Page 63 of Defending What's Mine

Fifteen minutes of heat bleeding tension from my shoulders, I finally step out of the shower. I towel dry, pull on soft lounge pants, slide the Glock into the bedside drawer with the magnetic lock engaged, and slip back beneath the sheets.

Charlotte senses me instantly, instinct drawing her closer even in sleep. She nests against my side, hand settling over my ribcage as if she never wants to question my heartbeat again. The simplicity of that touch rocks me harder than any firefight—I pulled her from a nightmare, but part of me wonders if I’ve dragged the nightmare in with us.

For an hour I lie there, eyes on the ceiling, mind mapping strategies: early-morning intel call to Dean, request thermal drones over the lake properties, double our on-site security with the off-duty BRAVO crew. By 05:10, gray dawn seeps through the curtains, and my lids finally drift closed.

Light filterssoftly when the mattress shifts. Charlotte’s fingers feather along my chest. I surface from shallow sleep. The clock reads 09:03. She’s propped on one elbow, hair tousled into wildfire streaks, eyes clear for the first time in days.

“Hey,” she whispers, voice husky with sleep and something warmer.

I cup her face automatically, thumb brushing the faint shadow near her cheekbone. “Morning. Pain level?”

“A dull roar,” she admits. “But the good kind—the still-alive kind.” Her hand slides to my shoulder, nails tracing faint circles that raise a slow burn beneath my skin. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Enough,” I counter, but it’s obvious she sees through me. Before she can question farther I lean up, slanting my mouth over hers.

The kiss ignites slow but deep. Her lips taste of mint and leftover lavender. She makes a small sound, half sigh, half invitation, and shifts closer, pressing the length of her body against mine. Thewarm slide of silk pajama fabric over my bare chest sparks a pulse of heat low in my abdomen.

I angle her beneath me gently, careful of bruises, one hand braced by her head, the other skimming her waist. Her breath hitches. Her fingers curl into my hair, tugging me closer. I deepen the kiss—tongue sliding along hers, savoring the way she melts then pushes back, meeting me stroke for stroke. The world narrows to the soft press of her thighs, the scent of vanilla still ghosting her skin, the quiet hum in my ears that’s half blood rush, half her staccato breaths.

Her hands roam—over my shoulders, down my spine—tracing every line as though committing me to memory. I break the kiss only to trail along her jaw, tasting the pulse fluttering there. She arches up, lips brushing my ear with a whispered “Asher,” breathy and wrecked.

Control flickers. I press my forehead to hers, inhaling her exhale, fighting the urge to take more. She’s healing; my job is to protect, not push. But she lifts my chin with a fingertip, eyes dark sapphire, and pulls me back into another kiss—slow, searching, claiming. Heat coils tighter.

After a long, lingering slide of lips, I draw back, resting half-weight so I don’t strain her ribs. She smiles up, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. “That felt… remarkably real for a fake fiancé.”

“Training drills evolve,” I murmur, brushing a thumb across her lower lip where mine just were. “We adapt.”

Her laughter is low and thrilled. She stretches, wincing slightly but refusing to let me retreat. “Thank you. For everything but especially for this.”

I stroke a rogue strand behind her ear. “Anytime.” Then, quietly, “I still have to brief Dean. Wade’s out there.”

The mention dims her smile but resolves her eyes. “We’ll handle him. Together.”

I kiss her once more—soft, sealing the promise—then push up, retrieving a T-shirt from the armchair. She watches, wrapped in sheets, lips still parted, and the possessiveness that hits me is borderline feral. No one touches her again. Not Wade, not cartel creditors, not even stray gossip.

As I grab my phone to dial Dean, Charlotte’s voice drifts past my shoulder: “When you’re done strategizing, breakfast in bed?”

My answering grin feels sharp, determined, alive. “Plan on it, beautiful.”

I step into the adjoining room to make the call, blood still singing from her taste, heart steadier now that the most important piece of my world is awake, unbroken, and kissing me like we have all the time in the world. Wade may be ghosting through the pine woods, but he’ll learn soon enough. A man at war for the woman he loves doesn’t sleep, doesn’t tire, doesn’t miss.

29

Charlotte

I sink back against the pile of pillows as Asher steps into the next room to make his call. My heart rate slowly begins to settle, though it still pounds out a relentless rhythm in my chest. The faint hum of his deep voice drifts through the cracked door, reassuring yet authoritative, reminding me just how capable and fiercely protective this man truly is.

A sigh escapes my lips as I pick up the leather-bound room service menu from the bedside table. Breakfast might offer the distraction I desperately need—something safe and mundane amid the chaos that keeps swirling around us.

My eyes scan down the page, hardly registering the words. Omelets, pancakes, fresh fruit. The items blur together as I realize I'm not even remotely hungry. Not for food, anyway. My body craves something more. Something entirely more dangerous, more satisfying, and distinctly Asher-shaped.

I set the menu aside just as Asher steps back into the room, and my breath catches. He's slipped into dark sweats and a simple black T-shirt that hugs his broad shoulders in ways that shouldbe illegal. His hair is slightly tousled from our earlier kiss, his eyes carrying a hint of lingering intensity from the call. His presence alone makes my pulse quicken, heat blooming beneath my skin.

His gaze meets mine immediately, and a slow smile curves his lips, softening the harder lines of his face. "You find something good?"

I shrug lightly, returning his smile. "I got a little distracted."

He arches an eyebrow, closing the distance to the bed in two smooth strides. "Is that right?"

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