Chapter 2 #2
She’s at the end of the bar. Alone. Designer dress, expensive shoes, nursing a martini, like it personally offended her. Recent breakup, probably. The way she keeps checking her phone confirms it.
I slide onto the stool beside her. Close enough that she has to acknowledge me. Her perfume hits—floral, expensive, trying too hard. Mixed with the faint salt of fresh tears she’s covered well.
“Your date’s not coming.”
Her eyebrows lift. “How do you know I’m waiting for someone?”
“You’re not.” I hold her gaze steady. “But you’re waiting for something.”
“And what would that be?”
“Same thing I am.” No smile. This isn’t about charm. “Quick, simple, and very, very good.”
She laughs, low and interested. “Pretty sure of yourself.”
“Not sure. Certain.” I lean closer, voice dropping.
“I can read your body like a blueprint. Every breath, every tell, every response mapped and measured.” My fingers graze her wrist, feeling her pulse spike.
“Right now, you’re pressing your thighs together under that dress.
Your breathing just shifted. You’re wondering if I’m full of shit or if I can deliver. ”
Her inhale catches. “That’s—”
“Accurate. And I always deliver.” I pull back slightly, maintaining eye contact. “I know exactly how to take you apart. Which pressure points make you gasp. The precise angle that makes you forget your own name. How long to hold you on the edge before you break.”
“You’re either very good or very delusional.”
“First one.” I stand, extending my hand. “I don’t do names. I don’t do numbers. I don’t do breakfast. But I can make you come twice before we get to the main event. Your choice.”
Her pupils dilate. Most women would walk away from such bluntness. The ones I’m looking for never do.
She takes my hand. Her skin is warm, her pulse racing against my palm.
The bathroom is cramped but private. The lock clicks, and I press her against the wall, giving her a moment to reconsider.
She doesn’t. Her hands reach for my belt, but I catch her wrists.
“If you want this to be good,” I keep my voice low, controlled, “you do exactly what I say, when I say it.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “And if I don’t?”
“Then we’re done.” Simple. Direct. “I don’t waste time on negotiations.”
She studies me for a heartbeat, then nods.
“Strip.”
She hesitates just long enough to gauge my seriousness, then lets her dress pool at her feet. Lace and skin and vulnerability. She doesn’t try to cover herself. That willingness tells me everything—she needs this as much as I do.
I pin her wrists above her head with one hand, using my body to cage her against the wall. “Don’t move them.”
The command makes her shiver. Good. She wants to surrender control. I want to take it.
Control is everything—in demolition, in combat, in this. Every touch is measured and deliberate. Every response is catalogued and utilized. I work methodically, learning her reactions like memorizing a schematic.
Her breath catches when I find the spot below her ear—that precise junction of nerve endings most people miss. She arches when my free hand traces her ribs, counting each one like reading braille. I catalog every shiver, every gasp, building a mental map of her responses.
This is what I do best. Two things in life respond to absolute precision: explosives and the female form. Both require total focus, perfect timing, and the confidence to commit fully. Half measures get people killed in combat and disappointed in bed.
I work her body like defusing a bomb in reverse—finding every wire, every connection, knowing exactly which sequence will detonate.
The spot where her neck meets her shoulder is the one that makes her knees buckle.
The pressure point on her hip sends electricity straight to her core.
I find a rhythm that takes her from zero to desperate in forty-five seconds flat.
“There,” she gasps. “Right there.”
I maintain the exact angle, the exact pressure, the exact speed. No variation. No improvisation. Just ruthless consistency until her whole body goes rigid, then shatters.
The first orgasm tears through her with a strangled cry. I don’t stop, working her through a second one until she’s shaking, gasping.
“Twice,” I murmur against her ear. “As promised.”
She’s liquid against the wall, held up mostly by my grip on her wrists. The power of it—of her complete surrender—satisfies something dark and necessary.
“On your knees.”
She drops instantly, eyes glazed with endorphins and submission. This is what I need. Control absolute. No questions, no trust required. Just simple, mechanical dominance.
I unbuckle my belt. She watches with hungry eyes, already reaching, but I catch her chin.
“Exactly like I say. No improvisation.”
She nods, eager and compliant. I thread my fingers through her hair, controlling pace and depth with the same precision I use setting charges.
Shallow, then deep, then holding her still while her throat works around me.
The wet heat makes my eyes close involuntarily, but I force them open. Control means awareness. Always.
I watch her surrender to the rhythm I set, measuring my own response, delaying gratification the same way I delay detonation—building pressure, holding, building more.
Each stroke calculated to edge closer without tipping over.
The tension coils tight in my spine, but I maintain the pace. Steady. Measured. No rushing.
When I finally let go, it’s on my terms. The release hits like a controlled explosion—contained, directed, exactly as planned. My grip tightens in her hair as everything narrows to this singular moment of perfect control over both our bodies.
Just sensation and control.
When I finish, she’s still on her knees, looking wrecked and satisfied. I help her stand, hand her the dress, and put distance between us while she dresses.
“That was incredible,” she says, voice rough. “Maybe we could—”
“No.” I’m already at the sink, washing my hands with the same thoroughness I use when cleaning explosive residue. Soap, hot water, twenty seconds minimum. “This was exactly what I promised. Nothing more.”
“Come on.” She steps closer, her dress only half-zipped. “That was incredible. You could at least—”
“I could. But I won’t.” I dry my hands on paper towels, each movement deliberate. “You got what I said you’d get. Twice, as promised. I got mine. Transaction complete.”
“Transaction?” Her voice pitches higher. “That’s what you’re calling it?”
“That’s what it was.” I check my watch. Eleven minutes total. Efficient. “We both knew the terms going in.”
“But the way you just … You knew exactly …” She reaches for my arm. “Nobody’s ever made me—”
“Stop.” I step back, creating a clear boundary. “You’re looking for something I don’t have. Can’t give. Won’t pretend to.”
She stares at me, frustration and desire warring on her face. “You’re seriously just going to walk away? After that?”
“Yes.”
“Most guys would at least want to fuck me properly.”
“I’m not most guys.” I move toward the door. “Got what I needed from your mouth. Don’t need anything else.”
“That’s it? Just going to use my throat and walk away?”
“Yes.” I meet her gaze directly.
Fucking requires more than I have left. Eye contact. Vulnerability. The pretense of connection. A mouth is simple friction and heat—better than my hand, simpler than dealing with the rest. Clean. Controlled. No one has to pretend it means anything.
And I won’t make Mitchell’s mistake. I won’t let intimacy become a weapon aimed at my back.
“She’s perfect for you, Jackson. Local asset. Been feeding us intel for months.” Mitchell’s grin in that Damascus safe house. “Why don’t you get to know her better? Build some trust.”
Amara.
Dark eyes, dangerous curves.
Three nights of her wrapped around me, whispering intel between orgasms. My body buried deep while she fed me lies Mitchell scripted.
The warmth of her skin just another trap, another betrayal.
She’d radioed our position while I was still inside her, my guard down, vulnerable in the most primitive way.
Seven teammates dead because I trusted the person I let close.
Never again. Transactional sex can’t betray you the same way. It can’t make you vulnerable while you’re lost in it. Can’t whisper lies that you want to believe. It’s just friction. Nothing more.
I unlock the door. “Find someone else if you want more.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Accurate.” I open the door. “But at least I’m an honest asshole.”
She finishes zipping her dress, movements sharp with anger. “You know what? You’re right. I did get what you promised. But you’re going to die alone with that attitude.”
Probably. But alone means no one else dies because I trusted the wrong person.
She leaves without another word. Smart woman.
The sex helped, but the hollow sensation remains. Always does. Some men drink to forget. Some find God. Some put bullets in their heads.
I considered it once. Six months after Syria, after my discharge papers came through stamped “medical” instead of “honorable” because I couldn’t speak for three weeks after the extraction. Sitting in a VA hospital room that smelled like disinfectant and despair.
I had a loaded Glock heavy in my lap. The weight felt right. The solution felt clean. No more calculations. No more flashbacks. No more waking up with Brennan’s blood on my hands that no amount of washing removes.
Ghost found me there. Don’t know how. Don’t know why.
“That’s sloppy,” he said, looking at the gun. “Permanent solution to a temporary problem.”
“Doesn’t feel temporary.”
“Never does.” He sat down beside me, close enough to grab the weapon if needed, far enough to show trust. “But you’re too valuable to waste. I need operators who understand the real cost of war. Who’ve been betrayed and survived. Who know the price of trust.”
That was three years ago. Now I calculate explosive yields and fuck strangers in bar bathrooms. Not healing, but functional.
And functional is all I need to be.
My phone buzzes. Cerberus priority alert.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in the briefing room. Ghost looks exhausted. Brass and the others filter in, alert despite the hour. The wall display shows a woman’s face—angular features, dark hair pulled back, intelligent eyes that seem to see through the camera.
“Talia Singh,” Ghost announces. “Former FBI analyst. Two of her contacts are dead in twenty-four hours. Morrison was one of ours—the suicide was staged.”
“Phoenix?” Brass asks.
“Unknown, but probable. Morrison gave her our emergency contact before he died. She reached out seventeen minutes ago.” Ghost’s expression hardens. “Fuse, you’re on protection and extraction.”
He slides a tablet across the table. Her full file loads—FBI commendations, case histories, psychological profile. An analyst. Someone who provides intel. Someone who expects others to trust her assessments.
“A fucking analyst?” The words escape before I can stop them.
“Problem?” Ghost asks, but his tone says he already knows. He’s testing me.
The rest of the team exchanges glances. They know my history. Ghost sure as hell knows—he pulled my file, read every detail about Syria, about Mitchell’s betrayal. He knows exactly what putting me with an analyst means.
“No problem.” My jaw clenches hard enough to crack teeth.
But we both know better. She’s precisely the type of person I can’t afford to trust—the type who gets people killed with bad information, whether through incompetence or betrayal.
Ghost dismisses the others with a look. When we’re alone, he leans back in his chair, studying me.
“You’re wondering why I’m assigning you.” Not a question.
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“Because you’re the best at keeping people alive.” He pauses. “And because maybe it’s time you remember that not everyone who deals in intelligence is Mitchell.”
“That’s a dangerous assumption.”
“So is thinking you can operate forever without trusting anyone outside this team.” He slides another photo across—a crime scene in Morrison’s office.
“She’s not the enemy, Jackson. She’s a witness.
A victim. And right now, she’s breathing because Morrison trusted her enough to give her our number. ”
“Morrison’s dead.”
“Not because of her. Because of what she knows.” Ghost’s voice hardens. “I need you functional on this. Can you handle protection detail for someone whose job was intelligence analysis? Yes or no?”
The photo shows Morrison’s body, a staged suicide that any professional would spot as murder. He was solid. Trustworthy. One of the few outside Cerberus I could almost respect. And he died for trusting this analyst.
Or died protecting her.
“I’ll keep her alive,” I say finally. “But I’m not trusting her intel.”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to keep her breathing long enough to figure out who wants her dead.” Ghost stands. “Maybe in the process, you’ll remember that betrayal isn’t the only possible outcome of trust.”
“Doubtful.”
“That’s not an order, Jackson. Just an observation from someone who recruited you out of a VA hospital with a loaded gun in your lap.” His eyes hold mine. “Sometimes the thing we resist most is exactly what we need.”
I study her photo during the flight to Chicago. Talia Singh. Brilliant analyst who sees patterns others miss. Probably thinks her assessments are gospel. Probably expects immediate trust and compliance.
She’s in for disappointment.
My job is to keep her alive, not to believe her. Trust is for people who haven’t learned better.
I learned in Syria. Seven teammates paid for my education in blood because I listened to the intel instead of my gut.
I won’t make that mistake again.