1
FITZ
The Swiss Alps glitter like crushed diamonds under December moonlight as chauffer-driven limo winds up the mountain road toward Château Sommet. My hand rests possessively on Jordan's thigh, feeling the warmth of her skin through the cashmere of the dress she's wearing. The leather seat beneath us is broken-in soft, the kind that molds to your body. Worth every pound for the privacy it affords us.
"Stop scowling," she says without looking at me, her lips curving into that sly smile I both love and want to use as an excuse to spank her ass until it's a very fetching shade of pink. "You promised me a holiday. An actual holiday. Those were your exact words."
"I'm not scowling."
"You've checked your phone fourteen times since we left the airport." She turns those dark eyes on me, the ones that still make my cock hard every single time. "Fifteen now."
I slip the phone back into my jacket pocket. She's right, damn her. I promised Jordan a proper Christmas. No ops. No rescues. Just us, a luxury resort, and a week of fucking my beautiful submissive wife in front of a roaring fireplace.
The phone buzzes against my ribs. Sully with an update on the Prague situation. Or Sawyer confirming the team made it to Lagos. Or Adam letting me know Baker Street hasn't burned down in the twelve hours since we left London.
Jordan's hand covers mine on her thigh. "Don't."
"Force of habit," I admit, pulling her closer. The collar I gave her on our wedding day gleams at her throat—strands of seed pearls twisted together into a cord, the ruby clasp catching the moonlight. I run my thumb across it possessively. "Sully has everything under control. Sawyer's running ops. Adam's got Baker Street covered."
"And yet you're wondering if they'll burn down everything we've built in seven days." She nestles into my shoulder, and I inhale the scent of her—warm spice and rose, something earthy and rich that reminds me she's never been sweet. "I am too, you know. Worrying."
"About what? Lily and Chelsea have the club's holiday events planned down to the last detail."
"About whether I can actually relax for an entire week." She tilts her head up, vulnerability flashing in her eyes. "About whether we can just... be normal people for a few days."
I bark a laugh. "Sweetheart, we were never going to be normal people." I capture her chin, forcing her to hold my gaze. The pulse in her throat flutters against my fingers. "But we can be us. Away from London, away from missions and responsibilities. Just you, me, and that very large bed I specifically requested."
"And the hot tub on our private balcony?"
"And the hot tub." I kiss her, slow and deep, tasting the champagne we shared on the plane. Her tongue slides against mine, and she makes that little whimper that goes straight to my cock. "And the bearskin rug. And the steam shower. And every other surface I plan to fuck you on."
She shivers, and I feel her nipples harden against my chest even through the layers of clothing between us. "Is that a promise, Master?"
"That's an order, Mrs. Fitzwallace."
The car pulls up to the resort's entrance, and I take in the security with a professional eye. Good sight lines. Controlled access points. Cameras at every entrance. Two guards at the main door trying to look like greeters. Armed, judging by the way their jackets hang. Not that I'm working. Just... observing.
The main building rises four stories, all stone and timber in that classic Alpine style that probably costs a fortune to maintain. Windows glow with warm light. A Christmas tree towers in the courtyard, easily twenty feet tall, dripping with gold ornaments and white lights.
"Down, boy," Jordan murmurs. "No tactical assessments. You promised."
"Can't help my training, love."
"You can try." She squeezes my hand. "For me?"
And because she asks, because she's Jordan and I'd give her the fucking world if she wanted it, I take a breath and let the tactical assessment fade to background noise. Not gone—never gone—but quieter.
A doorman opens Jordan's door, and I slide out my side, coming around to take her hand. She's dressed simply—cashmere dress, leather boots, that gorgeous pearl collar—but every eye in the lobby turns to watch her move. Pride swells in my chest. Mine. All mine.
A woman in her thirties with diamond studs glinting in her ears glances at Jordan, then away, then back with thinly veiled envy. Her companion, silver-haired and distinguished, doesn't bother hiding his appreciation. Jordan doesn't notice. She never does. Doesn't realize the power she wields just by existing.
"Monsieur and Madame Fitzwallace?" A young woman in an impeccable suit approaches with a tablet. "Welcome to Château Sommet. I'm Celeste, your personal concierge for the week."
"Just the Fitzwallaces," Jordan says warmly, though I catch the slight tension in her shoulders. She hates formality almost as much as I do. Too many years of being dismissed as just another pretty face when she was building her empire. Too many men who underestimated the sharp mind beneath the beauty.
"Of course. If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your suite. We have you in our premier accommodation—the Alpine Suite. Private balcony, hot tub, and complete privacy."
As we follow Celeste through the lobby, I catalog the other guests automatically. Wealthy. International. A few faces I recognize from the society pages Jordan makes me look at occasionally. No one who screams "threat," but then, the best threats never do.
