He comes up the length of my body, weight settling over me, and the satisfaction in his face is unhurried and private in a way that sends a second wave of heat through me before the first has fully receded.
"My turn," I say.
His eyes sharpen. "Is that so."
"Lie down."
A beat. The particular stillness that means he's weighing whether to let me have this. Then he rolls onto his back and I take my time with him the way he took his time with me, learning the geography of the scars on his ribs, the tattoo along his side, the places that make his jaw clench and his hand tighten in my hair. I work down his stomach, feel his muscles contract under my palms, and when I finally close my mouth around him the sound he makes is quiet and involuntary and nothing like the controlled man in the kitchen. His grip in my hair tightens. I take my time.
When his thighs go rigid and he tugs once in warning I pull back, because I have my own intentions for this.
I move up over him and take him in my hand first, watch his stomach contract with the effort of holding still, and sink down onto him slowly, one inch at a time, until he's fully seated inside me and we're both breathing through it. The stretch of him is extraordinary. His hands find my hips and grip hard enough that I'll have the marks of his fingers tomorrow, but he holds rather than directs, jaw set, letting me have the pace while a muscle ticks in his throat with the restraint of it.
I roll my hips and feel him everywhere.
"Isabella." His voice has nothing polished left in it.
"I know," I say, and move.
I set a slow rhythm at first, deliberate, watching his expression as I rise and fall, the way his control splinters a little more with every stroke. His grip tightens. His hips push up to meet mine and I press down to meet him, finding the angle that drags a sound out of both of us. His thumb finds the place where we're joined and works in tight circles and my rhythm breaks entirely, hips grinding rather than rolling, chasing it. He watches my face the whole time with an intensity that makes me feel exposed in ways that have nothing to do with being undressed.
When I come again it's harder and faster than the first time and I drop forward onto my hands, spent and shaking, and he gives me exactly three seconds before he rolls me under him and takes over. His rhythm is deep and unhurried and completely certain, and whatever was left of my composure goes with it. The third time I come apart he's right behind me, his face pressed into my throat, his weight fully on me, both of us breathing hard in the close humid dark.
Afterward, the ceiling fan moves the humid air in slow circles above us. His heartbeat steadies under my palm on his chest. Outside, New Orleans has settled into its late-night register,a distant trumpet somewhere on Magazine Street, the low complaint of a streetcar, a burst of laughter from the direction of the Quarter that fades as quickly as it came. Neither of us needs to fill the silence, and for a long time neither of us does.
"When this is over," he says.
A direction. Something aimed at a point forward.
"When this is over," I agree.
His arm pulls me closer. The city presses soft against the old windows, and the house settles around us in the unhurried way of old houses that have weathered more than this. I think about three weeks and Brenner's voice dropping to the register of a man showing off, describing my own delivery system back to me like I'd never heard of it, calling the modification elegant while I smiled and nodded and filed every word away.
Safe, for now. Three weeks until the first Rotterdam shipment reaches its buyer. Three weeks before my delivery system becomes a weapon in someone's hands.
Downstairs, the side door opens and closes. A single set of footsteps, unhurried. Then quiet.
Morning comes in through the old shutters in long, amber strips. Remy goes down first, I hear him on the stairs, the familiar rhythm of his tread, and by the time I follow the smell of coffee down to the kitchen, the pot is already made.
Luc is at the table with his tablet. Neither of them is speaking. Luc looks up when I come in. His eyes take in whatever I'm wearing, then the ease with which I cross to the cabinet where the mugs live without looking for them. A beat, and his gaze moves to his brother. Remy has his back to both of us, pouring.
I pour my coffee and look around for Margot.
"She's already at Beaumont's," Luc says, without looking up. "She goes in before six on prep days. Says the kitchen belongs to whoever gets there first."
"Does it always?"
The corner of his mouth moves. "Always has."
"Rotterdam," Luc says.
Remy sets the coffee pot down. "Yeah."
"Sophie flagged something overnight." Luc turns his tablet toward the counter. "One of the buyer names from Lorelai's list. The Cayman foundation. It cleared customs yesterday in Rotterdam under a shell that traces back to Lazarev."
The coffee machine finishes its cycle. The silence after it has a different texture than the one before.
Remy picks up his cup, takes a slow drink, sets it back on the counter. When he turns, the expression on his face is the one I've only seen when the calculation has come out somewhere he doesn't like.
