Viper’s head swam.
The kiss was everything he’d imagined…
and still nowhere near enough for the hunger tearing through him.
The kiss broke and reformed—slower, heavier—Titus breathing against his mouth like he couldn’t get enough.
Viper didn’t think. Couldn’t.
He slid his arms around Titus, hands curving down, gripping the man’s ass hard and hauling him closer.
“Ahem,” someone cleared their throat.
Viper eased his mouth away, his forehead still pressed to Titus’s for one suspended beat, then he guided Titus aside—neither of them had realized they were blocking the entrance to the back room.
Titus met his eyes in the dim light…and shoved him.
Not angry—just a give me a second, need space kind of shove.
Viper stepped back, but not far. The taste of Titus still clung to his mouth; he licked it away, wanting him all over again.
“I have an op I have to take care of. You can’t be here,” Titus whispered, harsh and low.
“I’m not leaving,” Viper said—more truth than smirk—lifting a finger to sweep along Titus’s bottom lip.
Titus sucked in a breath and backed up a step.
Then his spine snapped straight—ramrod straight—and Viper had to press his lips together to keep from laughing under his breath.
Titus squinted at him, hesitating for a beat before he hissed, “Okay—you can stay. But you follow my orders.”
Viper couldn’t stop the slow smile that curled up—not even to save his life.
Titus gnashed his teeth, that small click so damn telling.
Viper caught the quick sweep of Titus’s tongue—zeroed in on it—and Titus gave a low growl before spinning back the way they’d come.
Viper reached out, catching his arm to slow him, then slid an arm around his shoulders as they stepped back into the noise and heat of the club.
“Relax, or he’ll know something’s up,” Viper murmured, his mouth brushing Titus’s temple as they made their way back to the table.
He still didn’t know what the op was, but now that he was Titus’sfiancé, he figured he’d have plenty of time to hear all about it.
As they stepped out of the rear hallway and into the noise again, Titus kept his voice low—barely a breath.
“That’s Vale,” he muttered. “Erebus. Don’t look.”
Viper didn’t.
He swept the room with a practiced glance instead, catching the man in his periphery—tall, elegant, still in a way only assassins ever managed.
Right.
Titus’s op.
The club hit him again—bass rolling through the marble, lights strobing soft gold over the crowd
Titus walked beside him, color high in his throat—clearly keyed up, very much not settled.
