The first stroke made my thighs tremble.
I didn't want his body. I wanted his authority. His permission. The thing I'd forfeited the right to receive.
My breath came in controlled silence as I stroked myself slowly, letting the desire build. Decades of discipline meant I made no sound even now, even alone, even falling apart. The only noise was water running and the obscene slick sound of my fist working over my cock.
The fantasy that arrived wasn't explicit. It was worse.
I imagined being allowed, being seen. Algerone acknowledging my existence enough to give an order I could obey. The devastating relief of hearing "kneel" from his mouth. Of being permitted, even in his contempt, to serve.
I pinched my nipple harder, chasing the bright spike of pain. My other hand found the perfect rhythm, steady and building. The pleasure didn't arrive as a spike but as slow, inexorable pressure, full-body and draining in the way it only was at this age. My breath stuttered despite my control.
The image that destroyed me was simple. Algerone's face as I'd seen it through the glass, his expression cold but focused. Beautiful in his absolute certainty. If he ordered me to my kneesright now, despising me as he did, I would still obey without hesitation. Without pride. Without any conditions.
Release built in my spine and spread through my thighs. When it hit, I had to brace my soap-slicked hand against the vanity to stay upright. My breath cut off completely. The orgasm rolled through me in waves, each one pulling something fundamental out until I was empty and shaking and still kneeling on cold tile with the evidence of my complete collapse spreading across my fist and stomach.
I stayed there longer than necessary. Let the cold bite. Let the shame settle into my bones where it belonged.
Then I stood carefully and cleaned up mechanically. The water was still running. I washed thoroughly, dried my hands, and straightened my undershirt. The tender ache in my chest would last for days.
My shirt was buttoned, my tie straight, jacket on. Every hair was in its place.
The mirror showed the same composed professional.
The lie held, but the need would return. It always did.
The walk back down the hallway required more effort than before. I kept my posture and breathing perfect, fully aware of both. My knees ached with every step, and would for days. Shame burned along my collarbones and up my throat, a flush I couldn't control but could hide beneath collar and tie if I kept my composure.
A faint tremor had started in my hands. I forced them still, tucked my tablet against my chest, and made the shaking look purposeful rather than involuntary.
What I'd just done had solved nothing. I was still starving, still wanting, still completely and catastrophically in love with a man who despised me for excellent reasons.
I was too old for this kind of collapse.
The observation room door appeared ahead. I adjusted my cuffs, straightened my already-straight tie, and pushed through the door.
Reid looked up from his tablet. "Ça va?"
"I'm fine." The words came out sharp, clipped, and, perhaps most frustratingly, in English. The mother tongue Reid and I shared had made us friendly over the years. Answering him in English probably felt like answering the phone with a hammer.
His eyebrows rose. "Tabarnac, what's gotten into you, là?"
The casual familiarity grated on my raw nerves. "I don't have time for this, Commander. What did Castellanos reveal while I was gone?"
Reid studied me for a beat too long, then apparently decided not to push. "He broke completely. The prototype is already on a plane to Zurich. Left two hours ago. Shaw's there personally. Hardin was working for him the entire time."
"Zurich." I made myself approach the glass. Through it, I could see Algerone standing over Castellanos, who slumped in the chair looking utterly defeated. "Then we'll need to coordinate with—"
The door to the interrogation room opened, and Algerone stepped through, pulling off his gloves. He moved past us toward the observation room exit, already halfway through removing the second glove when he glanced at me.
Just once, but it was enough.
His expression was clinical and impersonal, the way he'd look at any subordinate delivering a status report. His green eyes swept over me with complete detachment, assessing and dismissing in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
It gutted me.
"We leave for Zurich in three hours," Algerone said without stopping. His tone was perfectly neutral. "Private jet. You'll coordinate with the pilots, handle logistics." He handed thegloves to Reid instead of me, and I immediately glared at Reid. "Castellanos gave us everything we need. Commander, see that his daughter is relocated safely immediately."
"Yes, sir," Reid said. “And the prisoner, sir?”
