By the time I'm cleared to leave, dawn is breaking over Anchor Bay. My hands smell like gunpowder. My ears still ring from sustained gunfire. Adrenaline has burned through my system, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
The drive to Cole's house happens on muscle memory. Highway to side streets, turns I've made enough times now that my hands know where to go. The town is quiet at this hour, fog rolling in from the ocean, muting everything in gray. I should go back to my motel. Shower, sleep, write up preliminary notes while everything's fresh.
Instead, I park behind Cole's truck in his driveway. Lights glow in the kitchen windows.
Cole opens the door before I knock. He's showered, changed into clean clothes, blood washed away. But I can still see it in his eyes—the violence, the choice, the lines crossed.
"Come in," he says quietly.
I step inside. House smells like coffee and soap, normal domestic scents that contrast sharply with the chaos we just survived.
"You want coffee?" Cole asks.
"No." I'm moving toward him, hands fisting in his shirt. "I want you."
He goes still. "Shelby?—"
"I saw what you did tonight. The violence, the choice you made at the end." I pull him closer, meet his eyes. "And I'm still here. Still choosing this. Still choosing you."
His hands come up to grip my wrists. Hard. Not restraining, just claiming. "You should think first. What you saw, what I can do?—"
"I spent hours processing evidence and giving statements. I had time to think." I kiss him, hard and claiming. "I want you. I need this. Need you."
His eyes change. The careful control dropping away, replaced by something darker. His grip on my wrists tightens. Hard enough to feel.
"Bedroom." Not a suggestion. Not a request.
He doesn't wait for agreement. Just releases my wrists and heads down the hallway, the assumption clear that I'll follow. And I do, because this is what I came here for—Cole without the VP polish, without the careful distance he maintains.
In his room, he turns to face me. "Strip."
The command sends heat straight through me. No asking, no negotiation. Just expectation that I'll comply.
I pull off my vest, set my weapon on the nightstand. My boots come off next, then my shirt. His gaze tracks every movement, intent and patient in a way that makes my skin flush.
"Slower." His voice drops lower. "I want to watch you."
My jeans come off slower now, aware of his eyes on me. My sports bra follows. My underwear comes off last, until I'm completely bare in front of him while he's still fully clothed.
"On your knees."
I sink down without hesitation. This is what I need—someone who won't treat me like I'm fragile, who'll take what he wants with the same cold precision he used on Kline.
He moves closer, hand fisting in my hair. Hard grip, claiming. The pressure makes my scalp tingle, sends heat pooling low in my belly.
His free hand goes to his belt, unfastens it with practiced efficiency. The metallic clink loud in the quiet room. Jeans open next, and he frees himself. Hard and thick and ready.
"Open."
I lean forward, wrap my hand around him. Hot silk over steel, heavy in my palm. My tongue traces the head, tasting salt and musk and him.
His grip tightens in my hair. "All of it. Take all of me."
I open wider, take him into my mouth. I feel the stretch, the weight of him on my tongue, the way he groans low in his throat when I hollow my cheeks and suck.
"That's it." His hips flex slightly. "Just like that."
I work him with lips and tongue, taking him deeper with each stroke. Saliva makes the glide easier, lets me take more. His breathing goes ragged above me, hand fisted tight enough in my hair that it borders on pain.
