Page 125 of Untamed Sinner

I press my mouth to her hip, then lower, following the water. She makes a sound that is nothing like her tactical voice—lower, rougher—and her fingers tighten.

I take my time.

I've been managing the last several hours with her comm going dark and her pin on the floor and forty minutes of battery life between us and disaster. This is going to be the direct opposite of that. Slow. Deliberate.

My tongue traces the inside of her thigh, careful around the bruise, then finds her clit. I lick her, drawing her into my mouth until she gasps—a sharp, involuntary sound. Her hips roll forward. I work her slowly, tasting salt and water and her, my fingers pressing into the soft inside of her thigh as I suck gently, then harder, reading her body's response and adjusting.

She trembles, her grip in my hair bordering on painful. "Adrian, if you stop right now, I will never forgive you."

I don't stop. I’ll never stop.

She comes with her heel braced against the tile and her fist in my hair and my name somewhere in her exhale—short, wild, real. I hold her through it, both hands steady on her hips, and when she finally goes loose, I slowly stand.

She’s looking at me with an expression I have no vocabulary for. Something that has nothing to do with tactics.

"Turn around," I say.

The unhurt corner of her mouth quirks. "Yes, sir."

I lightly spank her ass. "Don't push it."

But she's already turning, hands braced on the tile, head turned to see me. I press in close behind her. My hand finds her side again—checking, quiet—and she covers it with hers.

"Still okay," she says. Low. Sure.

I kiss her neck. "Tell me if that changes."

"You'll know."

Getting the condom, I roll it on and slide into her slowly, one hand flat against the tile beside hers, the other curled around her hip. She exhales, long and controlled, and then tips her head back against my shoulder.

I survey her. "Okay?"

"More than."

I keep it slow. Intentionally, almost painfully slow. I want her to feel all of it. I want to feel all of it. The reunion of it. She brought herself back to me and I want her to know that I noticed.

My hand slides up from her hip, over the uninjured side of her ribs, and higher. I wrap my hand around her throat. Light. Firm. She turns her head to the side and I feel her pulse against my palm, steady and fast.

"Still with me?" I ask, kissing her ear.

"Obviously," she says. But she turns her palm over on the tile and covers my hand with hers, pressing it in. Permission. Direction.

I keep the pace. Deep, slow, the kind that builds rather than rushes—and I feel the moment she stops managing it and just lets it happen, her breath turning ragged, her body moving with mine rather than ahead of it.

"Hendricks."

"Yeah."

"Don't you dare be smug about this later."

I bite her shoulder. "Wouldn't dream of it."

She laughs, short and breathless, and then it dissolves into something else entirely. I feel her tighten around me, feel the way she presses back into me, and I drop my mouth to the curve of her neck and hold on.

She comes apart quietly, teeth pressed together, breath escaping in a controlled rush, fingers white against the tile. I follow her over in the next moment, my face buried in her neck, one hand spread flat against the wall.

Neither of us moves.