"I don't do this," he says quietly. "Let people in."
"Neither do I."
"Emma had Rhys. But Haywood still got to her." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "We're not giving him that chance."
"No. We're not."
The kiss starts carefully, testing, like we're both afraid of what happens if we admit this is more than a tactical alliance. But careful doesn't last. It can't, not with days of adrenaline and fear coiling between us.
Marc's hands slide into my hair, tilting my head back as the kiss deepens. His tongue sweeps against mine, demanding, and I open for him. My fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer, needing the solid reality of him after hours of reviewing evidence of what happens when you fight alone.
We make it to the bed, shedding gear along the way. Marc sets his holster on the nightstand, deliberate and controlled even now. My jacket hits the floor. His shirt follows. My tank top. Every layer stripped away until there's nothing between us but skin and want and the desperate need to feel alive.
Marc's body is a map of violence survived: knife wounds tracking across his ribs, bullet grazes on his shoulder, the puckered tissue of shrapnel scars scattered across his abdomen.I trace them with my fingertips, cataloging each mark like evidence, then follow the same path with my mouth. He tastes like salt and soap and something darker, something that's purely him.
"You've survived a lot," I whisper against his skin.
"So have you." His hands find the faint scars on my ribs. A bad fall during training, a childhood accident I rarely think about. His thumb brushes over the raised tissue, gentle. "We match."
We do, in ways that go deeper than scars.
His mouth finds mine again, hungrier now, and I let him walk me backward until my legs hit the bed. We fall together, and his weight pressing me into the mattress feels like safety and danger all at once.
Marc's mouth leaves mine to trace a burning path down my throat. He pauses at my pulse point, teeth scraping lightly, and I gasp at the sensation. His hands slide down my sides, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts, and my back arches involuntarily, chasing his touch.
"Tell me what you want," he murmurs against my collarbone.
"You. Just you."
He unhooks my bra with practiced efficiency, tosses it aside, and his mouth closes over my nipple. The heat of it, the wet pressure, shoots straight through me. I tangle my fingers in his hair, holding him there as he lavishes attention on first one breast, then the other, using his tongue and teeth until I'm writhing beneath him.
His hand slides lower, popping the button on my jeans. The rasp of the zipper is loud in the quiet room. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and drags both jeans and underwear down my legs in one smooth motion, leaving me bare and exposed beneath him.
Marc sits back on his heels, looking at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. His gaze travels over every inch of exposed skin like a physical touch, possessive and appreciative.
"Beautiful," he says, voice rough.
Before I can respond, his hands are on my thighs, spreading them wider. He settles between them, and the first brush of his mouth against my center makes me cry out. His tongue works me with deliberate focus, learning what makes me gasp, what makes my hips buck against his mouth. When he slides two fingers inside me, curling them just right, the combination of sensations builds into something overwhelming.
"Marc—" My hands fist in the sheets as pleasure coils tighter and tighter in my core.
He doesn't stop, doesn't let up, and when I come it crashes over me in waves that leave me shaking and breathless.
He kisses his way back up my body, and I taste myself on his lips when he captures my mouth again. My hands fumble with his belt, his zipper, desperate to feel all of him. He helps me shove his pants down, and then there's nothing between us.
I wrap my hand around him, stroking slowly, feeling him pulse hot and hard in my grip. He groans into my neck, hips jerking forward into my touch.
Then he's back, settling between my thighs, the blunt head of him pressing against my entrance.
"Look at me," he says.
I do. His eyes are dark, intense, locked on mine as he pushes inside in one slow, steady thrust that fills me completely. We both exhale hard at the sensation, the perfect fit, the overwhelming intimacy of it.
He doesn't move for a moment, just stays buried deep, forehead pressed to mine, breathing ragged.
"Okay?" he asks.
"More than okay."
