Page 68 of Cipher: Lethal Algorithm

“You’re not going anywhere.” He bites the sensitive skin at the crook of my neck, his voice a ragged, possessive growl that vibrates against my collarbone. “You don’t run from me. You never run from me again.”

“I’m not running.” I arch into him, entirely consumed by the heavy, bruising weight of his body. “Catch me. Please, just catch me.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He sweeps his arm across the desk, clearing the entire surface in a violent crash of hardware. Monitors, keyboards, and server racks hit the floor in a tangle of shattered plastic and torn wires.

He lifts me onto the cleared wood, stepping between my thighs.

My hands shake as I grip the front of his shirt, tearing the fabric upward. He strips the civilian sweater off my shoulders, discarding it onto the wreckage below. The cool air of the apartment hits my bare skin, instantly erased by the burning heat of his hands tracing the line of my ribs.

He unbuckles his belt. The metallic rasp of the zipper echoes like a gunshot in the small room.

There’s no gentle coaxing. No slow build. The last fourteen days of terror and isolation demand a physical reckoning.

He grips my thighs, pulling me to the edge of the desk, and drives into me with a forceful, heavy thrust.

A sharp cry tears from my throat. The initial stretch is a fleeting spark of pain, instantly swallowed by a crushing, overwhelming wave of friction. My back arches, my fingernails digging brutal half-moons into the heavy musculature of his shoulders.

“Look at me.” His command cuts through the haze of pleasure.

I open my eyes. His gaze is a dark, inescapable gravity, pinning me to the wood as securely as the grip he has on my hips.

“Right here.” He thrusts deep, holding the connection, forcing me to feel the visceral reality of his presence. “You stay right here.”

“I’m here.” I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Julian, I’m here.”

He sets a brutal, relentless pace. The heavy oak desk shudders against the wall with every violent thrust, the rhythmic, wooden thud serving as a metronome to the chaos. The friction is a physical fire, burning away the residual panic of the Macau ambush, the cold isolation of the flight to Tokyo, and the suffocating silence of the ghost rig.

He strips away every defense I spent three years building. I’m no longer an invisible coder. I’m a living, breathing wire, entirely overloaded by the current he pushes through me.

“Julian—” My voice shatters into a broken gasp as he hits a sensitive cluster of nerves, the sensation sharp and blinding.

“Let it go.” He shifts his grip, his hands sliding up to cup my face, his thumbs tracking the frantic pulse at my jaw. He speeds up, the thrusts becoming harsher, more desperate. “Give it to me, Ivy.”

I break apart underneath him. The climax hits with the force of a detonating charge, my vision fracturing into white-hot static. I scream his name into the quiet apartment, my body bowing completely off the desk as the aftershocks roll through my blood.

He groans, a deep, guttural sound torn from the back of his throat. He drives into me one final time, burying his face in my neck as he follows me over the edge, his massive frame shuddering against mine.

Silence slowly reclaims the ruined apartment.

The only sound is the chaotic rhythm of our breathing and the steady rain drumming against the window. He doesn’t move. He keeps his heavy weight draped over me, his arms caging me against the desk, entirely unwilling to break the physical connection.

Minutes pass. The frantic pounding of my heart eventually slows to a steady, exhausted thud against his chest.

He pulls back. His chest heaves, his dark eyes stripping away the last of my lingering anxiety. He reaches up, his large, calloused hand surprisingly gentle as he brushes a tangled strand of damp hair from my cheek. The violent rage is gone, replaced by a heavy, immovable certainty.

I slide off the desk. My legs shake, barely holding my weight. I pull a clean shirt from my duffel bag, my fingers fumbling slightly with the hem.

I look at the wreckage on the floor. The ghost rig. The proprietary Linux distro. The three years of paranoia and survival tactics shattered across the linoleum.

I drop to my knees and begin gathering the hard drives, slotting them methodically into a Faraday bag.

Julian leans against the splintered doorframe, adjusting his jacket. He watches me work, his expression unreadable, but the proprietary weight of his gaze never wavers.

I zip the bag shut and stand up.

“You’re coming home.”

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