"Isabella." Warning in his voice. "You don't?—"
I ignore him. Lower my mouth to lick the length of him. Base to tip. Tasting salt and skin and us.
His hand fists in my hair immediately. He's not controlling, just anchoring, grounding himself while I work him with tongue and lips and suction.
I take him in. Slow. Watching his face. Watching the control fracture in his eyes as I work him deeper. Using tongue and suction and lips. Learning what makes his breathing go ragged. What makes his hips flex. What makes that muscle in his jaw tick.
"Fuck,chère." His voice is gravel. "Just like that. Take it deeper."
I do. Relaxing my throat. Taking him until I gag. Then again. And again. Finding the rhythm that makes his fingers tighten in my hair. Makes harsh sounds tear from his throat.
I add my hand where my mouth can't reach. Stroking and sucking in tandem. His thighs tense under my free hand, his body coiling tight.
"Close," he warns. Voice rough. "If you don't want?—"
I double down. Taking him deeper. Faster. Making my intention absolutely clear. Want to taste him the way he tasted us both.
He comes with a harsh groan. Fingers tight in my hair. Hips jerking. Spilling heat across my tongue, down my throat. I swallow and keep working him through it until he's gasping, oversensitive, trying to pull away.
When I finally release him, his eyes are dark and satisfied and hungry for more.
"Come here."
I crawl up his body. He pulls me down for a kiss that's possessive and claiming, that tastes like promises neither of us can make.
We lie tangled together marked and sated. In a short time we walk into a facility that might kill us, but right now we're alive and together, and for these few hours before the briefing, that's enough.
"I meant what I said earlier," Remy says into the quiet. "I will get you out. No matter what it costs."
I don't argue. Don't tell him his life matters as much as mine. Just hold him tighter and let myself believe that we'll both survive.
At midnight, we breach that facility. We destroy the compounds. We end this... or we die trying.
14
REMY
The time for the raid comes too fast.
Luc's extraction team arrives at the safe house in two vehicles. Former Dutch special forces, all of them. I recognize the type immediately. The way they move, the way they clear the entry, the way their eyes track threats before processing anything else: these men have seen combat. They've made the hard calls. They've survived operations that killed better operators and learned to live with that math.
The team leader is a man called Van der Berg. Mid-forties, gray at the temples, scar running from his left eye to his jaw. He shakes my hand with a grip that tests rather than greets, measuring me, assessing whether I'm worth the risk his team is taking.
"Pascal," he says. "Luc speaks highly of your demolition work."
"Luc exaggerates."
"Luc doesn't exaggerate about operations." Van der Berg's gaze shifts to Isabella, assessing her like equipment he's deciding whether to trust. "This is the chemist?"
"Dr. Durand," I say. The formality is deliberate, a line in the sand. "She identifies the compounds. We destroy them. Your team handles security and extraction."
Van der Berg nods slowly. "If shooting starts, she follows our orders. No arguments, no hesitation. My team doesn't die covering civilians who freeze under fire."
Isabella meets his eyes without flinching. "I follow orders."
"We'll see." He spreads tactical maps across the table. "Based on your recon: six guards total, plus Lazarev on site. Two roving exterior, four interior rotation, split between patrols and security station. Shift change occurs at midnight, but overlap runs longer than standard. We use that window."
Six guards plus Lazarev. The numbers I brought back from my near-disastrous recon.
