Page 57 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

My pulse hammers against my ribs. The scars crisscrossing his torso are a terrain I'm desperate to memorize—every ridge a history, every raised line a story told in violence.

From the main floor, the sharp sound of a rifle bolt sliding home cuts through the ambient noise, followed by the clatter of ammunition crates dragged across concrete. The team is gearing up. The war is still waiting. The clock is loud and relentless, but in this dark room, time bends entirely to Dax's will.

He sits on the edge of the low bed. The frame groans under his weight. He spreads his thighs, planting his boots on the concrete floor.

"Come here." The command is quiet, but the corner of his mouth curves—the ghost of a smile on a man carved from stone.

I step forward, closing the distance, my bare feet silent against the cold floor. The oversized T-shirt shifts against my thighs, rough against my sensitized skin.

"This is the part where the student kneels." He points to the floor between his spread legs.

I arch a brow. "Is that how they teach it in sniper school?"

"Floor. Now." There's no bite in it. Only heat, and that maddening almost-smile.

I sink down with a dancer's control, slow on purpose, making a performance of the descent. His breath changes halfway through it. Good. The concrete is cold beneath my knees. Worth it.

He reaches forward, catches the hem of my shirt, and pulls the garment over my head. It drops to the floor. The humid air hits my bare torso, and the heat of his gaze does the rest.

I kneel between his thighs, bared to the waist, completely his.

"Look at me." His fingers tangle in my damp hair, tilting my head back, gentler than his voice.

The darkness in his eyes is an abyss of hunger and heat. But beneath the bravado, I catch a glimpse of the vulnerable man. The sniper who guards his perimeter is granting me access inside the wire.

"You dictate the tempo on a stage." His thumb traces the line of my jaw, a deceptive gentleness masking the iron strength of his grip. "Not here. Here, I set the pace. Let's see how good you really are at taking direction."

"Yes." The whisper is torn from my lips, breathless.

"First rule." He holds my jaw steady, his thumb pressing against my lower lip. "Slow. You start slow. Use your tongue. Use your lips. Don't try to take all of me at once—you work up to that."

The instruction is calm, measured. A briefing before a mission.

"Second rule. Breathe through your nose. Relax your jaw. If it's too much, pull back, use your hand on what your mouth can't reach. Third rule." His grip tightens, the slightest fraction, and the almost-smile finally breaks loose. "The student doesn't graduate until the instructor says so."

"Show me." He guides my head downward.

The scent of gun oil, rain, and clean sweat floods my senses. I reach out, my trembling hands resting on his thighs, the rough fabric of his tactical pants beneath my palms.

I press an open-mouthed kiss against the rigid length outlined beneath his dark boxer briefs.

A ragged breath escapes him. His fingers tighten in my hair, a possessive grip keeping me anchored.

"Slow." The gravel in his voice drops another octave. "That's good. Exactly like that. Get familiar with me through the fabric first. No rush."

The dancer's discipline takes over, translating into agonizing focus. I drag my lips along the heavy ridge straining against the cotton. I trace the length with my tongue, tasting salt through the thin barrier.

"Good girl." The praise is barely audible, dragged from somewhere deep in his chest.

The words flood my bloodstream. The pristine ballerina, the sheltered virgin, the woman who spent twenty-three years performing for judges and audiences and artistic directors—none of them ever felt a fraction of what those two words deliver. The validation isn't polite applause from a darkened theater.

I want more of that. I want all of it.

His muscles lock. The tension of his frame vibrates against my hands.

He pulls my head back, halting me. "Enough of the prelude." The words are strained. His control is slipping, and we both hear it.

He shoves his pants and briefs down together.