His voice alone is like a drug. I can already feel the ache beginning, heat pooling low in my belly. I never sorted myself out last night—I was far too wired—and now it’s back with a vengeance.
“You should’ve woken me,” I whisper, pressing closer. His hand slides down to grip the curve of my ass, fingers flexing like he’s remembering the way I moaned for him last time. “That uniform last night?” I say, lips brushing his jaw, “You should wear it more often.”
His laugh rumbles beneath me, teasing my chest where it rests against his. I tip my face up and catch his smirk—tousled hair in his eyes, lips parted just enough to tempt.
“You earned more than just a show after last night,” he says. “You’ll be on the next op.”
“Really?” I blink, heart kicking against my ribs. “You want me there?”
“Who else can keep the girls grounded? There’s no one I trust more than you.”
I slide my hand beneath the sheet, fingers trailing the edge of his waistband, voice dropping into a smile. “So, I’m your good girlandyour second-in-command?”
He hums against my lips. “And don’t forget—you follow orders now, trouble.”
“Unless I’m giving them,” I reply, nipping at his lower lip.
God, I could get used to this.
It’s wild how far we’ve come. From tying him down in my flat with nothing but suspicion and fury, dead set on protecting my best friend from her alleged stalker… to this.
So much has happened since. Too much. But I’m done looking back. What matters now is the road ahead—the fights we still have to face, the shadows we’ll walk through together.
I’ll face every demon head-on. As long as he’s with me, I won’t flinch.
Fucking stalker boy. He’ll be the death of me one day.
But I’ll die with a smile on my face.
62
Nell
With a hiss and a theatrical wince, I yank my hand back from the stove, cradling a burn that now has its own pulse and a personal vendetta.
One pan is frothing like it’s auditioning for a volcano documentary, another sizzles ominously like it’s plotting something, and the smoke alarm... well, it's having a complete meltdown. Honestly, if it gets any louder, I'm expecting the neighbours to form a rescue party.
This hob needs an exorcism.
Cam has been strictly exiled. No exceptions. I’ve barricaded him outside the kitchen like I’m protecting state secrets. He protested date night—loudly, petulantly, dramatically but he’s still getting it. Whether it’s edible or not is frankly beside the point.
Boomerang sits on the island, eyes fixed, tail twitching like a disappointed sous-chef. The judgement radiating off him could season a stew. But we both know, the moment anything hitsthe floor, he’ll transform into a furry vacuum cleaner with zero moral conflict.
“Do you need help?” Cam’s voice filters through the door, calm-ish, but with a rising edge of panic.
“Nope! All fine! Donotopen that door!” I yell, elbow-deep in a dubious sauce that just curdled at me.
He’s probably pacing, muttering to himself, calculating how fast he can stage a culinary coup once I give up.
The romantic three-course dream? Yeah, it’s now a tragic comedy. Garlic bread; burnt to oblivion, possibly sentient. Profiteroles; frozen solid, doubling as blunt weapons. Vegetables; floppy, confused, possibly reconsidering their life choices.
And then, of course, Boomerang launches himself at the counter like he’s in an action movie—intercepting a rogue meatball mid-air while Cam bursts in wielding oven mitts and terror.
Wine sloshes, pans crash, the smoke alarm hits soprano, and somewhere under the chaos, I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe.
Spaghetti and meatballs might not survive, but this date night will definitely be one for the history books.
The tomato sauce explodes like culinary shrapnel, splattering across the cabinets, dripping down the fridge, pooling on the floor—and decorating both of us like we’ve survived a tomato-based warzone. What was once a functioning kitchen now looks like a crime scene… and I’m pretty sure I’m the prime suspect.
