“Clara.” His reply was ragged, broken. He pressed his forehead to hers, trying to drag in air. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”
“I don’t want you to stop.”
The words detonated inside him.
His hands slid lower, fumbling with the zip on her jeans before his rough palms caught bare skin. His lips took hers in a slow, drugging kiss, his tongue sweeping across her lips as he shoved her jeans and knickers down in one swift, clumsy pull. She gasped, back hitting the cool wood, and he dropped to his knees before her like a man praying.
Her thighs trembled as his breath fanned against her, his fingers parting her slick folds. He swore under his breath. “Christ, you’re wet for me already.”
Her head fell back, her hands clutching his shoulders for balance. “Please…”
Two fingers slid inside her, curling deliberately, finding the spot that made her choke on a cry. He set a rhythm, precise, relentless. His thumb circled her clit, the same precision he used on a keyboard, only this was flesh and heat and her. She was moaning his name now, a mantra he’d never thought he’d deserve.
He sealed his mouth over her clit, sucking, tongue teasing, and she shattered, body bucking, thighs clamping around his head as he held her through it. Her pussy squeezing his fingers, the thought of her clenching around his cock in the same way, making him leak pre-cum into his boxers like a fucking rookie.
Her cry was wild, unguarded. Beautiful.
When she slumped, boneless against the door, he rose, gathering her in his arms, his lips swollen, his face damp with her. He kissed her again, slow this time, reverent, his palms cupping the sweet, soft curves of her arse.
“Jonas,” she whispered, her voice thick with wonder and hunger.
He pressed his forehead to hers, swallowing hard. “You undo me.”
Her release still trembled through her body when he kissed her again. Not the desperate clash from moments before, but slow, tender, his lips moving against hers like he was memorising the shape of her mouth. Reverent, deliberate.
She sighed into him, her hands slipping from his shoulders to rest lightly against his chest. He felt the faint rise and fall of her breaths, uneven but easing. He pulled back just enough to look at her properly, her flushed cheeks, her swollen lips, her lashes damp and clumped. Beautiful, even undone. Especially undone.
But beneath it, he saw the exhaustion setting in, the faint glaze in her eyes, the way her body sagged as though adrenaline had kept her upright until now and finally let her go.
Guilt gnawed at him. He needed to debrief, to report, to find out what the hell Oliver thought he was playing at and where the next threat was coming from. But leaving her like this? Not when her world had been torn apart today.
“Clara,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles along her jaw. “You need sleep.”
Her mouth pulled into a faint, tired smile. “You’ll still be here?”
The question scraped something raw inside him. “Yeah. I’ll be here.” He swallowed, forcing steadiness into his voice. “I’ll bring you some food in a bit. Something light.”
Her eyes softened, that shy smile tugging wider as if he’d just offered her the moon instead of a sandwich. “All right.”
He kissed her forehead gently, lingering just long enough to breathe her in, before easing back. She tugged her jeans up, still shaky, and moved toward the bed. He turned to the door, but not without one last look at her curling beneath the duvet, hair spilling across the pillow, watching him with sleepy eyes that still held trust he wasn’t sure he deserved.
As he stepped into the hall, the weight of duty settled back on his shoulders. He had a team to face, a threat to unravel. But his chest still ached with the warmth of her smile, and for the first time in years, he didn’t just want to protect someone, he wanted to stay.
Chapter 26
The war roomwas a converted dining room, the wide oak table scarred from years of use, laptop cords and burner phones sprawling across its surface like veins. Coffee brewed thick and bitter in the corner, the air heavy with caffeine, damp wool, and the faint tang of gun oil clinging to jackets slung over the backs of chairs.
Watchdog stood at the head of the table, screens already glowing with feeds he’d pulled. Fingers ghosting over the keys, he felt steadier here, in front of circuits and code. Home. Almost.
Bás leaned back in his chair, his broad shoulders filling the space, arms folded like he could hold the room together by force of will. Duchess perched opposite him, posture perfect, a steaming mug in her hands, eyes sharp and watchful. Lotus sprawled sideways in her chair, plaid trousers creased, boots tapping a restless rhythm on the wood floor. Bishop and Reaper sat shoulder to shoulder, quiet but radiating that easy unity only friends who’d survived hell together carried. Titan stood behind them. Hurricane was at the far end, still in his flight jacket, looking calm as ever.
It felt like family gathered after a storm. Tight, focused, but steady.
Valentina swept in with Monty and Scout padding at her heels. The dogs sniffed around the room before lying down at Watchdog’s feet, as if anchoring him. He didn’t miss the irony; they always did that after a rescue.
“All right,” Bás said, his voice cutting through the room like gravel. “Let’s start. Oliver Grant just put himself at the top of the fucking shit list. What do we know?”
Watchdog tapped a key, and the CCTV footage sprang to life. Oliver, striding away from the coffee stand after Clara escaped him, jaw tight, phone to his ear. The camera angle was high, grainy, but clear enough to track him.
