He pulls out and sits back on his heels. “On your knees,” he says, voice rough with desire.
I roll over, ass up, and he grips my hips, sliding his cock back in, deeper this time. I moan, fisting the sheets as he fucks me, each thrust hitting just right. His hand slips around, fingers finding my clit, rubbing tight circles until I’m shaking, pulsing around him.
“Teresa,” he growls, “come with me.”
I nod, breathless, and he pulls me up, my back against his chest, his cock still buried deep. His arm locks around me, hand splayed across my stomach, lips at my ear, whispering my name. His fingers work my clit relentlessly, and the intimacy—his breath hot on my neck, the way he’s holding me like I’m his—sends me over the edge.
The orgasm hits like an explosion, my walls clamping down, screaming his name as pleasure tears through me. He thrusts deep, groaning, his cock pulsing as he comes, our bodies locked together, riding the high as one.
We collapse, tangled in the sheets, his cock still inside me, his arms a vise around my waist. His lips brush my shoulder softly, almost reverent.
“You’re mine,” he says, not in a possessive way but a certain one.
I turn my head and meet his gaze, his eyes raw with multiple emotions. My chest aches, the weight of the moment heavier than the fear that drove me here. I reach back, fingers threading through his damp hair.
“I’m yours,” I whisper, meaning it.
The kill list, the danger, the world outside—it’s all gone.
For now.
CHAPTER 11
VLAD
Morning seeps through the blinds in weak stripes, but I’ve been awake long before the light reaches us.
Teresa lies on her side, hair spilled over the pillow like dark silk, one shoulder bare above the sheet. Even in sleep she’s a story of contrasts—soft fullness at the hips, subtle definition along the waist, freckles scattered across tawny skin that speaks to her half-Latina blood.
I let my gaze travel the long line of her back, the curve where it meets the swell of her ass. Warmth pools low in my belly, an instinctive response to the memory of last night’s surrender and the way she clung to me. My cock starts pulsing to life at the sight of her.
I want her again. The urge to roll her onto her stomach, pin her wrists, and draw that sound out of her throat again almost overrides the rational part of my mind.
Almost.
But desire is the easiest impulse to master when you’ve been trained to kill on command. Complications make it harder. There’s no time to confuse the two.
I ease from the mattress, careful not to wake her. Her lashes flicker, but she doesn’t stir. Clothes are scattered across the floor. I retrieve my trousers, shirt, and jacket, dressing in the hush of her bedroom while the radiator ticks in protest at the winter chill.
The living area is one cramped rectangle—maybe four hundred square feet if you measure generously—the kitchen sharing space with a threadbare sofa and a thrift-store coffee table scarred by water rings. She’s tried to soften the edges with a string of lights over the lone window, a wool blanket draped across the arm of the couch, and succulents on the windowsill beside a sad-looking rosemary plant reaching for the weak winter sun. But the window faces an elevated train track, the rumble of a passing car rattling the glass.
It’s no fortress, and it certainly isn’t safe.
I fill the tiny kettle and slide it onto the coil burner before searching for her coffee tin. Halfway through measuring grounds, I hear her footsteps. She appears in the doorway wearing a faded band tee that swallows her frame, hem fluttering just below the curve of her ass. Her nipples tent the fabric, drawing attention to her full, perfect tits.
A sliver of lilac lace peeks out when she shifts her weight, drawing my eyes against my will, the ghost of last night’s scratches flaring on my shoulder again.
“Morning,” she murmurs, voice still husky with sleep. She folds her arms across her chest, whether for warmth or modesty, I can’t tell.
“Coffee will be ready in a minute.” My tone is neutral, clipped. A tactical retreat from the impulse to slide that shirt up her ribs and replace it with my hands.
She bites her lip and glances toward the window. “Last night… I should resign before this gets worse.”
I turn, leaning a hip against the counter. “Your resignation is not accepted.”
She blinks. “You don’t even want to hear my reasons?”
“I have plenty of reasons of my own,” I say. “We’ll discuss them at the office.”
