She nods against my chest but doesn't let go.
I solve the problem by simply picking her up. She makes a small squeaking sound but her arms wrap around my neck automatically, her legs dangling. Several guests gasp. I ignore them.
The tactical route back to our room involves three corridors, two staircases, and one elevator. I memorized the layout when we first arrived. Standard operational procedure.
Colletta stays quiet the entire way, her face buried in my neck. I can feel her breath against my skin, warm and quick. Her body fits against mine perfectly, soft curves pressed to hard muscle. The contact sends signals through my nervous system that have nothing to do with tactical assessment and everything to do with base instinct.
Claim. Protect. Keep.
I manage the door lock one-handed, refusing to put her down. The hotel room is exactly as we left it: her exploded suitcase on one side, my neatly organized gear on the other, the ridiculous heart-shaped bed dominating the center like a pink monstrosity.
The heavy door clicks shut behind us with a solid, final sound that seems to seal us off from the rest of the world.
I turn, intending to set her down gently on the ridiculous heart-shaped bed, to get her water and ensure she's stable after the alcohol and the confrontation. Mission parameters: ensure target's wellbeing, maintain professional boundaries.
But Colletta has different tactical priorities.
She kisses me first.
Her mouth finds mine with surprising accuracy given that her eyes are closed and she's still slightly drunk. Her fingers slide into the hair at the base of my skull and she pulls me down, opens for me, invites me in.
The tactical part of my brain shuts off completely.
I back her against the door, using my body to pin her there. She gasps into my mouth and the sound goes straight to my cock. I'm already hard, have been since the moment I kissed her downstairs, and now she can feel it pressing against her stomach through the too-tight suit pants.
"Kruk," she breathes against my lips, her voice a soft, needy whisper that makes something primal unfurl in me.
I pull back just enough to look at her, my hands still braced on either side of her head, caging her in. Her pupils are blown wide, her lips already swollen from my mouth. Beautiful. Disheveled. Mine.
"Say it again." The words come out rougher than I intend, a gravelly command that sounds more like a territorial claim than a request. There's an edge to it, something possessive and demanding that I can't quite control. I need to hear my name in her mouth again, and need the confirmation that she knows exactly who's touching her, who's making her feel this way.
"Kruk." She says it breathlessly this time, more certain, her fingers tightening in my hair as if she's anchoring herself to me.
Fuck. The sound detonates something fundamental in my brain, bypassing every remaining scrap of rational thought.
I kiss her harder, deeper, swallowing the sound of my name in her mouth. My hands find her waist, her hips, spanning the narrow curve and pulling her tighter against me. She arches, trying to get closer, and her thigh slides between mine.
The friction makes us both groan.
"Up," I ordered, my hands moving to grip her ass.
She obeys without question, jumping slightly as I lift. Her legs wrap around my waist automatically, locking at the ankles behind my back. The new position puts her at the perfect height, lines us up in a way that makes her gasp and I see stars behind my eyelids.
I grind against her, slow and deliberate, letting her feel exactly what she does to me. The door rattles.
"Oh god," she whimpers, her head falling back against the wood. "Oh god, Kruk, I?—"
I cover her throat with my mouth, tasting the champagne-sweet skin, finding her pulse and sucking hard enough to mark. She makes a high, desperate sound and her hips roll against mine, seeking friction, seeking pressure, seekingmore.
My control is shredding. The careful, mission-focused discipline I've maintained for years is disintegrating under the onslaught of her taste, her sounds, her body soft and willing in my arms.
I grind against her again, harder this time. Her fingers dig into my shoulders hard enough to bruise even through the suit jacket. The pain centers me slightly, enough to remember that she's drunk, that she hired me for a job, that this is not part of the contract.
But she's kissing me like she'll die if she stops. Her mouth is hungry, demanding, and when I break the kiss to breathe she chases me, whimpering.
"Grishka," I growl against her mouth. Mine. The Orcish slips out before I can stop it.
"What does that mean?" Her voice comes out breathless and wrecked, each word punctuated by the ragged rise and fall of her chest against mine. Her fingers clutch at my jacket, anchoring herself as her legs tremble around my waist.
