, but a man.
And if I let my dick run this operation, I’ll get her hurt.
So, I straighten my sweatshirt.
Adjust myself.
Force my pulse to slow.
I listen as she stands and moves to the bathroom.
And when I hear the door click closed? I put my fingers in my mouth.
The ones that were on her sweet cunt, and I groan as her sweet, tangy taste hits me hard.
Fuck me, she tastes as good as I imagined.
I can’t wait to have my mouth on her sweet pussy.
She’s going to have questions—I can already feel them burning holes in my back as she comes back to the living room.
Questions about what all that meant.
About what I meant by it.
And yeah, I’ll answer them.
I’ll tell her everything.
Just not now.
Not when my head’s full of heat and need and the echo of her moan in my ears.
I’m no good to her like this.
I need to be sharp. Focused. Deadly.
Because there’s some bastard out there who thinks she’s vulnerable. And over my dead body is that prick going to get his hands on her.
I move away from the front door. I’m just waiting in the middle of the living room when she returns, wanting to talk, but I can tell she’s not.
She won’t even look at me.
Shit.
“I’m ready,” she says, and I can hear it in her tone.
All business.
No sign of that heat we just shared.
I frown.
“Angel—”
“My name’s Sabrina. Or Miss Rosetto.”
I grin because her sass is just another thing I adore about her.
“Alright,” I say, hands raised in surrender. “I know you’re confused, but what we just did—”
“Won’t ever happen again. It was a mistake we’d both do better to forget. My apologies for getting carried away.”
She walks away after dropping that bomb, and now I’m fucking mad.
Nope.
Not letting this go.
She stiffens when I grab her elbow, but I don’t let go.
Not until she looks at me.
Not until those wide, hazel eyes are on mine, full of fire and frustration and the flicker of something she doesn’t want to admit yet—want.
“First,” I growl, voice low, steady, and laced with all the fury she just ignited in me, “I go through doors first. Always. Not because I think you’re weak, but because it’s my job to take a bullet before you ever feel a breeze.”
Her lips part, maybe to argue, maybe to tell me to get bent. But I’m not done.
“Second,” I say, stepping in closer. “I’m not forgetting a fucking thing about what just happened. And you’re not either. You can play the professional card all you want. Hell, I admire it. But don’t lie to me, Angel.”
She tries to twist away.
I tighten my grip just enough to make her stop—but never to hurt her.
Never that.
“You think I haven’t seen this before? That look in your eyes? The tremor I felt move through your whole body?”
I glance down at the slight tremble she’s trying to hide in her fingers.
“Angel, that wasn’t some random slip-up. That was chemistry. That was real. And you can pretend it doesn’t matter, but I was there. I felt you fall into me.”
Her jaw clenches. Her eyes flash.
Good.
Let her get mad.
Let her show me something besides that cool facade.
“Now,” I murmur, dropping my voice to something rough and low, “if you want to call it a mistake to save face, fine. But don’t stand there and pretend it meant nothing. Don’t insult both of us like that.”
Her breath hitches.
I lean down, just enough so she hears me perfectly.
“And just for the record,” I say with a wicked smirk curling at my mouth, “I’ll call you anything you want, Miss Rosetto. Long as you promise to make me stay after class and go over everything I didn’t do right until I get it. You feel me?”
She blinks.
And blushes.
Bright. Angry. Maybe curious. Always beautiful.
I step back, letting her go because I need to.
Because if I don’t, I’ll drag her back to that couch and make her admit exactly how not-sorry she is.
She clears her throat, lifts her chin, and smooths down her cardigan like she’s trying to reassemble her dignity.
It’s adorable.
And it’s mine.
I hold her coat and she lets me, turning around and sliding her arms through the sleeves.
Then, I open the door and step through, waving her ahead once I assess it’s safe.
“Let’s just get through the field trip,” she says coolly.
Yeah, there’s a grin still tugging at my lips.
“Oh, we will,” I promise. “But get ready, Angel. Because when it’s over? We’re going to talk about everything you won’t ever want to forget.”
Because I plan to remind her of every single second—with my mouth, my hands, and every slow, delicious stroke until she’s not just moaning my name—she’ll be screaming it.