"Nico," I whisper against my palm.
I come in under a minute, my whole body shuddering with the force of it. My neck arches and my eyes clench shut, and for a moment I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but feel.
When the aftershocks fade, I'm left sitting on my bedroom floor, dress hiked up, underwear soaked, shame and want warring in my chest.
My hands are still trembling—not from the orgasm but from everything before it. I can still hear the wet thud of that man's body against rock. Can still smell the copper of blood mixing with salt air. A normal person would be calling the police right now. A normal person would be terrified of the man pacing outside her door.
But not me.
He's ruined me.
That's the only explanation. In four days, this tactical banana of a man has completely destroyed my ability to function. He's shown me violence and tenderness, control and chaos, and somehow made me crave all of it.
And the worst part? The absolute worst part?
I'm going to let him.
I'm going to let him ruin me completely, and I'm going to thank him for it.
Because for the first time since my mother died, since everything fell apart, I feel alive. Terrified and aroused and confused, but alive.
I stay on the floor for a long time, listening to him move around the apartment, wondering what it would feel like if he broke down this door and took what we both know he could have.
Wondering if I'd fight or if I'd finally, finally surrender.
7 - Nico
Eighteen times. That’s how many times I’ve replayed throwing that man into the rocks. Not because the violence bothers me. I’ve done worse for less reason. It’s the satisfaction that disturbs me. The cold, perfect rightness I felt watching his blood mix with salt water.
He touched what’s mine.
The thought surfaces before I can stop it. I shove it down, hard. Marisol isn’t mine. She’s an asset. A mission. A disaster in designer clothing who makes up words and calls me Horse Man. Nothing more.
My body doesn’t believe the lie anymore.
I’ve been awake since four, running the scene on loop. The way his hand slid down her arm. The red film that dropped over my vision. The throw, not tactical, not measured, but savage. Pure instinct overriding years of training. And her face afterward. I’m trained to read micro-expressions, to track fear and arousal and everything between.
She was both. Terrified and turned on, and that combination is more dangerous than any threat I’m supposed to be protecting her from.
The coffee maker hisses as I pour my third cup. Black, bitter, punishment for letting control slip. Through the windows, Miami’s morning sun already burns angry gold, another day of heat that makes everything feel too close, too urgent. Bass thumps from a boat passing on the bay, the sound vibrating through glass.
I check my Glock, standard morning routine. Chamber clear, magazine full. The weight of it reminds me why I’m here. Protection detail, not whatever this is becoming.
Movement from her room. Later than usual, past ten. She emerges differently today, wrapped in an oversized sweater despite the temperature, loose pants instead of her usual barely-there shorts. Her hair falls forward, hiding her face as she reaches for a mug.
“Morning,” I say.
She flinches. Actually flinches, like my voice is a physical touch she wasn’t prepared for. “Coffee first. Words later.”
But there’s no sunshine in it. No tactical banana jokes or elaborate complaints about my existence. She pours coffee with hands that shake slightly, won’t meet my eyes for more than a heartbeat. When she does glance my way, pink spreads across her cheeks and she looks away fast, like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t.
I notice she’s added sugar to her coffee. Three spoonfuls to my zero. Even our coffee is opposites.
“We need to address something,” I say after she’s had half her mug.
She tenses. “If this is about yesterday…”
“It’s about your safety. You need to learn how to defend yourself.”
