Chapter 25 Cooper #2
“This one?” Her finger traces a thin white line along my collarbone.
“Training accident. Rookie mistake.” The memory surfaces unbidden—overconfidence and poor timing that nearly cost me my career before it started.
She moves to the next scar, a deeper gouge across my ribs. “And this?”
“Somalia. Knife.” Two words that encompass three days of hell and a teammate who didn’t make it home.
Her lips press against the old wound, soft and warm against skin that hasn’t known gentleness in years.
The kiss sends electricity straight through my chest, heat that has nothing to do with the shower and everything to do with the way she touches me like I’m something precious instead of just functional.
My cock stirs, blood flowing south as her mouth continues its exploration. She finds another scar, this one along my hipbone, and her tongue traces the raised tissue with deliberate care.
“Jesus, Eliza.”
“Everywhere,” she murmurs against my skin. “I want to know all of them.”
Her hands slide lower, soap-slick fingers exploring the new terrain of fresh bandages covering my latest injuries. She’s careful around the medical tape, but her touch becomes bolder as she maps the boundaries of what’s healing and what remains unmarked.
“How do these feel?” she asks, fingertips ghosting along the edge of the abdominal wound’s dressing.
“Tight. Itchy. But healing.”
“Good.” She leans forward, pressing the softest kiss just above the bandage. “I was so scared when I saw how much blood …”
The admission hangs between us, vulnerability mixing with steam and heat. When she looks up at me, water streaming through her auburn hair, her eyes hold a heat that makes my chest tighten and my cock grow harder.
“You kept me alive,” I tell her, reaching out to cup her chin. “Your field medicine, your courage. You saved my life.”
Understanding blooms in her expression—not just intellectual comprehension, but something deeper. The recognition that we belong to each other now, that what happened forged an unbreakable bond between us.
Her gaze drops to my growing erection, then back to my face. The shift from tender caretaker to something hungrier is subtle but unmistakable.
“I want to take care of you,” she says, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “All of you.”
My pulse spikes. “How?”
“However you need.”
The submission in her voice, the way she’s looking at me like I’m the center of her universe, sends blood rushing through my system. My cock hardens completely, demanding attention she’s clearly willing to give.
“On your knees.”
The command sends visible tremors through her body, but she doesn’t resist. She sinks gracefully to the shower floor, water cascading around us, looking up at me with eyes that hold trust and hunger in equal measure.
“Good girl.” The praise makes her breath catch. “Now show me how much you want to take care of me.”
When her mouth finds me, when she demonstrates exactly how thoroughly she wants to serve, rational thought becomes impossible. She’s careful of my injuries but thorough in her attention, using everything she learned about my responses during our time in the safe house.
The combination of hot water and her dedicated ministrations threatens to unmake me completely. When I finally reach the breaking point, when control becomes impossible, she takes everything I give her with the satisfied expression of someone who’s found her purpose.
“Perfect,” I murmur, helping her to her feet. “Absolutely perfect.”
We finish the shower in comfortable silence, hands exploring and caressing without urgency, just the simple pleasure of clean skin and shared intimacy. When I wrap her in one of the facility’s luxurious towels, she leans into me with the trust of someone who’s found her safe harbor.
“Bed,” I say, guiding her toward the bedroom.
“Cooper, you should rest. Skye said—”
“Doc Summers said no activities that could tear my stitches.” I settle against the headboard, pulling her down beside me. “I’m not planning any activities that would risk my stitches.”
Understanding dawns in her expression, followed immediately by protest. “That doesn’t absolve me from worrying about your recovery.”
“No, but it doesn’t absolve you from serving either.”
The word “serving” hits her like a physical blow, sending heat racing across her skin and making her pupils dilate with want. Her fantasy, the one she confessed in that abandoned maintenance room, is one I intend to make real.
“Come here,” I say, patting my thighs. “This position puts all the control in your hands. You set the pace, you decide how deep, you make sure nothing gets damaged.”
She moves without hesitation, straddling my legs with grace, mindful of my bandages but unable to resist the pull of authority in my voice.
“That’s it,” I encourage as she settles over me, taking me into her body with agonizing slowness. “Take what you need.”
The position gives her complete control while still allowing me to guide and command, the perfect balance between dominance and physical limitation.
When she begins to move, when she finds the rhythm that brings pleasure to both of us, the sight of her above me—hair wild, skin flushed, completely lost in sensation—burns itself into my memory permanently.
“Look at me,” I command when her eyes start to drift closed. “I want to watch you fall apart.”
She obeys immediately, her eyes locking onto mine as she rides me with growing confidence and desperation. The visual connection intensifies everything, making every sensation more acute and every sound more meaningful.
When she finally breaks, when pleasure takes her apart in my arms, she cries out my name like a benediction. The sound pushes me over my own edge, and we crash together in the kind of mutual release that rewrites assumptions about what physical intimacy can be like.
Afterward, she collapses against my chest, breathing hard, careful not to put pressure on my healing wounds. I hold her gently, one hand stroking through her damp hair, processing what happened between us.
“Cooper?” she says after several minutes of comfortable silence.
“Yeah.”
“I’m not choosing facial reconstruction.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. I want to stay. With the team. With you.” She lifts her head to look at me directly. “I want to be with you, but I also couldn’t give this up.”
“Give what up?”
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away. “The man who commands me.”
The admission sends heat racing through my system. She’s not just choosing danger over safety, or even choosing me over security. She’s choosing the dynamic between us, the way I make her feel, the person she becomes when she submits to my authority.
“Whatever that means, whatever it looks like, I want to figure it out together.”
“Even knowing the risks? Even knowing Phoenix will keep hunting?”
“Especially because of that.” Her eyes hold mine steadily. “I spent my whole life hiding in safe places, and it nearly got me killed anyway. At least this way, I’m fighting back.”
“This way, you’re with me.”
“This way, I’m with you,” she agrees.
The admission settles between us like a promise, like a commitment to something neither of us fully understands yet, but both recognize as essential. The acknowledgment that what’s between us is worth fighting for, worth the risk, worth building a future around.
“When do we tell Ghost?” she asks.
“Soon. He’s waiting for your decision.”
“And about this?” She gestures between us, indicating the obvious intimacy we’ve shared.
“We figure that out as we go. Together.”
“Together,” she repeats, and the word carries more weight now, loaded with promises and possibilities that extend far beyond operational partnerships.
Outside, the mountain morning continues its peaceful routine, but inside this room, everything has changed. Not just the obvious physical intimacy, but a deeper connection—the recognition that we’ve found something worth fighting for.
Phoenix is still out there, still hunting, still dangerous, but we face that threat as partners in every sense of the word.