I close the distance, pressing my lips to hers.
It's not gentle; it's hungry and demanding.
Her lips are soft, yielding, and she tastes like a mixture of fire and desperation. I deepen the kiss, my tongue sliding against hers, exploring every contour.
She gasps, her hands reaching up to grip my shoulders, nails digging in as she matches my intensity.
Her body presses against mine, every curve fitting perfectly against my hard edges.
I release her arms, my hands moving to her waist, then up her back, pulling her even closer. Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling gently, and a low groan escapes me.
I can feel her heart pounding against my chest, echoing the rhythm of my own. Her tongue meets mine, bold and demanding, and I lose myself in the sensation.
Her hands move to cup my face, her thumbs brushing lightly against my jaw.
The touch is surprisingly tender, a contrast to the ferocity of our kiss. I lean into her touch, letting the warmth of her hands soothe the raw edge of my need.
We break apart, our breaths ragged and uneven.
Her lips are swollen, and her eyes are filled with a mixture of shock and longing. I can see the war raging in her gaze, the struggle between desire and caution.
"We shouldn't," she whispers, but her voice is filled with uncertainty.
I realize that this kiss has changed something between us.
I watch her pull back, her lips still parted, cheeks flushed with heat.
Her hair falls wild around her face, tangled from where my fingers threaded through it moments ago.
But it's her eyes that catch me—bright, almost feverish, pupils blown wide with something between desire and defiance.
Dangerous. All of it.
She straightens her spine, jaw tightening as she wrestles control back into place.
"About our deal," she says, voice rougher than usual. "The truth for protection, right?"
I nod once, not trusting my own voice yet.
"Before my contact died, he said something. One word." She pauses, studying my face with that razor-sharp focus. "Blackout."
The air thickens between us. I’m surprised but keep my expression neutral, almost too well-practiced. Yet, Sloane notices the shift; her eyes narrow slightly as she watches me.
“You know it,” she accuses, voice sharp. “You knowexactlywhat that means.”
Damn it.That single word sends a jolt through me, a flood of memories crashing against my carefully constructed walls. Thoughts spiral, wrestling with each other.
How could she know that? What’s she truly after?
I can feel that familiar tension coiling in my gut, the dread of being linked to that mission—the one that haunts my nights.
This could lead to disaster.
9
SLOANE
"You know it." My voice sharpens, a blade forged in urgency. "You knowexactlywhat that means."
