She trembles beneath my touch, but not from the cold. From the emotion she's been holding back since Marrakesh. From the fear she couldn't let herself feel while we were running. From the relief that we're both here, together, safe for now.
"Archer," she whispers, breathless and wanting.
I kiss my way lower, across her ribs, her stomach, the sharp jut of her hipbone. Her legs fall open for me without prompting, and the trust in that surrender makes my chest constrict. I settlebetween her thighs, pressing kisses to the sensitive skin there, close but not where she needs me yet.
"Please," she breathes, hips shifting restlessly.
I don't make her wait. My mouth finds her, and she cries out, hands fisting in the sheets as I work her with lips and tongue. Slow strokes, deliberate pressure, learning the rhythm that makes her thighs tremble against my shoulders. She's already wet, already desperate, and the taste of her arousal goes straight to my cock. But this isn't about rushing. This is about proving she's here, making her feel every sensation, grounding her in pleasure instead of fear.
I slide a finger inside her, and she clenches around me, gasping. Another finger joins the first when she rocks against my hand, seeking more. My tongue works her clit while I find that spot inside that makes her cry my name. Her breathing goes ragged, uneven, punctuated by soft moans that drive me higher.
"That's it," I murmur against her. "Let go."
She comes apart on my tongue, back arching, thighs shaking, my name torn from her throat. I work her through it, gentling my touch as the aftershocks roll through her, until she's boneless and panting beneath me.
I kiss my way back up her body, settling between her thighs. My cock presses against her entrance, and she's so wet, so ready, that it takes everything I have not to thrust home immediately.
"Look at me," I say, voice rough.
Her eyes flutter open, dark and dazed and so beautiful it hurts. I watch her face as I enter her slowly, inch by inch, feeling her stretch around me. Her lips part on a shaky exhale, hands coming up to grip my shoulders. I give her time to adjust, to feel me, to ground herself in this connection.
When her eyes open again, they're clearer. More present. Less haunted by what we left behind in Morocco.
I start to move, slow and deep, rolling my hips to drag against all the places that make her gasp. Her legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into my ass, pulling me deeper. I take her hands, lacing our fingers together and pinning them above her head, keeping her eyes locked on mine.
"Stay with me," I say, the words heavier than they should be.
"I'm here," she breathes. "I'm not going anywhere."
Pleasure builds between us, coiling tighter with each thrust. She surrenders to it completely, lets go of the fear and the doubt and just feels. Her inner walls flutter around me, gripping me tighter, and I know she's close.
I release one of her hands, sliding mine between us to circle her clit with my thumb. The added sensation makes her cry out, head falling back, exposing the line of her throat. I lean down to kiss her there, teeth scraping over her pulse point, and she shatters.
She comes with my name torn from her throat, inner muscles clamping down on my cock in rhythmic pulses. Her nails dig into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks and watching her unravel beneath me drags me over the edge with her.
I bury myself deep and let go, spilling inside her with a groan that tears from my chest. Pleasure whites out everything except her warmth, her scent, her body trembling in my arms.
We stay locked together in the aftermath, breath coming hard, pulse hammering. I press my forehead to hers, eyes closed, grounding myself in her presence beneath me.
"Stay with me tonight," she whispers eventually. "Don't go to another room. Don't leave. Just stay."
"Always," I promise, easing off her but pulling her immediately against my side. "I'm not going anywhere."
She burrows into my chest, and I wrap myself around her completely. One arm beneath her neck, the other across herwaist, leg hooked over hers. Cocooning her. Protecting her even in sleep.
"We're going to be okay," she murmurs, already drifting. "We'll stop them. We'll save Amelie. We'll make it through this."
I press a kiss to her temple. "We will."
She falls asleep within minutes, exhaustion finally claiming her. I stay awake longer, listening to her breathe, feeling her heartbeat against my ribs. The cottage is quiet around us. Secure. Safe for now. But I know it's temporary. The Gala is coming. The Iron Choir is planning. And Moreau is on his way.
But right now, in this moment, Marissa is safe in my arms. We survived Marrakesh. We made it to Monte Carlo. And whatever comes next, we'll face it together.
I finally let sleep take me, holding her close, her warmth and presence anchoring me through the darkness.
Morning light filters through the windows, soft and golden. I wake to find Marissa still curled against me, still breathing steady and deep. I don't move, don't want to disturb her. She needs the rest. Needs the peace before reality crashes back in.
A knock at the door shatters the quiet.
