23. Nick
NICK
I wake up with her ass pressed against me, and my arm draped over her waist. The room is still dark, with that early dawn look that makes everything feel suspended. She’s warm and soft, the smell of her shampoo lingers on everything.
I don’t move, letting myself have this moment. But unfortunately, my dick has a mind of its own. She starts to stir, and the way her breathing changes, she can feel my growing hardness pressed against her; she’s deliberately grinding against my cock.
“You’re awake,” she says, her voice rough with sleep.
“Getting there.”
She does it again, a slow roll of her hips that sends sparks up my spine. “This says otherwise.”
I pull her closer, eliminating any space that’s still between us. She makes a tiny moan, pushing back harder.
“Keep doing that,” I warn her, “and I’m going to fuck you.”
“Promises?”
I roll her onto her stomach, pinning her with my weight, my knee between her thighs spreading her legs. Before she can catch her breath, my cock is sliding between her slick folds.
“Nick…”
I don’t let her finish, pushing inside with one hard thrust, burying myself to the hilt. She cries out, arching her back. I don’t give her time to adjust before I start moving, the angle deep, hitting the spot that makes her nails dig into the mattress.
“Fuck,” she breathes, and I feel her pussy start to tighten around me, already close.
I lean down, my mouth against her ear, my weight pressing her into the bed. “You wanted this. Grinding against me like a little tease.”
“Yes,” she gasps, pushing back to meet my thrusts.
“You wanted me to wake up hard and desperate for you.”
“Yes.”
I grip her hips and lift her slightly, allowing me the perfect angle to drive deeper, making her tremble.
“Come for me,” I growl, my rhythm getting harder, more punishing. “Let me feel it.”
She comes with a cry that she tries to muffle, her body going rigid, her back arching hard enough to lift her shoulders off the bed. I keep fucking her through it, wanting to draw it out as long as I can.
I ease up when I feel her body go limp, my dick still inside her, and still very hard. I run my hand down her spine, feeling her shiver under my touch. Then I slide my thumb between her ass cheeks, pressing against the tight ring of muscle there.
She tenses, her head turning quickly to look at me over her shoulder, eyes wide.
“Has anyone—” I start to ask.
“No,” she says, and I can hear the hesitation in her voice. “Not like this.”
I use my thumb and gently apply pressure, just enough to let her feel it. “Do you want me to stop?”
She’s quiet for a moment, then she shakes her head, pushing back against my hand.
I reach for the lube in the nightstand drawer. I coat my fingers, then slowly start to press one against her, waiting for her to relax.
She’s so fucking tight, and I can feel her tense, fighting the instinct to pull away. I keep my other hand on her hip, grounding her, giving shallow thrusts that keep her on the edge.
“Breathe,” I tell her, and she gives a shuddering exhale.
I work my way in deeper, feeling her stretch around me, watching her face for any sign of real discomfort. But she’s biting her lip, her eyes closed, and when I curl my finger slightly, she makes a sound that sounds so sweet.
“More,” she whispers.
I add more lube taking my time even though everything in me is screaming at me to take her in every way possible. When I have two fingers moving easily, I pull out of her and position myself.
“Last chance,” I say, my voice rough.
“Fuck me,” she says, fierce and desperate. “Now.”
I push the head of my cock in slowly, feeling the resistance at first, then the overwhelming give. She groans, a deep, guttural sound, and I stop, giving her a moment, my whole body fighting to hold back.
“Are you okay?” I manage.
“Don’t stop,” she pants. “God, don’t stop.”
She pushes back harder, demanding more, and I lose the last of my control. I grip her hips and fuck her the way we both need.
She comes again, unexpectedly, her body clamping down on me so tight I see stars. I follow her over the edge, with a sound that’s closer to a roar than anything human.
I keep my arms wrapped around her, with my face buried in her neck.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask again, softer this time.
She turns her head, her eyes finding mine. She looks wrecked, undone, more open than I’ve ever seen her. “Yeah,” she whispers. “I’m okay.”
I kiss her shoulder, her neck. “Good.”
Neither of us moves for a long time. The sheets are tangled around our legs, and the morning light cuts through the window in a warm, pale stripe that falls across the foot of the bed. Her hair is damp at the temples. Mine probably is, too.
I press my mouth to the curve of her shoulder and leave it there, feeling her pulse slow under my lips.
She makes a small sound that’s not quite a sigh before wiggling closer.
Her spine fits against me in a way that makes me wonder how a body can be used as a weapon one minute and feel like coming home the next.
There’s nothing else for a long time. Just this.
Her warmth, her breathing. The smell of her shampoo mixed with sweat and sleep.
I close my eyes and let myself have it. I’ve learned the hard way that moments like this are finite.
They only exist in the spaces between everything else—and everything else always comes back, usually a lot sooner than we want it to.
Now, it comes back.
Tonight. The club. Vincenzo.
The thought is like a blade between my ribs.
Impossible to ignore once it’s there. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling as I feel the day rearrange itself around the fact that in roughly twelve hours, she’ll be back in that room with the table of tools, waiting for one of the most dangerous men in Europe to walk through the door.
I don’t let myself move. I don’t tighten my grip or change my breathing or do any of the things that would give away what’s going on in my head.
But my mind is already running. Through the layout again, the exits.
The extraction routes, the position of Liam’s team.
I go through all of it the way I did last week, only last week it settled me. The same is not true this week.
I’ve been doing this long enough that the morning before an operation is just another morning.
You run your checklist; you go through the motions of the rest of your day, and you execute once the time comes.
Calm is what separates professionals from amateurs, and I’ve never had a problem finding it.
But I’ve also never sent someone I love into a room alone with a man who would kill her if he knew who she was.
The scenarios keep multiplying. Vincenzo recognizes something—a gesture or a posture, the way she tilts her head when she’s thinking.
Her mask could slip. He could notice the camera.
He could bring someone with him who wasn’t in Gabriel’s intel.
There are a hundred ways it could all go wrong, and every single one of them ends with her in danger, and me on the other side of a locked door, unable to reach her in time.
I realize I’m grinding my teeth and force myself to stop.
“You’re thinking too loud,” she murmurs.
Dammit. “I’m not thinking about anything.”
“Liar.” She turns over to face me, still in my arms. Her green eyes find mine with a directness that still catches me off guard sometimes, even now.
She doesn’t look sleepy or satisfied or any of the things she should be after what we just did.
She looks like someone who’s been paying attention, gauging the tension in my body, correctly assuming what’s going on in my head.
“You’re worried about tonight,” she concludes with a soft sigh. Almost like she’s disappointed in me.
“I’m always a little wound up before a job.”
“My god, you suck at lying. You know that, right?” Her hair falls across her collarbone when she props herself up on one elbow. “You were focused last week. You were methodical. Right now, you’re grinding your teeth in bed loud enough for me to hear. There’s a big difference.”
I can’t argue with that. She wouldn’t let me even if I tried. “It’s different this time.”
“Because last time was a dry run, and this time is real?”
“Because last time he didn’t show up. This time he will, and you’ll be alone in a room with him.”
She watches me for a moment. Something moves through her expression. Not defensiveness. Not the sharp edge she would’ve given me a month ago if I’d said something like this. It’s something quieter now. “I’m not used to this,” she whispers.
“To what?”
“To someone worrying about me.” She says it simply, like she’s talking about the weather, but I hear the slight tremor in her voice.
She would hate it if she knew how easy she is to read sometimes.
“Nobody else ever worried. Not Vincenzo or my handlers. Worrying implies you care about another person, not just the asset.”
She pauses, her brow wrinkling. “I was always the asset.”
“You are more than an asset,” I tell her, brushing hair away from her shoulder, letting my fingers linger there.
“I’m learning that.” She reaches out and traces a line along my jaw with her fingertip, light enough to barely register. “But when someone’s never worried about you before, it’s strange to feel it coming from someone else. I don’t always know what to do with it.”
“You don’t have to do anything with it. It’s up to me to carry that.”
“That’s very noble, but that’s also not how it works.
” The corner of her mouth lifts in a smirk, but there’s no fresh light in her eyes.
They’re still flat, pensive. “Your worry affects your focus. Your focus affects your performance. If you go in tonight distracted, you become a liability. I can’t afford liabilities. ”
She’s right. She’s also deflecting, turning the emotional into the tactical because the tactical is easier to manage. I recognize the move because I’ve used it myself more times than I’d care to admit.