I shift, climbing over him, placing a knee on either side of his hips.I’m hyperaware of how exposed I am like this—straddling him, wet and open above him while he watches.But the hunger in his gaze makes me feel powerful rather than vulnerable.
I position myself, slick and shameless, and rock forward so his crown drags through my folds, circles my clit.The friction is maddening, not enough and too much all at once.
We both groan.His hands find my hips, fingers digging in, but he doesn’t guide me, doesn’t take control.Just holds on while I tease us both.
“Condom.”He growls the word, though his grip tightens like he’s fighting the urge to thrust up into me.
“I have an IUD.”I still my movements, meeting his eyes.“And I trust you.”
Something flickers across his face—surprise, then heat, then something deeper I don’t want to name yet.“But last night—you regretted?—”
I place my finger over his lips, silencing him.“I didn’t regret you.”
It’s true.Last night we should have handled things differently, should have talked first, been prepared.But we were drunk on lust and restraint finally breaking.Stepping back now, pretending this is casual when we both know it isn’t—that feels like the real mistake.
“I trust you,” I repeat.And I do.In this, at least.“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”No hesitation.His hands slide up my thighs, over my hips, reverent.“God, yes.”
I rise up on my knees, reaching between us to position him.His crown presses against my entrance—hot, insistent—and I hold there for a moment, savoring the anticipation in his eyes, the way his jaw clenches with restraint.
Then I sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch.The stretch is exquisite—a surrender and a claiming all at once.By the time he’s fully seated inside me, we’re both breathing hard.
“God, you’re beautiful, Brie.”He sounds like he’s praying.His hands roam—palming my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples, then sliding down to where we’re joined.
I rock over him, slow at first, finding the angle that makes my breath catch.The room smells like heat and sex and skin, and the faint sweetness of my perfume clings to him like a secret.
I’m close—muscles tightening, internal walls clenching around him—when he suddenly flips me onto my back with surprising ease.I gasp at the shift, at the loss of control, but then he’s covering me with his body, thrusting back inside with a groan that reverberates through my chest.
This angle is deeper, more intense.He braces himself above me, one hand beside my head, the other sliding down to where we’re joined.His fingers find my clit—swollen, oversensitive—and circle with relentless precision while he drives into me.
He finds my earlobe with his teeth, nipping, sucking.There’s intention in every movement, every shift.Not the desperate fumbling of last night but deliberate, practiced, devastating.
“Come for me,” he growls against my ear.“I want to feel you.”
His fingers press harder, circles faster, and his thrusts hit that deep spot that makes me see stars.The dual sensation breaks me.Ecstasy tears through me—white-hot and all-consuming—my back arching off the bed, nails digging into his shoulders, his name torn from my throat.
I feel him follow—his thrusts turning erratic, losing rhythm.He groans my name and arches, pulsing deep inside me, filling me with heat.Our releases aren’t escape but recognition—two people who stopped running long enough to reallyseeeach other.
After, he rains soft kisses along my jaw and chest.I cling to him like a woman who finally remembers her own name.
The CIA trained me to compartmentalize.To keep distance.To always have an exit strategy.
This time, I don’t reach for distance.I reach for him.This time, I let myself stay.
ChapterNineteen
Adrien
I wake alone—cool sheets where her warmth should be, her absence beside me an alarm louder than any sound.The room holds no light, yet awareness arrives easily—the kind that lingers when something valuable slips from reach.Wrinkled linen maps the place where she stretched against me, our legs tangled, her breath a soft tide at my throat.Last night taught me what Monaco first revealed: it isn’t only the sex with Brie.After, I want theafter—the talk that opens and opens, the quiet that isn’t empty, the nearness that asks nothing but everything.
I pried details from her between silences—fragments, really.She speaks four languages fluently, can hold her own in two more.Krav Maga, she said, came harder.Her brothers went military; she chose a quieter, more shadowed path her parents believed would keep her safer.One still serves, the other now works for the Secret Service.Families like ours worship service—just to different gods.Mine, the market.Hers, the flag.
After brushing my teeth, I pull on my trousers and shirt, leaving the shirt unbuttoned, and step out of the bedroom.Across the hall the door is open and light streams in through the large windows.It’s a second bedroom, larger than the one Brie inhabits, only this bedroom is set up more like a den with a desk that’s off to one corner and open shelves brimming with clothes.This second bedroom doubles as an office, and I catch glimpses of her life here: a framed photo of what must be her parents, a small stack of novels on the desk, reading glasses she didn’t possess in Monaco.Everything precise, organized, but lived-in.
There’s no sign of Brie, so listening for sounds, I exit the hallway into the living room.The apartment carries her scent—something clean, faintly floral, as if she refuses to linger anywhere too long.
“Morning.”She appears in the kitchen doorway, a loose silk robe floating around her, hair twisted into a careless bun that no stylist could reproduce.Steam curls from the mug in her hand.The moment hangs—quietly domestic, a novelty that feels like déjà vu.
