36. Max #2
Valentina sits beside my ribs and leans down to kiss me. Her hand closes around my cock.
“Condom.”
“Wallet. Jeans.”
She retrieves it herself, checks the seal and date, then rolls the condom over me. We bought the box after Nevada. Neither of us has any reason to believe protection failed weeks ago.
I reach for her hip. “What do you want?”
“On top.”
“You want me controlling the position?”
“I want you moving. I’m tired of directing every fucking thing tonight.”
That’s a choice, not surrender. I roll us until she’s on her back and I’m braced above her. She guides my cock to her entrance and pulls me closer with one leg around my hip.
I push in slowly.
“Wait.”
I stop.
She adjusts beneath me. “Now.”
I enter the rest of the way and give her several measured thrusts until she grips my shoulders.
“Harder.”
I increase the force. She meets every movement with her hips, refusing passivity even after asking me to set the pace.
“Still good?”
“Yes. More.”
I thrust deeper and kiss her when her nails press into my shoulder. The roughness belongs to what she asked for, not to the argument downstairs. She can want force without asking me to turn her anger into damage.
When I reach between us, she takes my wrist and positions my thumb over her clit. “Slower there.”
I slow my hand without slowing my hips. “Tell me if the pace changes.”
“You’ll know.”
“I probably will. Tell me anyway.”
Her expression sharpens, then softens just enough to show she understands what I’m asking. “Fine. Same pace.”
I keep it exactly there. Max the talker has finally found a moment when repeating her instruction matters more than improving it.
“Good,” she says.
Her body tightens around me. She turns her face toward the pillow for a second, then catches the back of my neck and pulls me closer on her own.
“Don’t get sentimental,” she says.
“I’m inside you. Professional distance is already compromised.”
She laughs and curses when the movement makes her clench harder around my cock.
“Your fault.”
“I accept liability.”
“Shut up.”
I kiss her and keep the same pace until she comes again, one leg tightening around my hip while her hand keeps mine where she wants it. I slow through the first part of her release, then resume when she opens her eyes.
“Don’t stop.”
“I’m close.”
“Then come.”
I do, keeping my weight off her while the orgasm breaks the rhythm. When my body settles, she pushes lightly at my shoulder.
“Off.”
I roll away immediately. I remove the condom, tie it off, and drop it into the lined bin. Then I get water from her desk, drink first so the gesture can’t become ceremonial caretaking, and hand the bottle to her.
She takes it. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Consistently.”
We dress without urgency. Valentina disappears into the bathroom for less than a minute, returns with a damp washcloth, and tosses a clean towel at me, because apparently aftercare can include weaponized linens.
I use the bathroom after her, wash up, and come back to find her sitting against the headboard with the water bottle between both hands.
The room has the untidy evidence of a night she didn’t plan to share: my shirt by the bed, her jeans half under the chair, the open desk drawer where she keeps spare ammunition, and the packed bag still waiting in plain sight.
I pick up my shirt but leave the rest alone.
Fixing the room for her would be one more way of deciding what she does next.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“No.”
“That answer gets less convincing when you say it while looking at the protein bars.”
“I’m considering whether one would be improved by throwing it at you.”
“Nutrition through violence. Moreno will approve.”
She takes one from the desk, tears the wrapper open, and eats half before pointing it at me. “Don’t make this meaningful.”
“I would never disrespect a mediocre chocolate bar that way.”
She eats the other half anyway. The ordinary act does more to settle me than any speech could, which is exactly why I keep that observation to myself.
I sit beside her, not touching until she rests one bare foot across my ankle. I don’t ask whether the contact means comfort, forgiveness, or simple laziness. She gets to put her foot somewhere without a committee interpretation.
“I’m still furious with Calder,” she says.
“Good.”
Her head turns. “Good?”
“You’re staying angry in the same building.”
“That’s an absurd standard.”
“It counts as progress.”
“I hate when you turn ridiculous things into reasonable ones.”
“You turned stealing my keys into efficiency. I learned from the best.”
“That was efficient.”
“Exactly.”
The clinic is still empty. Mercer is still hidden behind layers we can’t prove. Calder and Valentina will probably resume the same argument tomorrow because neither has moved far enough to make it disappear.
The army-green bag remains open on the chair.
Valentina follows my attention. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face.”
“Conversational. I know.”
She gets up, finishes dressing, and crosses to the bag. I look toward the window because turning her choice into an audience would make it another test.
The spare magazine goes back into the desk drawer. The charger returns beside her phone. She removes the rolled pants and puts them in the dresser. The last shirt stays in her hands for several seconds before another drawer opens.
When I look back, the army-green bag is empty.