Chapter 12 Cooper
TWELVE
Cooper
AFTERMATH
She sleeps like she’s never been safe before.
Curled against my chest, lips parted, breath slow. One hand fisted in the sheet. The other resting over my heart like she forgot to pull it back.
She hasn’t moved in hours.
I haven’t either.
I should be sleeping. I haven’t shut my eyes since the job started. But I can’t. Won’t. Not with her here, soft and wrecked and pressed against me like she belongs.
Not after what we just did. What I just did.
Jesus.
I’ve fucked a lot of women. Hard, fast, anonymous. It’s what I’m good at. It’s what keeps things clean. No names. No strings. Just get in, get off, and get out.
But this?
This wasn’t that. Not by a mile.
This was fantasy made flesh. Her fantasy. Mine. Twisted up together and set on fire.
And the way she gave it to me—raw, trembling, real—it damn near broke something in me.
Not just because she wanted it.
Because she needed it.
And I understood that need in a way I’ve never let myself admit. Not out loud. Not even in my own head.
Hell, in the world we live in, you’re not supposed to want that. You’re supposed to ask for consent in triplicate, schedule it on a calendar, check in every three minutes.
But she didn’t want soft.
She wanted to be taken.
And I wanted to be the man who took her. All of her. Again and again until she forgot who she was and remembered only me.
I reach for her without thinking. Slide my hand up the bare curve of her back. Just enough to feel her warmth. Her heartbeat. Just enough to make sure she’s real.
She shifts slightly but doesn’t wake.
I exhale. Quiet. Controlled.
Then I slip out of bed.
Every muscle in my body aches from being still too long. But I move like I was trained—efficient, silent.
First thing I do is check the perimeter.
The cameras feed into my tablet. Every angle covered—alley, rooftop, street. Nothing but the usual foot traffic. A mail truck. Jogger. Woman walking a dog in a puffer coat.
Still, I scan each frame twice. Then a third time.
My hand rests on the sidearm holstered at my thigh like it’s an extension of my body. Because it is. That’s what I do—I protect.
And she is under my protection now.
Even if what happened between us complicates the hell out of that.
I scrub a hand down my face.
Fuck.
She’s going to wake up, and she’s going to talk. Verbally process. Deconstruct what we did until it turns clinical. Intellectual. Safer.
And I won’t know what to say. I’ll just sit there like a fucking statue while she redefines what was the most perfect, primal, filthy thing I’ve ever experienced.
I shouldn’t want to hear her say it.
But I do.
I want her to admit it mattered.
I want her to say she meant it when she begged to be used. That it wasn’t just adrenaline or fear or some fucked-up survival instinct. That it was her.
But I won’t ask.
Because I don’t deserve that kind of honesty.
And because I’m not sure I can handle what she says if it’s not what I want to hear.
So I do the only thing I know how to do.
I check the doors. Recheck the windows. Pull up the schematics of the house and make sure every alarm is armed, every blind spot covered.
I order food. Just enough. Protein-heavy. Fuel for both of us.
Then I sit down at the table and stare at the wall.
And I wait.
Like the idiot soldier who just fucked the one woman who could wreck him.
I check on her.
Can’t help it.
She hasn’t moved much. One leg kicked out from the sheets. Lips parted. Hair a goddamn mess. There’s a bruise on her hip I don’t remember giving her, and I can feel it—low in my gut—how badly I want to mark her again.
Not rough. Not now.
But mine.
The flash drive’s still on the floor where it landed.
I crouch beside it. Rest my forearms on my knees. Just look.
Out of all the chaos—Metro tunnels, back alleys, locked lips, and body heat—she kept it tucked in her bra. Not her bag. Not her pocket. Right next to her heart.
Smart. Inconvenient. But smart.
I shake my head and sit back on my heels.
For all her chatter, all her spirals, the woman doesn’t miss a goddamn thing. Not the perimeter. Not the tech. Not me.
And now she’s in my bed. In my blood. Under my skin.
I should’ve kept the line clean. Got her to the safe house. Secured the perimeter. Maintained professional distance. Waited for extraction.
Instead, I dragged my cock down her throat and made her confess she wanted to be a fucking slave.
And the part that wrecks me?
She meant it.
Every fucking word.
I drag a hand over my face, lean back in the chair I’ve claimed in the corner of the room. The food I ordered sits cooling on the table. The security feed’s still up. Everything outside is quiet.
Except me.
I’m not used to waiting.
I’m not used to wanting.
She shifts.
A rustle of sheets. A creak of the mattress.
My breath catches.
Then goes still again when I hear the soft sound of feet on the floor. No words. No questions. Just her, moving quietly.
I don’t turn around.
I give her space.
I listen—water in the pipes, the soft slide of the shower turning on. More silence. The kind that says she’s not ready to face me yet. Or maybe she doesn’t know what to say. Either way, I don’t push.
I sit in the chair. One leg bent, foot braced against the wall. Arms folded across my chest. My eyes trained on the hallway.
And I wait.
Let her come to me.
Because this time, she’s the one who has to speak first.
The door clicks.
She steps out like she’s expecting to be shot.
Towel-wrapped hair. Fresh clothes. Damp skin still flushed from the shower. But it’s not her body I lock onto—it’s the way she moves.
Slow. Careful. Not cautious like she’s afraid of me. But hesitant. Like she doesn’t know who she is anymore.
Or who the hell I am to her.
She sees me.
Stops.
Doesn’t speak.
Not even a weak joke or a rambling observation about water pressure or tile grout. Her eyes flick away fast—too fast—and she edges along the wall like she might disappear into it.
And that’s when I know.
She’s going to run.
Not from the building.
From me. From us.
I stay in the chair. Don’t stand. Don’t bark. Just track her like a sniper waiting for the target to come into range.
Still nothing.
Her silence isn’t just rare—it’s unnatural.
So I do something I’ve never done in my life.
I speak first.
“You want to talk about it?”
Her head jerks up, startled. Eyes wide. She blinks. Looks away.
Then shakes her head.
Just once.
That should be enough. End of conversation.
But something in me rebels.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, voice low. Grit and steel.
“Well, if you won’t …” I say, “then I damn well will.”
She flinches. Barely, but it’s there. Her eyes flick to mine—uncertain. Braced for impact.
Good.
“Whatever you’re doing in that pretty little brain of yours—whatever spiral you’re building—stop. Don’t twist it. Don’t sterilize it. Don’t start calling it adrenaline or heat-of-the-moment bullshit just because the world tells you women shouldn’t want what you wanted.”
She still doesn’t look at me. Her lips part. She swallows.
I keep going.
“Don’t you dare rewrite what happened. Don’t sit there and pretend it wasn’t real. That it wasn’t good. That it wasn’t the most fucking honest, raw, perfect sex I’ve ever had in my life.”
That gets her attention.
Eyes on me now. Wide. Shocked. A little afraid. Not of me. Of what I’m saying.
Good.
“What happened in that bed? That wasn’t a mistake.” My voice is steady, even if my hands are shaking. “It was perfect. And I’m not gonna let you ruin it. Not with guilt. Not with shame. Not with whatever story you’re about to build to keep yourself from feeling what you felt.”
Her breath catches.
I rise from the chair, step closer. Keep my voice even. Firm. No anger. Just truth.
“You gave me something back there. You gave me your rawest self. The part you hide from everyone. The part that craves surrender. The part that begs to be seen, stripped bare, owned. And I gave you mine. I saw you. The real you. You didn’t just let me take control.
You needed it. And I don’t give a fuck what anyone says—there’s no shame in that. ”
Silence.
Just her breathing, shaky and shallow. Just me, forcing the truth down both our throats.
I point toward the bedroom door.
“What happened back there… That’s ours. Not the world’s. Not society’s. Not some goddamn think-piece on consent culture or feminist theory. Sex like that doesn’t happen unless it’s real. Unless it means something.”
She flinches. I don’t care.
I need her to hear me.
She swallows hard. Doesn’t speak.
“I’m not gonna let you turn it into some weird mistake you regret by lunchtime. Because it wasn’t. And I’m not going to apologize for being a man. For wanting control. For getting off on the sound of you choking on my cock while you beg me not to stop.”
She gasps. Her face flushes.
I drive it home.
“I’m not going to be sorry for that. And I’m not going to let you feel ashamed for needing it.”
Silence stretches.
“It was beautiful.”
A beat.
“Like you.”
Her eyes go impossibly wide.
I nod slowly. “And here’s the part you need to understand, Eliza …” I reach to the table, pull the flash drive from where I placed it earlier. Hold it between two fingers.
“This—” I flick it once, softly. “—can wait.”
I set it down. Calm. Controlled.
“You’ve got two choices now.”
I look at her, dead-on. No softness. No games.
“You can sit down. Eat with me. Try to have one fucking real moment where we talk like two people who just wrecked each other.”
Pause.
“Or you can turn around, walk back into that room—”
Another step toward her. Closer now. My voice drops.
“—and I’ll show you. I’ll put you on your knees and make you remember exactly what you begged for. And I won’t stop until you’re trembling and soaked and can’t deny a damn thing about who you are.”
I let the words settle. Watch her process.
One breath. Two. She takes a final step. Close enough that I can touch her.
Pause.
She doesn’t move.