Page 68 of The Mercenary's Hidden Heir

I ignore her. Slow. Methodical. Let her feel every inch.

She curses, her voice breaking as she cries my name behind her hand.

"Traz," she whispers, hoarse and desperate. "Fuck, Traz, I missed this. I needed this."

"I know," I reply against her ear. "I know you did, Kelli."

A single tear rolls down her cheek. I lean down and lick it away, refusing to ever let her feel such sorrow ever again.

"Fuck, Traz…" she whines in response.

Her body clenches, dragging me closer to the edge. I grit my teeth, focus on the way her breath hitches each time I drive into her pussy.

The room reeks of sweat and sex. Her moans rise, sharp and desperate. I can feel her tightening again, her body arching.

Her heartbeat thunders through my palm pressed between her shoulder blades. We’re fused at the sternum, sweat-slick and shaking, her forehead jammed against my throat. I count the vertebrae under my fingers—C3 to T1—a mercenary’s habit of cataloging vulnerabilities. Her exhale scalds my collarbone.

The mattress groans as she rolls us sideways. Her leg hooks over my hip, possessive. Moonlight bleeds through cracked window slats, glinting in her eyes.

I catch her wrist, bring her knuckles to my mouth.

Her legs lock around my waist, pulling me deeper with each thrust.

"Traz—" Her voice cracks, a fractured plea.

I silence her with a growl, my hand tangling in her hair. Her body tightens like a coiled spring, every muscle trembling. I feel the exact moment her control shatters—her back arches, a choked cry tearing from her throat. The convulsions ripple through her, dragging me over the edge with brutal efficiency.

My vision whites out. Teeth gritted, I bury my face in the crook of her neck as the world dissolves into static. Her pulse hammers against my lips, rapid as a gunshot. We collapse in a tangle of limbs, the mattress groaning in protest.

The silence stretches, broken only by the creak of cooling metal from the radiator. She shifts, her forehead pressing against my sternum. I don't move when her arm snakes across my chest.

Her hand stills on my ribcage. The faint click of her swallow echoes louder than the street noise outside. I count the seconds until her breathing evens out, muscles slackening against me. Her knee digs into my hipbone.

The streetlight casts her face in amber. For a heartbeat, I consider tracing the contours of her jawline.

Instead, I close my eyes. Let the weight of her arm anchor me to the mattress. The distant wail of a patrol siren fades into the hum of the city. Her breath warms my shoulder.

Sleep comes like a sniper's bullet—swift, unannounced.

CHAPTER 20

TRAZ

The knock comes just after dark.

Sharp.

Measured.

My hand goes to the knife on my belt before I even think about it.

Kelli stiffens where she’s settling the kids down in the corner, her body snapping tense like a wire about to snap.

I tilt my head at her—stay there—and move toward the door.

"Silpha," comes the voice from outside.

I don't relax.

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