"Fuck, you're tight," he groans, pulling back to slam in again.
"Harder," I demand, nails raking bloody lines down his back.
He pounds into me with punishing rhythm, each stroke hitting deeper than the last. The table rocks under our violence, threatening to collapse beneath our desperate fucking.
"This what you wanted?" he snarls against my ear. "Getting fucked by the criminal you're hunting?"
"Yes," I sob, sensation overwhelming thought. "God, yes."
His thumb finds my clit again, circling with perfect pressure as he hammers into my pussy. The dual stimulation drives me toward the edge fast and hard.
"Come on my cock," he orders. "Let me feel you break apart."
The command pushes me over. I scream his name as pleasure tears through me, back arching as my pussy clamps down around him. He follows with a roar, pumping hot come deep inside me.
We collapse together, sweaty and shaking. Evidence papers stick to our damp skin as reality slowly returns.
"That was..." I begin.
"Fucked up," he finishes, but his arms tighten around me.
I laugh despite everything. "Understatement of the year."
He helps me down, and we gather scattered documents in charged silence. Rebuilding our case while processing what just exploded between us.
"Tomorrow's dangerous," I say, reorganizing files.
"Deadly," he agrees. "But we face it together now."
I nod, surprised how much that steadies me. Enemy turned ally turned something nameless. Tomorrow we hunt corruption. Tonight, we found connection in the wreckage of our lies.
The evidence rebuilt, our alliance sealed in sweat and confession. Whatever comes next, we'll handle it as partners.
Even though neither of us planned for that part.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
I watchSorcha adjust her earpiece, and my cock tightens at the way her fingers graze her neck. She's preparing for what might be her final conversation with that corrupt bastard Byrne, and all I can think about is how badly I want to taste that exact spot where her pulse beats.
Fuck. Not the time, Eamon.
The coffee shop buzzes with morning customers, perfect cover for what we're doing. She sits three tables away, close enough that I catch her scent when she walked past—something clean and dangerous that makes my hands itch to touch her.
My position gives me clear sight lines to all exits. Years running the docks taught me to catalog threats—two ways out, kitchen access, parking lot visibility. If this goes sideways, we need options. And I need her alive.
Sorcha checks her watch, and I study the way her lips purse when she's concentrating. Those same lips that drive me crazy when she argues with me, when she tells me exactly what she thinks. I wonder how they'd feel wrapped around my?—
Byrne arrives exactly on time, his federal credentials hidden beneath a cheap civilian jacket. The sight of him approachingher makes my jaw clench. He thinks he's meeting a loyal asset. Instead, he's walking into our trap.
"Agent Quinn," Byrne says, sliding into the seat across from her. "Report."
I activate the recording app on my phone, angling it toward their table. Every word matters now. But watching her perform for this piece of shit makes my blood burn.
Sorcha leans forward, and I catch a glimpse of cleavage above her conservative blouse. "The Kavanaghs are planning something big. European expansion through their Rotterdam contacts."
Complete bullshit. Cillian and Orla crafted this lie last night while I watched Sorcha pace our safe house, wearing nothing but my shirt and panties. The memory of her bare legs beneath the cotton nearly broke my focus then, just like it's breaking it now.
