Page 70 of The Sniper

I moaned, helpless against it.

“You still want me,” he said, eyes locked on mine, his thumb brushing the underside of my breast. “Say it.”

“No,” I breathed, even as I arched into his hand.

“Liar.”

His mouth claimed mine again, brutal and demanding, and I gave in. I gave everything. Let him drag me to the floor, the wood warm against my back, his body blanketing mine.

He lifted my dress the rest of the way, shoved my panties aside with a growl that vibrated through my bones, and thrust inside me in one hard, unforgiving stroke.

I cried out—whether from pain or pleasure, I didn’t know. Didn’t care.

Because I needed this.

Needed him.

Even if I hated him. Even if I couldn’t trust him.

His name tore from my throat over and over as he drove into me, each thrust harder than the last, my legs locked around his waist like I couldn’t bear to let him go.

The edge came fast, hot and savage, curling my spine off the floor as I broke beneath him, crying his name like a curse and a prayer all at once.

He followed with an urgent sound—my name punched from his lungs as he came inside me, hips stilling, forehead dropping to mine.

We stayed like that—bodies tangled, hearts racing, breath ragged.

Then he kissed me again.

Soft.

Ruined.

And whispered, “I’d never lie about this. Not to you.”

But I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t know if I believed him.

And I wasn’t sure which was worse—believing him, or not.

The silence stretched, warm and heavy. His body didn’t move from mine, but the fury that had driven us to the floor had cooled, replaced by something slower. Quieter. His fingertips traced the underside of my thigh, then slid gently up, settling on my waist like he was grounding both of us.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, voice hoarse. “For all of it. Not for this—” he brushed his lips across my jaw, “—but for everything else. For how it looks. For what I’ve brought to your doorstep.”

I swallowed hard, my hands still fisted in his shirt. “What are you part of, Noah?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just shifted slightly, his length still inside me, his body warm and solid against mine. “That’s the thing,” he said quietly. “I don’t even know anymore.”

He pulled back to look at me, brushing a strand of damp hair from my face, his fingers careful, reverent. “It started with family. Blood. Men who built something after war because they couldn’t go back to normal. Because we were too good at killing, and too bad at pretending we didn’t need the chaos.”

“Dominion Hall,” I whispered.

He nodded. “And the people we work for, who use us now? Black ops, private deals, things the government wants to keep off the books.” He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “But it’s more than that. It’s a legacy. One I’m a part of whether I wanted it or not.”

“And do you?”

His eyes locked on mine. “That’s the problem. I don’t think I ever did. Not really.”

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