She nods frantically, her hips grinding against my hand.
With the base of my cock gripped in my hand, I press the head to her entrance and pause for a second before thrusting the entirety of it into her. I bottom out with a groan that vibrates through my chest as my name breaks over her lips. I draw back and slam into her, hard enough that her hands slip as she cries out, struggling to find purchase again. Nothing about this is gentle. The sound of skin hitting skin is brutal and wet, mixing with her gasps and my own animalistic grunts.
My cock throbs in my tight hold as I stroke myself with feral need.
I press my forehead between her shoulder blades, as she shudders against my mouth, and I continue to rut into her like I hate her, like coming inside her is the only thing that’s going to save me.
“You take it so good,” I pant the words against her spine. “Such a good girl for Daddy. Such a good fucking girl, taking my cock.”
Sweet sounds spew from her as she pushes back to meet my every thrust. I continue to hammer into her, the slap of wet flesh deafening as my balls draw up tight. She comes hard, crying out my actual name and clenching around me in rhythmic pulses that forcefully drag my orgasm out of me. Ibury myself deep and let go, spilling into her and claiming her in the most primal way possible.
“Fuuuuck,” I grunt, my hips sputtering against my hand, ropes of cum spewing from my cock as I come.
For a moment—one perfect, delusional moment—she’s mine. But when I open my eyes, and my hand slows, I am alone in the shower with nothing but cum swirling the drain and the crushing weight of reality.
After shutting off the water, I step out of the stall and stand there, naked and dripping, still wanting her with an uncontrollable hunger as Jagger’s words swirl through my thoughts.
Because he’s right…
“I’mfuckedfucked.”
Late-afternoon sunlight pours through the conference room windows overlooking the estate grounds, washing the walls in bands of soft light. Beyond the glass, lush green lawns roll toward the tree line in endless shades of green, fountains glinting beneath the cloudless sky, while a light breeze stirs the hedges and tall cypress trees bordering the property. Everything outside looks calm and controlled, beautiful enough to sharpen the tension gathering in the room.
I sit at the far end of the walnut table, one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee that’s gone cold twenty minutes ago. Jagger sprawls beside me with calculated carelessness, tattooed fingers drumming softly against the tabletop. Gunnar sits on my other side, quiet and composed, his tall frame folded neatly into the leather chair while he watches the room with steady, unreadable focus.
Across from us, Ambassador Richard Bradenburg adjusts the cuff of his tailored shirt beneath the navy suit he’s wearing. It fits him almost as well as the calm face anddiplomat smile. But there’s tension buried beneath them both tonight, subtle enough most people wouldn’t notice.
Hawk is beside the windows, instead of using his seat, his broad shoulders squared. He’s been still for the past five minutes, but nothing about his posture looks relaxed.
On the wall-mounted screen, Abby and Mattis join the discussion remotely from Chicago. Abby’s dark hair is twisted into a tight knot, her expression all business. Mattis looks half asleep in a hoodie, illuminated by the glow of his six monitors.
The ambassador clears his throat, garnering the attention of the room. “I’ve been notified that the threats have increased.”
Abby’s brows pull together before he even finishes speaking. “The DEA haven’t provided that information to us.”
A flicker of irritation crosses the ambassador’s face before he smooths it away. “I told them to send it over to you immediately.”
“Respectfully,” Abby replies, her voice clipped but professional, “we’re still waiting on the initial surveillance transcripts.”
The ambassador exhales sharply through his nose. “I’ll deal with that as soon as we’re done here.”
On-screen, Mattis shifts, his fingers already moving toward his keyboard. “I can get it on my o?—”
“Please do, Richard,” Hawk interrupts smoothly. The whole diplomatic world does not need to know Mattis has apanache for hacking into every alphabet-named government agency. Hawk turns from the windows slowly, one hand slipping into his pocket as he levels the ambassador a steady look. “We’d appreciate having that information soon. It might help us do our jobs.”
Annoyance flashes across the ambassador’s face, but I’m not sure whether it’s from the continued requests for information or the use of his name. Before I get a chance to pin it down, he nods. “Of course.”
I watch the ambassador as Hawk retakes his place at the other end of the table. He reaches for his coffee, wrapping both hands around the mug for a second before setting it down untouched, like a nervous tic. The slight narrowing of Jagger’s eyes tells me he notices, too.
Abby glances toward another monitor off-screen. “Can we clarify what ‘increased threats’ means exactly?”
The ambassador leans back in his chair. “The DEA intercepted communications suggesting heightened frustration among the cartel leadership regarding recent operational disruptions.”
“Operational disruptions,” Jagger repeats the diplomatic language flatly.
“It means somebody cost somebody else a lot of money,” I whisper to him in jest. It earns me a scowl from Hawk, but it’s totally worth it.
Gunnar folds his arms across his chest. “Against who?”
