“How far?”
“Hour. Maybe ninety minutes with traffic.”
An hour trapped in a car with a man who just kissed me senseless as a tactical maneuver. A man whose touch makes me forget every rational thought, whose voice makes me want to obey without question, whose presence makes me feel simultaneously safer and more vulnerable than I’ve ever been.
This is going to be a very long drive.
“Cooper?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you. For getting me out of there safely.”
His eyes meet mine for just a moment. “Job’s not done yet.”
I should say something about the kiss. The words hover on my tongue, desperate to escape, but what exactly would I say?Did you feel what I felt back there? Was that real or just tactics? Because I’m pretty sure my knees are still weak from the way you commanded me not to pull away.
But what if I’m reading too much into it?
What if those kisses were purely professional—just another tool in his tactical arsenal? Except…He was aroused. Unmistakably, obviously aroused.
Men can’t fake that kind of physical response, can they?
And the way he looked at my lips afterward, the adjustment he made to his trousers without any embarrassment—that seemed personal, not professional.
Then again, maybe physical arousal doesn’t mean anything to a man like Cooper. Maybe it’s just biology, a natural response to kissing any attractive woman, regardless of any emotional involvement.
Maybe I’m overthinking this entire situation because I’ve never experienced anything as intense as his mouth claiming mine.
The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken questions and the lingering heat of what happened against that car. Iwant to know what he’s thinking, what those kisses meant to him, whether this is just another day at the office or something more. But asking feels too vulnerable, too revealing of how completely he’s affected me.
Something fundamental shifted during that kiss, something that goes far beyond professional protection. The question is whether Cooper felt it too, or if I’m reading too much into what was purely a survival tactic.
Whatever this is between us, whatever started in that cold tunnel and exploded during that kiss, it’s only going to get more complicated.
And somehow, despite the danger and uncertainty, I’m looking forward to finding out exactly how complicated it can get.
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.
