"Do it," he commands,. "Come for me. Let me feel it."
The orgasm crashes over me like a tsunami, stealing my vision. I can't see, can't think, can only feel—the pulsing, the clenching, the absolute overwhelming pleasure. I hear myself screaming his name, but it sounds distant, as if someone else is making it.
He follows a second later. He pulses inside me, and I feel the exact moment he loses control completely. My name tears from his throat like it's the only word he knows.
We stay together, frozen in time. Connected. Both of us breathing hard, trembling, coming down as one.
My legs remain wrapped around his waist. His forehead presses against mine. His heartbeat goes from racing to gradually slowing, matching mine.
This is it. Like the novels promised.
This is what it feels like to be completely, irrevocably, dangerously his.
And I wouldn't change a single thing.
21
IVAN
The woods smell like rot and lake water. Early winter in Illinois—cold enough to see your breath, warm enough that the ground hasn't frozen. Mud sucks at my boots with each step.
Sergei trudges along behind me, snapping branches and crunching leaves. "Why'd you need us, Boss? All three of us for some random lab geek who probably doesn't even know how to hold a gun?"
"You're too loud, idiot." Misha's critique cuts through the darkness.
"No one's around these woods, and the lab geek's survival instincts are probably too shitty to hear anything anyway."
He's not wrong about the chemist, but he's missing the bigger picture.
"The lab geek's not the threat," I say, keeping my voice low and gun ready. "Sources say he's exactly what you'd expect. The real threat is whoever might be with him."
At that, Sergei goes quiet.
We move through the trees. Dead leaves carpet the ground, wet from recent rain. The lake is close. I can smell it: Michigan water mixed with fish and industrial runoff. The cabin shouldbe just ahead, tucked back from the main road. The perfect location for a drug lab. Far enough from civilization that the smell won't attract attention. Close enough to the city for easy distribution.
Ahead, I see them. Three cabins, not one.
Fuck.
I stop and raise my fist. Misha and Sergei flank me, weapons drawn. Three structures spread out in a rough triangle, maybe fifty yards between each.
The intel said one cabin, but intel is only as good as the source, and my source was a low-level dealer who probably can’t count past ten.
"Split up," I say. "One cabin each. Radio if you find anything. Don't engage without backup unless you have no other choice."
They nod. We've done this countless times.
Misha takes the left. Sergei goes right. I take the middle.
The structure looks legitimate from the outside. Weathered wood, small windows, a place fishermen would rent for weekend trips. A fishing pole even leans against the porch, selling the story. But there's no car. No boat. And the windows are too clean for a cabin that's supposedly abandoned.
I approach from the side, gun raised. The front door is visible from the other cabins. A bad tactical position. I circle to the rear entrance, which I find unlocked.
Who leaves their meth lab unlocked?
I ease the door open.
Inside, there’s a living room trying too hard to look normal. A kitchen with dishes in the sink. But the air smells wrong. Chemicals underneath the must. Acetone and ammonia.
