“Look how perfectly you take me,” he says, his voice rough with awe. “Like you were made for my cock.”
Then he starts to move, and coherent thought becomes impossible. Each thrust is deep and deliberate, hitting spots inside me that make me see stars. The wet sounds of our bodies joining fill the room, obscene and perfect.
“You feel so good wrapped around me,” he pants against my neck. “So hot and tight. I could fuck you all night.”
Each thrust builds the pressure inside me higher, pushing me toward a precipice I’m not sure I’ll survive falling from.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against my ear. “Let go. Let me feel you come on my cock.”
But I can’t. Even as my body responds to his, even as he drives me higher and higher, some part of me holds back. Some self-protective instinct that refuses to surrender completely.
He seems to sense my struggle because he slows his rhythm, his hand cupping my cheek.
“What is it? What are you afraid of?”
Everything. I’m afraid of losing myself in him. Of forgetting who I am and why I can’t have this. Of the inevitable moment when this ends and I’m left with nothing but the memory of what it felt like to be touched by someone who sees me as more than just another job or another lie.
But I can’t tell him that. Can’t explain why I’m holding back without revealing everything I’ve worked so hard to hide.
Instead, I pull him down for a kiss, pouring all my want and need and desperate longing into the contact. He responds immediately, his control slipping as he kisses me back with matching hunger.
The rhythm changes, becomes more urgent. He pounds into me now, each thrust harder and deeper than the last, the headboard hitting the wall with our desperation. His hand slides between us, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves, and he circles my clit with rough, demanding strokes.
“Come for me,” he commands, his voice dark with authority. “Come on my cock, Allie. Let me feel you fall apart.”
The combination of his thick length hitting that perfect spot inside me and his fingers working my clit is my undoing. I’m flying apart. The orgasm hits me like a tidal wave, stealing my breath and making the room spin around me.
I scream his name, my pussy clenching around him like a vise, milking him as waves of pleasure crash through me.
“Fuck, yes.” He groans, and his rhythm becomes erratic. “That’s it, squeeze my dick. You feel so good when you come.”
He follows me over, his body going rigid as he finds his own release, driving deep one final time as he spills himself inside the condom, my name on his lips like a prayer.
We stay tangled together afterward, both breathing hard, and I can feel his heartbeat against my chest. Strong and steady, like the man himself.
After a few moments, he shifts, disposing of the condom before pulling me against his side. I should pull away. Should put some distance between us before we get any more entangled.
But I don’t. Instead, I let myself have this moment. This illusion of safety and connection and something that feels dangerously close to love.
“You’re thinking too hard,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my shoulder.
“Am I?”
“Mmm. I can practically hear the wheels turning.”
I don’t respond, and he tilts my face up to look at him.
“Talk to me, Allie. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
For a wild moment, I almost tell him. Almost spill everything—about my father, about the locket, about the reason I can never really let anyone in. The urge is so strong; it nearly overwhelms me.
But then reality crashes back in, cold and unforgiving. He’s Hawkeye Security. And his bosses are looking for me.
What would he do if he knew the truth? Would he still look at me the same way? Would he still hold me like I’m something precious, or would I become just another case file?
The thought is like ice water in my veins.
“It’s nothing.” I force the lie and a smile. “Just… This is new for me.”
