Chapter 7
SEVEN
Cooper
COMPLICATIONS
Fuck.
My cock throbs against my zipper as I merge into D.C.
traffic, the taste of Dr. Eliza Wren still coating my tongue.
Vanilla and heat and something distinctly feminine that makes me want to pull over and finish what that kiss started.
The first kiss was a necessity. Phoenix operatives, twelve o’clock, moving past our position. Standard camouflage technique.
The second kiss? Completely unnecessary. Totally on me. I wanted to do it, but I lost sight of the operatives while I was busy claiming her mouth. Stupid from a tactical standpoint, but I couldn’t stop myself.
Regardless, mission parameters were satisfied. She’s alive.
But her mouth under mine, soft and responsive, those little sounds she made when I commanded her not to pull away—professional distance evaporated like morning dew under direct sunlight.
I want to taste her properly. Take my time. Make her moan again.
God, the way she moaned …
Stupid. Unprofessional. Compromised operational security and client safety.
And now all I can think about is fucking her.
Finishing what I started. Taking her clothes off, laying her down, fucking her against the wall, putting her on her knees, fucking her from behind, watching her beg for me as she takes my cock in her mouth.
The way she responds to my commands and melts under my authority—it’s like crack, and I can’t stop thinking about her.
My hand drops to adjust my pants again. Harder than before now, and she notices. Those eyes track the movement before darting away, color flooding her cheeks.
Interesting.
Most women would comment, make jokes, or press the advantage. Dr. Wren sits quietly, fingers twisted in her lap.
She’s shy about sex. Academic types usually are—they’re all intellectual theory and minimal practical application. Probably spent all of her time in college with her nose buried in a book rather than out at clubs getting fucked in bar bathrooms.
She probably thinks that kiss meant something more than it did, but it was a tactical necessity, even if I ladled on a side of male stupidity.
None of which changes the fact that I’m driving through downtown D.C.
with a raging hard-on and a client who smells like vanilla and submission, yet all I can think about is fucking her.
Bending her over the hood of this car. Making her scream my name while I pound into her from behind.
Watching her come apart under my hands until she can’t think, can’t speak, can’t do anything but take what I give her.
I shake my head hard, forcing my mind back on the mission.
Focus. Professional distance.
Client safety.
Fucking bullshit.
My attention shifts to the rearview mirror—clear. Quick check of the passenger side mirror—clear. Driver’s side mirror reveals a black SUV two cars back, government plates visible even at this distance. The same vehicle from campus surveillance yesterday?
Impossible to determine from here, but the way it’s maintaining position suggests active pursuit rather than coincidental traffic patterns.
“Who did you see back there? When you kissed me, I mean. Was it the people trying to kill me?”
“Phoenix operatives. Two of them.”
“Did they recognize me?”
“No.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Because you’re still breathing.”
She shifts in the passenger seat, and I catch another whiff of that vanilla scent. My cock pulses against my zipper in response, blood flow redirecting from brain to groin when I need tactical clarity most.
Focus. Professional distance. Client safety over personal satisfaction.
“Why did you kiss me?”
The question hangs in the air like cordite after an explosion. Direct. No academic dancing around the subject. She wants answers, but I’m not prepared to give them.
“Tactical camouflage.”
“Both times?”
Smart woman. Too fucking smart.
“Situation required—”
My encrypted phone buzzes. Perfect timing. I tap the earpiece, cutting off her question before she can dig deeper into territory that compromises mission parameters.
“Ghost.”
“Package secure?” Mason’s voice crackles through the connection, steady and professional.
“Affirmative. En route to Virginia safe house.”
“ETA?”
Rearview mirror check: black SUV still maintaining position two cars back. The driver is wearing sunglasses despite an overcast morning. Passenger scanning traffic patterns with systematic precision.
“Thirty minutes. Maybe forty with traffic.”
“Complications?”
Besides the fact that I’m harder than Chinese arithmetic and fighting the urge to pull over and fuck my client senseless? Besides how she responds to authority, which makes me want to give her orders and watch her body language shift into submission.
“Possible surveillance. Nothing confirmed.”
“Need backup?”
“Negative. Situation manageable.”
Dr. Wren opens her mouth with another question, but I hold up one finger. Stay quiet. Let me finish the call. She complies immediately, and the automatic obedience sends heat straight to my already aching cock.
Dangerous territory. Client relationships never end well.
“Extraction timeline?” I ask Ghost.
“Seventy-two hours. Maybe ninety-six. Phoenix is adapting faster than anticipated.”
“Copy that.”
The call ends, and silence fills the car.
Dr. Wren sits quietly, hands folded, waiting for permission to speak.
The Georgetown sweatshirt I bought off that college student looks a hell of a lot better on her than it did on the original owner—the way it stretches across her chest, highlighting curves that have no business being this distracting during an active protection detail.
Rearview mirror: black SUV has closed the distance. One car back now, maintaining perfect surveillance interval. Professional work.
“You cut me off,” she says finally.
“Important call.”
“I was asking important questions.”
“No, you were fishing for information.”
Color flashes across her cheeks. “I have a right to understand what’s happening to me.”
“You have a right to stay alive. Everything else is optional.”
“That’s not—”
“Dr. Wren.” Her name comes out sharp enough to cut glass. “Survival trumps curiosity. Every time.”
She crosses her arms, which does interesting things to her cleavage. “Don’t patronize me.”
“Don’t ask questions that compromise operational security.”
“How does asking why you kissed me compromise operational security?”
Because admitting I want to kiss her again compromises my professional judgment.
Because acknowledging this attraction means crossing lines that exist for good reasons.
Because explaining that her submission makes me want to do things that have nothing to do with a protection detail opens doors that should stay locked.
“Tactical necessity. End of discussion.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”
Passenger side mirror: silver sedan, three cars back, different from the SUV, but maintaining similar surveillance patterns. Two vehicles. Coordinated pursuit. Phoenix has upgraded from single-team operations to multi-vehicle tracking.
Shit.
“You’re impossible,” she mutters.
“You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
“Is that your solution to everything? Reduce it to survival basics?”
“When people are trying to kill you? Yes.”
Driver-side mirror: black SUV has moved up another position. Silver sedan maintaining distance. Professional box formation designed to prevent evasive maneuvers.
This just became significantly more complicated.
“Cooper—”
“Quiet.”
My hands tighten on the steering wheel as I process my tactical options.
The highway ahead offers limited exit opportunities.
The surface streets provide better maneuverability but increased exposure to civilians.
The safe house location remains secure, but leading our pursuit directly there compromises any future operations.
I need to lose the tails before proceeding to the extraction point.
“What’s wrong?” Dr. Wren’s voice carries new tension. Smart enough to read body language changes.
“Possibly nothing.”
“That sounds like definitely something.”
Rearview mirror: the black SUV is closing distance again. The silver sedan is moving up two lanes over. It’s a classic pincer movement in preparation for an intercept. They’re not following anymore. They’re getting ready to attack or make their move.
My cock finally starts to soften as adrenaline redirects blood flow to more essential systems. About fucking time.
“Buckle your seatbelt.”
“It is buckled.”
“Tighter.”
Her hands move to the belt automatically, adjusting the strap across her chest. The motion draws my attention to her breasts again, and I force my gaze back to the traffic.
Focus. Professional distance. Client safety.
“Cooper, you’re scaring me.”
“Good. Scared keeps you alive.”
Driver-side mirror: the silver sedan is accelerating. The black SUV is matching its speed. They’re no longer maintaining surveillance intervals—they’re moving into active pursuit configuration.
Two teams. Multiple vehicles. This is a coordinated operation.
Phoenix has definitely upgraded its tactics since Ryan and Celeste’s extraction. This isn’t random assassination—it’s systematic elimination with military precision.
Dr. Eliza Wren just became significantly more valuable than our initial intelligence suggested.
And I just became responsible for keeping her alive against odds that are multiplying by the minute.
Time to see precisely how good Phoenix’s new tactical protocols really are.
I take the next exit, merging onto surface streets with aggression. The black SUV follows immediately. The silver sedan takes the exit after, maintaining distance. Professional work, but they’re committed now—no more surveillance. They are in full pursuit mode.
“What are you doing?” Dr. Wren grips the door handle as I take a hard right onto M Street.
“Losing them.”
“By driving faster?”
“By being unpredictable.”
The SUV is two cars back, closing the distance through D.C. traffic. The sedan parallels us one street over—I catch glimpses of it through side streets. They’re boxing us in, forcing us toward a predetermined point of interception.
Not happening.
I slam the brakes and take a hard left into a narrow alley behind a row of restaurants.
The rental car scrapes brick walls on both sides, but the space is too tight for the SUV to follow.
Dr. Wren makes a small sound of alarm as we squeeze through, emerging onto a side street that runs parallel to our original route.
“That was—” she starts.
“Effective.”
“Terrifying.”
“Same thing.”
The rearview mirror shows the alley mouth—no pursuit vehicles in sight, but they’ll adapt and redirect, establish new intercept points. Phoenix learns fast. Too fast.
Surface pursuit isn’t sustainable. The streets of D.C.
offer too many surveillance cameras, too many opportunities for facial recognition software to identify us.
Security cameras on every corner, traffic cameras at every intersection, and private security systems feeding data to who knows where.
Phoenix can tap into all of it—an AI system with unlimited surveillance access, hunting two people in a car.
The Metro. Underground, there is limited camera coverage and denser crowds to disappear into. There are multiple lines, multiple exit points, and random routing options that even Phoenix can’t predict. I’m going to win by being unpredictable.
By being human.
I need to ditch the car.
“Where are we going?” Dr. Wren asks as I turn onto Connecticut Avenue.
“Metro.”
“We’re taking the subway?”
“Unless you prefer being shot.”
“That’s not—why can’t we just drive to wherever we’re going?”
“Because they’re tracking the car.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because that’s what I would do.”
I don’t know how they’re tracking the car.
I was pretty damn sure about getting her out of there clean—no one was following us when we left campus.
But somehow Phoenix identified her, and now they’ve identified me.
They can track license plates through traffic cameras and facial recognition through surveillance networks.
I’ve got to get rid of the car, but there are cameras everywhere.
I pull into a parking garage three blocks from Dupont Circle station. Not ideal—security cameras at the entrance—but better than street parking. The rental car goes on level three, tucked between a van and an SUV that provides visual screening.
“Out. Move fast.”
Dr. Wren fumbles with her seatbelt, and I reach across to release it myself. The contact puts my hand inches from her thigh, and the vanilla scent hits me again. Focus. Professional distance.
“Cooper, I need to know—”
“Talk while walking.”
I grab her hand and pull her toward the garage exit. Her fingers are soft, warm, smaller than mine in a way that makes something protective flare in my chest. I like the feel of her hand in mine.
It feels normal, walking with her, holding her hand. I don’t do this with any other protection details, but I’m doing it with her, and I don’t know what that means. But it can’t be good.
Dangerous territory.
The street level bustles with typical D.C. foot traffic—tourists, business people, students. Perfect cover, except for the surveillance cameras mounted on every corner. I keep Dr. Wren close, her body shielding part of my profile from overhead angles.
“Where exactly are we going?” she asks, slightly breathless from keeping up with my pace.
“Safe house.”
“You said that before. Where is this safe house?”
“Secure location.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”