Page 47 of No Words
“Good girl,” I grit, increasing the pressure, the pace, the force behind every stroke.
“Now come for me. Now.”
The second I give her permission, she breaks. Her back arches off the bed, a raw, keening cry tearing from her throat as release crashes over her. Her pussy clenches around me in tight, relentless pulses, dragging my orgasm from me with superhuman force.
I drive into her one last time, driving so deep I swear I feel her heartbeat around me, and finish with a growl, leaving my come buried deep inside her.
For a long moment, neither of us move, locked together in the aftermath of something that felt like destruction and creation at once. The violence outside, the bodies in the yard, the corruption we’ve uncovered. It comes down to one truth: the world wants to take her from me. Every system failed her. Each person who should have protected her sold her out. I won’t fail. I can’t be another person who lets her down.
When I finally regain enough function to think, I carefully unbuckle the belt from her wrists, massaging the reddened skin to restore circulation. I check her throat next, inspecting for any marks that might linger too long.
Everything else fades: the bodies, the betrayal, the chaos waiting outside. For now, there’s only this. Only us. Her trembling beneath me, her eyes half-lidded and dazed, lips swollen from my kisses. The only place in the world that feels real is this bed.
I don’t pull out. Not yet. I stay inside her, softening gradually, letting her feel every inch of me as the heat fades. Her back is still arched, cheek pressed to the sheets, her body tremblingin the aftermath. I run a hand down her spine, grounding her, claiming her, holding her here with me.
She makes a soft sound, barely more than a breath, and shifts slightly, not to get away, but to stay connected. I should ease off her, give her room to breathe, but I can’t. Not yet. Not when this is the only place I feel whole.
As if I could ever walk away from this. From her.
I finally ease out of her, slow and careful, her body twitching with aftershocks. Her skin is like silk beneath my fingertips as I smooth my hand down her trembling back, fingers threading gently through her hair while her breathing gradually slows. The instinct to protect, to cherish what I’ve claimed, is almost as powerful as the desire to possess.
Through the half-open window, I catch snatches of tactical radio chatter, the rhythmic sound of shovels breaking earth, and the occasional muffled instruction. The team is erasing all traces that Alessio Borsellini or his men ever existed. Removing bodies, cleansing evidence, restoring the natural order.
“You’re staring,” Molly murmurs, her voice husky from earlier screams.
“I’m memorizing,” I correct her, my thumb tracing the outline of her bottom lip. “Every curve. Every mark.”
We lie tangled in the sheets of the bedroom, a small sanctuary removed from the carnage outside. In here, there’s only us. Only life. Only the aftermath of what we’ve just shared.
Three sharp raps on the door crash us back to reality. Jayce’s voice follows immediately.
“Found something on Alessio’s guy. Different phone, different encryption.”
I press my forehead against Molly’s for a moment. “Wait here.”
She nods, understanding the shift in priorities. I pull on pants and a t-shirt, moving to the door with. When I open it,Jayce stands in the hallway, his tactical gear still splattered with blood from the cleanup operation. He hands me a sleek black device.
“Thought you’d want to see this before we torch it.”
“Give me five minutes.”
He nods and heads back to the cleanup effort outside. I return to the bedroom where Molly has wrapped herself in the sheet, sitting up against the headboard.
“Trouble?” she asks, reading my expression.
“Information,” I correct her.
Minutes later, we’re seated at the kitchen table. Through the window, I can see Jayce and Jensen dragging another body toward the makeshift gravesite in the woods. Even from here, I can see the clean bullet hole in the man’s forehead, my work.
Coffee grows cold in abandoned mugs while I spread Alessio’s belongings across the scarred wooden surface. His phone, wallet, weapon, and various scraps of paper covered in handwritten notes. Molly sits across from me, her hair pulled into a messy bun, wearing one of my t-shirts that hangs to her mid-thigh. Despite the clean clothes and washed skin, gunpowder and sweat cling to our skin despite the quick cleanup. Some things don’t wash away so easily.
I reach for Alessio’s phone, a high-end model with military-grade encryption. Fortunately, unlocking dead men’s phones is a particular specialty of mine. Twenty minutes later it gives up its secrets, screen illuminating with a soft blue glow that catches on Molly’s face across the table.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, scrolling through messages.
“What is it?” Molly leans forward, her prosecutor’s instincts kicking in.
I turn the phone toward her, showing her the long thread of messages between Alessio and a contact saved simply as “T.” The content leaves no room for misinterpretation.
