"Now." His voice is dark with command, vibrating against my sensitive flesh. "Come for me, Marissa. Let go and let me catch you."
Permission shatters my control. The orgasm crashes through me like a tidal wave, devastating and complete, wringing gasps and cries from my throat that sound nothing like me. Pleasure rolls through my body in waves, each one more intense than the last, and my hands stay locked on the headboard because he hasn't said I can let go, even as my body shakes with release, even as my thighs tremble and my hips buck against his mouth.
He works me through it, gentler now but unrelenting, drawing out every last tremor until I'm boneless and gasping and completely undone. When the shaking finally subsides, his hands stroke soothing patterns on my thighs. "You can let go now. I've got you."
My hands release the headboard, coming down to his shoulders. He moves up the bed, pulling me into his arms, holding me close while I shake with aftershocks and emotion. His hand traces patterns on my back, grounding and soothing, while his lips brush my forehead.
"You did so well," he murmurs. "So perfect. I'm so proud of you."
Praise breaks something loose in my chest. Tears well up again, but these feel different, cleansing rather than despairing. "Archer?—"
"I know." His arms tighten around me. "I know, and I've got you."
Silence stretches while his hands continue their soothing touch and my breathing steadies. When I finally have enough control to speak, I pull back slightly to look at him. "What about you?"
"Look at me." His voice is quiet but absolute. His thumb traces my lower lip. "You held nothing back. That's what I wanted."
"But—"
"Shh." He kisses me with care, a contrast to the commanding dominance from moments ago. "I'm exactly where I want to be. Holding you. Taking care of you. That's enough."
His expression suggests that's not entirely true, that desire is still coiled tight beneath his controlled exterior. But before I can push, he shifts us both under the covers, pulling me against his chest in a position that feels protective and intimate all at once.
"Sleep," he commands, softer now but still firm. "Tomorrow we meet with Koval, and you need rest."
Sleep should feel impossible after everything that just happened. But wrapped in his arms, safe and warm and completely wrung out, weariness finally pulls me under.
His arms tighten around me and my last coherent thought isn't about tomorrow's meeting or mission parameters or what any of this means. It's simpler than that, more alarming in its honesty.
I don't want to let him go.
8
ARCHER
The private room at Kronos feels smaller tonight than it did during our first visit. Dark walls press close, leather furniture arranged in intimate clusters that force proximity. The lighting is deliberately low, shadows pooling in corners where surveillance might hide. Koval chose this location carefully, a space where he controls every variable, every angle, every potential threat.
Marissa sits beside me on the low sofa, close enough that her thigh brushes mine, close enough that I catch the scent of her perfume beneath the club's ambient smoke and expensive cologne. She's wearing the same dress from our previous visit, all strategic cutouts and calculated seduction, but everything about this moment feels different from the performance we executed before.
Because last night, I had her hands locked on my headboard while she came apart beneath my mouth. Last night, I established ownership that had nothing to do with tactical positioning and everything to do with the need that won't let me maintain professional distance.
The air between us crackles with everything unsaid. Every time she shifts, I'm aware of the movement. Every time herbreath catches, I remember the sounds she made when I commanded her to let go. The professional distance we should be maintaining has evaporated, replaced by awareness that makes it difficult to focus on the mission parameters we're here to execute.
Koval enters through the far door, flanked by associates who position themselves at strategic points around the room. His gaze sweeps across us, assessing, calculating. When his attention settles on where my hand rests on Marissa's thigh, his eyes narrow slightly with recognition, or perhaps interest in the dynamic he's observing.
"Nocturne," he says, settling into the chair across from us. "And your specialist. I'm pleased you accepted my invitation."
"You offered a compelling incentive," Marissa replies smoothly, her voice carrying the Nocturne persona with ease. "Intelligence worth verifying requires privacy worth paying for."
Koval's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Very direct. I appreciate that quality." He gestures to one of his associates, who places a folder on the low table between us. "The Laurent acquisition proceeds as scheduled. Diplomatic gala in Monte Carlo. Security protocols have been analyzed, extraction routes mapped. The operation is comprehensive."
The confirmation we came here to secure sits in that folder, tangible proof that the kidnapping intelligence she provided is accurate.
"Timeline?" Marissa asks, leaning forward slightly. The movement presses her closer to me, and I shift with her instinctively, maintaining contact that goes beyond tactical necessity.
"Days from now," Koval says, watching our interaction with focused attention. "The Conductor wants the child secured before Interpol realizes they’re compromised. Once we have her,Deputy Director Laurent becomes our asset whether he wants to be or not."
The casual way he discusses kidnapping a child makes my jaw clench. Years of executing missions that required moral flexibility, and this still cuts through my professional detachment like a blade. Marissa's thigh tenses beneath my palm, the only sign that she's equally affected.
