Page 82 of Echo: Line
Clothes disappear with urgent efficiency—cargo pants shoved down, tank top pulled over her head, bra following seconds later. I learn every inch of her with hands and mouth. The small scar on her ribs. The freckles across her shoulders. The way she gasps when my teeth graze her throat.
Her hands work my belt, my zipper, pushing fabric aside with single-minded focus. When her fingers wrap around me, I have to lock my jaw against the sound trying to escape.
"Against the wall," she demands.
I lift her, press her against the padded surface. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer. The angle's urgent, desperate. Every touch carries tomorrow's uncertainty.
"Alex." My name comes out breathless, broken. "Need you. Now."
I don't make her ask twice.
The first thrust steals the air from my lungs. She's tight, hot, perfect. Her gasp mirrors mine—sharp, surprised by the intensity. The angle drives deep, hitting something that makes her whole body tense, nails suddenly digging into my shoulders hard enough to draw blood.
"God, Alex?—"
I cut off her words with my mouth, swallowing the sound as I start to move. She bites down on my shoulder in response, teeth breaking skin. The sting is immediate, sharp. Tomorrow once the body armor comes off, I'll wear her mark where everyonecan see it. Good. Want everyone to know exactly what happened here.
Her nails rake down my back, leaving fire in their wake. Each scratch burns, each mark a brand I'll carry. Evidence that this moment existed when tomorrow might erase everything else.
The rhythm builds fast. No control, no finesse. Just desperate need as I drive into her again and again. The wall thuds with each thrust, mats beneath us shifting, her body taking every inch I give her and demanding more.
"Harder." The word comes out rough, broken. "Alex, harder?—"
I comply. Give her exactly what she's asking for. Her head slams back against the padded wall, throat exposed, pulse visible beneath pale skin. I can see it hammering, racing. My mouth finds that pulse point, teeth scraping, then biting down just hard enough to leave a mark that'll show for days.
She cries out—not pain, something rawer. Her inner walls clench around me, fluttering, and I have to grit my teeth against the sensation trying to drag me over too soon.
"Look at me," I demand, pulling back enough to see her face. "Open your eyes. Want to see you."
Her eyes open—pupils blown wide, nothing but a thin ring of color remaining. She looks wrecked. Desperate. Beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight.
I change angles slightly, hit something that makes her gasp and arch. There. Found it. I target that spot deliberately, watching her face change with each thrust. Her mouth falls open, sounds escaping she probably doesn't even realize she's making. Broken syllables that might be my name or might be pleas for more.
The flutter around me becomes a rhythmic squeeze. Her thighs trembling where they're locked around my waist. Close. She's so close I can feel it building.
"Alex, I'm—I can't?—"
"Yes, you can. Can feel it. Let go. Want to feel you break."
Her hands fist in my hair, yanking hard enough to sting. Her back arches, pressing her breasts against my chest. I can feel her heartbeat hammering against mine—frantic, out of control.
Then she shatters.
The sound that tears from her throat is raw, uncontrolled. Her entire body goes rigid, inner muscles clamping down so tight it's almost painful. She pulses around me in waves, each contraction pulling me deeper, trying to drag me over the edge with her.
I last maybe three more thrusts before I'm done. The orgasm hits like a freight train—base of my spine to the top of my skull, white-hot and overwhelming. I bury my face in her neck, groaning against her skin as I empty myself inside her in long, shuddering pulses.
We stay locked together, both trembling. Her heart pounds against my chest. Or maybe that's mine. Can't tell anymore. Her fingers have gentled in my hair, stroking now instead of pulling. Mine are probably leaving bruises on her hips from how hard I'm gripping.
"Come back to me tomorrow." Her voice rough, wrecked. Not a request. An order.
"Always." I lift my head enough to meet her eyes. "Not done with you yet. Not even close."
The alarm sounds at 0500 hours, shattering sleep I barely found. Delaney's already moving, rolling off the mat where we fell asleep, reaching for scattered clothes.
We dress in silence. Tactical efficiency replacing intimacy. The mission's here, ready or not.
In the operations center, the team gears up with practiced coordination. Body armor secured. Weapons checked. Communication gear tested. Everyone moving through pre-combat rituals that have kept us alive this long.
