I cross the room to him. He opens his arms without hesitation, pulling me against his chest. I can feel his heart beating too fast, feel the coiled tension in every muscle.
"Talk to me," I whisper against his throat.
"About what?"
"About what you're thinking. What you're afraid of."
"I'm afraid I won't be fast enough. That I'll make the wrong call, focus on the wrong threat. That I'll lose you and our child because I'm not good enough to protect what matters most."
The raw honesty in his voice breaks my heart. "You're good enough."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're still standing. Because you've survived everything they've thrown at you so far. Because you love us, and that makes you fierce."
His arms tighten around me. "If something happens to me tonight?—"
"Don't."
"Hannah, listen. If something happens, my men have instructions to get you out. He has money, everything you'll need to disappear. I need you to go if I tell you to. Please, don’t argue. I need you to trust me on this."
"I will, but nothing is going to happen to you."
"You can't know that."
"Neither can you." I pull back to look at him. "So let's not waste whatever time we have left talking about worst-case scenarios."
Understanding dawns in his eyes. He knows what I'm asking for. What I need from him in this moment.
He takes my hand and we walk back to our bedroom. I wouldn’t say we run, but we’re definitely trying to get there as quickly as possible. I feel like we need to spend as much time together as possible.
I lock the bedroom door behind us, my hands already reaching for his shirt. He lets me undress him, watching me with those intense blue eyes as I push the fabric off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor.
"Hannah," he starts, but I press my fingers to his lips.
"Let me take care of you," I whisper. "Just for tonight, let me be the one to take care of you."
I see his throat work as he swallows, emotion flickering across his face. Then he nods, surrendering control in a way that's more intimate than anything we've done before.
I guide him to sit on the edge of the bed, then sink to my knees between his legs. His breath hitches as I work his belt buckle, the leather sliding through the loops with a soft whisper. I take my time with the button and zipper of his pants, drawing out the anticipation.
"You're killing me," he mutters, his accent thicker with desire.
"Good." I smile up at him as I help him lift his hips so I can pull his pants and boxers down his legs. "Consider it payback for all the times you've made me wait."
His cock springs free, already hard and straining toward me. I wrap my hand around the base, marveling at the heat and weight of him in my palm. He's beautiful like this—vulnerable, wanting, completely mine.
I lean forward and press a soft kiss to his tip, tasting the salt of his arousal. His sharp intake of breath sends a thrill through me. I love having this power over him, this ability to make a man who controls everything lose control.
"Watch me," I tell him, looking up through my lashes. "I want you to see how much I love doing this."
His eyes darken as I take him into my mouth, my tongue swirling around the head before I sink down slowly. I hollow my cheeks, creating suction that makes him groan deep in his throat. His hand comes up to tangle in my hair, not directing but just touching, like he needs the connection.
I establish a rhythm, taking him as deep as I can before pulling back with a soft pop, then diving down again. My hand works what I can't fit, twisting slightly on the upstroke the way I've learned he likes. His thighs tense beneath my free hand, muscles jumping with the effort of holding still.
"Fuck, Hannah," he breathes. "Your mouth—Christ, you're perfect."
The praise makes me bolder. I take him deeper, relaxing my throat, letting him slide further until tears prick at the corners of my eyes. When I pull back, I focus on the sensitive underside with my tongue, tracing patterns that make him curse in Russian.
