His eyes meet mine. Gray and silver and full of fear.
"I don't know how to be... whatever you need me to be."
"I don't need you to be anything." I shift closer, ignoring the ache in my body, the cum drying on my skin. "I just need you to stay. Even if it’s just for now."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then his arm comes around me, pulling me against his chest. His heart is pounding, rabbit-fast, and I press my ear against it and listen.
"This is dangerous," he murmurs into my hair.
"I know."
"We shouldn't."
"Probably not."
"You're going to ruin me."
I smile against his skin. "That's the plan."
I wake up alone.
For a moment, I don't know where I am. The sheets are softer than the ones in my guest room, the mattress too comfortable, the room too dark. Then memory crashes back in fragments: his hands on my throat, his cock inside me, the way he said "mine" like it was the only word that mattered.
I'm sitting up before I fully wake, looking around, my heart pounding against my ribs.
The bedroom is empty. Light filters through curtains I don't remember being closed. The space beside me is cold, which means he's been gone for a while.
I push down the panic. He lives here. He probably just went to make coffee or check his precious security feeds or do whatever emotionally constipated geniuses do at the crack of dawn.This doesn't mean he's regretting it. Doesn't mean he's going to pretend it never happened.
Even if that's exactly what I'd expect him to do.
My body aches when I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The good kind of ache. The kind that settles into your bones and reminds you with every movement that something real happened here. I feel hollowed out and filled up at the same time, like he rearranged something inside me that needed rearranging.
I look down at myself and assess the damage: bruises on my hips in the shape of fingers, scratches down my chest that sting when I breathe too deep, a bite mark on my shoulder that's already turning purple, crusted with dried blood. My ass throbs, used and sore, and when I shift my weight I can feel where he was. Where he still is, in some way. Marked on me. In me.
I should probably be concerned about how much I like seeing them.
Someone left clothes on the chair by the door. Clean sweatpants, a soft t-shirt, even a pair of socks. The gesture is so unexpectedly thoughtful that I stand there staring at them for a full minute before putting them on.
The apartment smells like coffee when I step into the hall. I follow the scent to the kitchen and find Jagger at the counter, two mugs already poured, staring at his phone with an expression I can't read.
"Morning," I say.
He looks up. His eyes travel over me, lingering on the visible edge of the bite mark above my collar.
"How do you feel?" he asks.
"Like I got fucked within an inch of my life by a repressed assassin with control issues." I grab one of the mugs. "So pretty good, all things considered."
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close.
"There's food in the fridge if you're hungry."
"Are we going to talk about last night?"
"I was hoping to avoid it."
"Shocking." I lean against the counter, sipping coffee, watching him. He's already dressed. Black pants, black shirt, sleeves rolled up. His hair is damp from a shower. He looks put together, controlled, every inch the cold strategist.
