Page 50 of Defending What's Mine

Her answering smile is pure starlight. “And I’ve got you.”

I keep pushing inside her, letting her know exactly how much she means to me. How much I’ve already fallen so deeply in love with her. That when this is all said and done, I want her by my side… as my wife.

She grips onto me, her eyes fluttering shut. “I’m coming,” she whispers, her soft voice keeping the intimacy between just the two of us.

“I’m right behind you,” I tell her. And it’s the fucking truth. When she comes on my cock it’s the sweetest feeling. So wet. So tight. I lose all my focus within an instant. And it makes me lose all my control. Every fucking bit of it.

And I’m the type of man who never loses control, but there’s something about Charlotte Lane that has me doing things I never thought I’d do.

Soft morning lightfilters through the suite’s curtains, scattering pale yellow across the tangled sheets. Charlotte is curled against me, her breath slow and even, the glossy strands of her hair fanned over my chest. Everything about the scene saysstand down, Hawke—mission secure.

My phone vibrating against the nightstand disagrees.

I ease out from beneath her, careful not to jostle the arm she’s draped across my ribs. Pancake service waits under a silver dome on the credenza that I had gotten from room service before crawling back into bed with her. There’s a feast—blueberries,real maple syrup, extra bacon. Bribery for a late night with no sleep. I snag the phone, step onto the balcony, and swipe to answer.

“Dean.”

“You upright yet?” His voice is too awake for 0700. “I need status. That pancake order came through guest services at 0658, so I’m guessing you’re not exactly on perimeter patrol.”

My eyes track the courtyard three floors below—no unknowns, no Wade lurking in shrubbery. “Perimeter’s clear. She’s asleep.”

“Great. Any new chatter on Sinclair?”

“Nothing in the last six hours,” I reply, keeping my tone steady.

Dean exhales into the phone. “You still got your head, Hawke? Lines blur fast when emotions enter.”

“I’m good,” I lie, flattening my palm on the balcony rail. The truth—Charlotte’s warmth still imprinted on my chest—stirs an ache I can’t hand over in a report. “Nobody’s better suited to keep her locked up and breathing. You know that.”

He’s silent long enough that gulls squabbling over the seawall fill the line. “Fine. Bravo team wants a full sweep brief, 11:30 sharp. I’ll patch you in secure.”

“Copy,” I say. “Send the agenda.”

“Will do. And Hawke? Check your six. Sinclair’s quiet is never good news.”

“Roger that.” The call disconnects.

I step back inside, pocketing the phone. Charlotte stirs, stretching like a cat, lashes fluttering. She rolls onto her back,eyes still hazy with sleep. “Morning,” she murmurs, voice husky. “You vanish on me?”

“Just a call with Dean.” I pour her a mug of coffee from the carafe room service left. “Conference at eleven-thirty. Pancakes now, tactical talk later.”

She sits up, accepting the mug. “You’re always working.” But her smile is soft, not accusing.

I brush a strand of hair from her cheek. “We both know Wade’s not done. I need to confirm Bravo’s coverage grid.”

“I get it.” She sips, then sets the mug aside. “Melanie’s meeting me at the pool at ten. Girl time.”

My gut twitches. Public space, civilians, wide angles. “I don’t like that,” I say automatically.

She arches an eyebrow. “Poolside, remember? It’ll be fine. Lots of civilians,” she says, mocking me.

I grunt, conceding half a step. “Keep your phone on. Text me every fifteen. If anything looks off?—”

“I text the human fortress I call a fiancé. Understood,” she finishes, eyes sparkling.

I hand her a fork. “Lunch after my call. Somewhere I can see every exit.”

She laughs, slicing into a pancake. “Nothing says romance like line-of-sight.”

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