Page 58 of Gunnar

The sight of her undone as she clenches around me, knowing that I’ve claimed her as mine, pushes me over the edge. My cock grows more rigid, and I come, roaring my release. My hips snapping upward, I bury myself as deep as I can go, and I spill into her. Filling her, I mark her with my cum, owning her in the most primitive way possible.

We collapse together, her forehead falling to my shoulder, and my face on her neck. The limo drives through the streets of Los Angeles, the city lights washing over us in waves of gold and white, as we cling to each other, panting and trembling with aftershocks.

“Thank you,” she whispers eventually, her voice hoarse, her body still wrapped around mine.

I laugh, the sound ragged and breathless. “For what?”

“For the lesson.” I can hear the smile in her voice. Her dress is rumpled, makeup smeared, and hair is a tangled mess, but she’s never looked more beautiful to me. She’s never felt more like mine.

She snuggles closer, and I tighten my arms around her, holding her close, feeling her heartbeat slow. “Anytime, baby girl,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her sweat-dampened temple. “Anytime you need reminding who you belong to, I’ll be here to teach you.”

The limo pulls through the gates at the end of the driveway, the familiar sound of them creaking shut welcoming us home. Devyn is half asleep against my shoulder, her body warm and pliant, the exhaustion of the evening having finally caught up with her. I stroke her hair, my fingers tangling in the waves splayed across her back, and I feel the contentment that comes from having her close and knowing she’s safe.

The feeling evaporates the moment the car comes to a stop and I see Hawk waiting on the porch. He stands at the top of the steps, his massive frame silhouetted against the security lights that illuminate the front of the house. His arms are crossed and his feet are planted wide. Even from here I can see the tension in his shoulders and the set of his jaw, both silently speaking of bad news. My stomach drops, the post-coital haze shattering like glass.

I know that look. I’ve seen it in war zones, hostage situations, and moments when intelligence comes through that changes everything. It’s the look of a man who’s been holding information he doesn’t want to deliver. “What is it?” I ask sharply, the moment I push open the door.

Devyn stirs beside me, the night air washing away some of the warmth of the limo. Hawk waits until we’re sliding from the car before answering, “Mattis has something.” His voice is grave and heavy with implications.

My jaw clenches painfully tight in preparation for what we’re about to walk into. After the note and high-definition violations of our privacy, any new information from Mattis is likely to be devastating. He’s been digging into the dark web site, trying to break the encryption and find any digital fingerprints that our stalker may have left behind.

I pause mid-step, turning to face Devyn a couple steps behind me. Her dress is slightly askew and her eyes, still glazed with satisfaction, sharpen as she takes in Hawk’s expression. “Go upstairs,” I insist, keeping my voice gentle but firm. “I’ll be there as soon as we’re done.”

She blinks at me, confusion flickering across her features. “What? Gunnar, no. If Mattis found something, I want to hear it. I need to know⁠—”

“Babygirl,” I interrupt, stepping close and cupping her face in my hands. Her skin is soft and warm against my palms as I force her to meet my eyes, needing her see the sincerity in mine. “I will tell you everything you need to know when we’re done. Trust me to shelter you from this.”

She stares at me, and I watch the war in the golden pools. Her desire to be included, treated as an equal partner in this nightmare, is fighting against her exhaustion and the trust she’s placed in me. In the short time we’ve known each other, she has learned that when I say I want to protect her, I mean it. Even when it means keeping things from her. Especially when it means keeping things from her.

“Gunnar—” she starts, her voice carrying that particular note of stubbornness that I usually find adorable.

“Trust me,” I repeat, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Please.”

She holds my gaze for a long moment, and I see the second she decides through the slight softening around her eyes and almost imperceptible dip of her chin. She begrudgingly agrees, pulling away from my touch with a huff that’s more resigned than angry. “Fine. But you better not be deciding what’s too scary for the little woman to handle. I’m stronger than you think.”

“I know you are.” She’s the strongest person I know. But strength has limits, and I’ve already seen her break once when she found those photos. I won’t risk her breaking again. Not if I can help it. “Go change. Get comfortable. I’ll be up soon.”

She turns and heads for the stairs, her back straight with the pride that refuses to let her show how much this exclusion hurts as her heels click against the stone. I watch her go, my chest tight with guilt-laced protectiveness and the burden of what I’m about to learn.

When she’s disappeared inside, I turn back to Hawk. “The den?”

He nods, falling into step beside me as we move toward the house. Damon follows, silent and alert. I figure Jagger is probably already inside, waiting with that restless energy that makes him invaluable in a fight and exhausting in a meeting.

The den is as we left it—dimly lit, the makeshift conference table covered in laptops, files and the debris of an investigation that has been consuming our lives. Jagger is perched on the edge of the table with his phone in his hand, the expression plastered across his face uncharacteristically serious.

I shut the door behind us, the click of the latch sounding final and ominous. “Tell me.”

Hawk crosses to the laptop that’s already open, the screen glowing with the interface for a secure call. He hits a button, and Mattis’s voice fills the room, sounding tinny and unmistakably tense.

“I looked into Colton like you asked,” Mattis shares, and there’s something in his tone that makes my stomach clench.

“And?” I ask, the word coming out sharper than I intended, colored by the anxiety that’s been building since I clocked Hawk’s expression from the limo.

“And he’s shady as fuck,” Mattis continues, the click of his keyboard filling the background a he pulls up files. “Except for his well-hidden name change before moving to Hollywood, I have no idea how the media hasn’t caught wind of this yet.”

A name change. That explains why the preliminary search I ran came up clean. Colton Cross is a constructed identity, a persona. “Caught wind of what?” I ask, though part of me already knows and is putting together the pieces that have been nagging at my instincts since that encounter on the street.

“Colton has a handful of restraining orders and dropped sexual assault charges from his early twenties,” Mattis discloses. His voice carries a weight of disgust, anger on behalf of victims who never saw justice. “These poor women really went through it. Stalking, assault, violations that… fuck, Gunnar… you don’t want the details. But the cases were dropped when he settled and paid them off. Or in one instance where he threatened them into silence. And then he changed his name, reinvented himself, and Hollywood welcomed him with open arms.”