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Not when I can still feel the steady, relentless press of his fingers inside me, the way he’s holding me together and tearing me apart all at once.

All I feel is this hollow, aching need to know him.

All of him.

And so, my hands lift—shaking, hesitant. I reach behind me.

The pressure inside me coils tighter, sharp and relentless, spiraling upward like a wire pulled too tight.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stop me. Just keeps fingering me—slow and relentless—and then he shifts his hand.

The heel of his palm grinds against my clit with devastating pressure, a slow, brutal friction that drags a desperate sound from deep inside me. It’s not gentle. It’s not teasing. It’s pure fucking intent. A dark, deliberate claim meant to tear me apart while I still stand here, helpless and shaking and staring into the mirror like our reflections might splinter under the weight of it.

A whimper breaks loose, wrecked and helpless, my hips rocking into his hand despite every shred of pride left clinging to my bones.

Still, my fingers find the edges of his glasses. I slip them off—slow, careful—feeling them leave his face with a soft scrape. I drop them onto the counter with a tiny, final sound.

And then—I meet his eyes.

I’m so close I can barely breathe, barely stand. The world narrows to nothing but the slide of his fingers, the throb building between my legs, and the devastation waiting in his gaze.

Dark brown. Sharp. Steady.So goddamn familiar it rips the breath from my lungs.

Recognition slams into me like a freight train.

Those eyes—those eyes I’ve trusted on ops, trusted in fights, trusted to watch my six when I didn’t trust anyone else. Those eyes belong to one man. One name.

I reach up again and curl my fingers under the edge of his mask. My pulse pounds so hard I swear he can feel it in every part of my body.

Slowly—deliberately—I peel it away.

Every nerve ending in my body screams for release, trembling at the edge, the need clawing up my spine like a living thing.

The mask falls to the counter beside the glasses with a whisper of fabric.

And there he is.

Matteo.

My breath hitches. My heart fucking stops.

And just as my mind shatters into jagged pieces of disbelief and recognition—his fingers hit that spot inside me—pressing, curling—dragging a shuddering, broken moan from my lips.

The orgasm tears through me without warning, violent and raw, all sharp edges and devastating force, clawing up my spine with a violence that rips the air from my lungs.

I can’t look away.

I can’t breathe.

All I can do isfall.

The pleasure crashes over me in waves, brutal and unstoppable, my body convulsing helplessly around his fingers as I cling to his gaze like it’s the only thing anchoring me to this world.

“Matteo,” I gasp—wrecked, raw, desperate—his name tumbling out like it’s the only thing left keeping me upright.

Not Ruin. Not Huxley.Matteo.

The man I’ve trusted my life with more times than I can count. The man I thought I knew better than anyone.