Page 16 of A Shot in the Dark (Fated Mates Collection | Triple Threat #1)
B oots’ belt chafes against my wrists but the light touch of his heavy hands skimming across my bare breasts holds more of my attention.
I have discovered that among the things which stoke my desire is the knowledge that my words, my consent or lack of it, is the axis on which an entire world of pleasure turns.
The power of handing over my consent is headiest when I know I can reclaim my agency at any fucking time.
That level of control…that’s hot. And for all the times Boots has suggested I have the option of deploying my safe word, I have never yet felt a need.
But who doesn’t tap the brakes on a car before taking it out for a spin?
“Mercedes.” It takes all my power to force the word out—it’s so close to a lie…
I shove it out of my mouth and at first, I’m worried he may not have heard it because it’s spoken so softly, so reluctantly.
He is absolutely attuned to everything about me, hearing each groan, each breath, and has discovered what the tone of each means.
He immediately scrambles back—out of me, off of me—asking, “Are you all right?” as he rushes to release the belt. My arms drop at my sides and I simply lie there, watching him. “I’m fine…”
“What happened? Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you?”
“No, I…”
“What?”
It sounds so stupid now. “I needed to know…”
“Know?” His expression is one of absolute confusion. “Know what?”
“If you would actually stop. If you could control yourself.”
He rocks back on his heels, stunned. When he lunges to his feet, I can see he remains fully erect.
His hands run through his hair. “I was so fucking worried,” he admits.
“I thought… I thought I had hurt you.” He looks away—this man who might yet kill me but has so far stayed his hand.
This man with a softer heart than he’ll ever admit. “I would never hurt you.”
My little impromptu test drive has proven that fact.
“You… You don’t trust me,” he says, stricken. “You let me fuck you but…you don’t trust me?”
“I trust you now,” I admit. Rubbing gently at my wrists, I look at him from beneath my eyelashes.
“Two different worlds, princess. My people? We don’t fucking cry wolf.”
“I won’t,” I swear. “Never again.”
He nods, knowing I’m telling the truth because for whatever reason, I cannot lie to Boots. Now I know: not only do I have the power to consent, but at a moment’s notice I can change my mind and that will be respected. He has the ability and the honor to control himself and see to my needs.
That’s the hottest thing ever—the combination of trust and control.
There’s not much to do in the room other than eat, watch the single available channel of tv, have sex, and sleep, so we do what we do best. Not as frantically or desperately, but when the need begins to overtake me, he’s there.
We maintain the ground rules; he strategically places condoms all around the room so whenever the mood strikes one is always close at hand.
We take more showers than necessary, Boots shaves like it’s a necessity of some religion, and we luxuriate in the nearly squalid room as only two people on a lengthy roadtrip can.
I enforce a strict sleep schedule, focusing on taking care of Boots’ needs, of caring for someone who keeps insisting he doesn’t care for me.
Regardless of what Boots claims, I must be sick—just not the way he thinks.
To give so much so willingly to a man who insists there’s nothing more between us than sex and a delivery deadline that’s all but blown?
Something is definitely wrong with me.
At first, my body only allows him to take four hours of sleep before the need rolls back through me, but things gradually change, and there’s a calm that steadies and maintains me.
Four hours without needing Boots to drop my temperature becomes six, then eight, and Boots becomes well rested.
If he moved smoothly and with animal grace before, that sensual grace is only magnified now.
Every sense of strength and capability that marked him before is only accentuated.
The man I share a bed with is more than magnificent, he is unreal. Otherworldly.
At first we fall asleep with my hands on him as if I’m always reaching for something I know I shouldn’t have.
A neat space—our demilitarized zone—remains between us, but gradually, something changes between us, and although I don’t know why or precisely when, one night I wake to find the weight of his arm draped across me, his body snug against me, and realize that’s been the way of things for a while now.
The distance between us closes, literally, and and in some ways figuratively.
“I need to check in,” he whispers into my ear as he leaves our bed. I lie there in the dark and quiet, listening as he speaks softly. “Petey, what’s my window looking like on this delivery?”
“Closing quickly. If I were you, I’d either circle back to base quickly now or push through to DCC. You need either proof of life or proof of kill; leadership will want to see proof. And soon.”
“Got it.”
I can’t help myself—I try to figure him out, try to get to know this man who’s become so good at knowing me.
He’s evasive at best. Comments like, “that’s above your paygrade,” “best stay in your lane,” and “classified,” are said with such casual authority they shut me down quickly, leaving me quietly curious.
Every time he avoids a question, it only serves to further illustrate that ‘evasive maneuvers’ are more than a driving technique to Boots, they’re a way to keep me at a distance. A method by which he keeps himself safe.
I ask, he avoids. He never gives away too much of himself. Never risks being too open.
When I ask him during foreplay what’s his rank, he tells me all that matters is he outranks me in the bedroom as he tosses me on the bed like I weigh nothing, finds my clit like he’s a compass and it’s true north, and has me coming in under three minutes.
Military efficiency .
When I ask him for his real name, he answers, “No.”
Each fucking time.
I try to brush it off, try to laugh at his pitiful reluctance to share something so simple and true with me, but it stings, and I wonder if he can’t feel the tremor running along the strands which craft our bond, or if he chooses to ignore them.
I’m lying there, my head on his chest as he strokes my hair.
“You, princess, are the sweetest thing ever. I’m starting to understand this obsession my kind has with yours.
I’ve never interacted with an omega, but if every one has even a glimmer of the magic that’s in you…
I get it. There’s something dangerous in your particular kind of beauty. ”
I lift my head to look at him. “Omega?” I wrinkle my nose at term. Although I overheard the word used when he’s spoken to Petey, it’s never been defined for me. “Like alpha and omega? Beginning and the end?”
“Maybe,” he says almost wistfully. “Maybe. In a manner of speaking.”
“So, let me guess.” I drag one finger down his chest. “That makes you the alpha?”
He tips his head up and examines the ceiling while he slowly scratches the place by his ribs where most of his scars are.
“I used to think so…” he mutters. “Not sure where I fit into the scheme of things now. Kinsmen’s ranks are—fluid and hard to climb.
The very definition of a slippery slope.
And they’d never let me near someone like you. ”
“Kinsmen’s ranks?” I stretch and yawn.
“I’m not big on talking, but you…?” He grunts. “That magic between your legs must include some sort of truth serum.” He stretches, muscles rippling and I find myself entranced. “I’ve never been so thoroughly or pleasantly interrogated. You can vet me again, anytime.”
“You’re a fabulous fuck, Boots, but you say some weird shit—in case no one’s ever told you.”
“It’s perfectly normal shit to me,” he comments.
“We just live in two very different worlds, princess. Mine’s the real one.
It’s grim and gritty, but it’s reality. You exist in a construction—a fabrication—created for the good of a very select and wealthy minority. It’s not right, and it’s not real.”
Like Marlyn Jenkins was a construction for me. I don’t mention that. “Like in The Matrix ?”
“ The Matrix ?” He rubs the heel of his left hand into the eye bearing the scar, keeping his other arm wrapped around me. “Is this a Keanu Reeves crush we need to discuss?”
“I wouldn’t say crush …”
He slides his gaze to me and clears his throat.
“What girl doesn’t have a soft spot for Keanu Reeves—if she’s being honest?”
His fingers slip into my hair, and he pulls my head back, baring my neck. “Best remember,” he cautions as he nips his way from my jaw to my collarbone, pulling a longing sigh from me, “for the next few days, all your soft spots belong to me.”
He releases me with a playful shove. “The real world— my world—is a world of kings and queens, knights, and pawns, darlings and demons. I made my bargain with a devil years ago. Made my bed, so now I have to lie in it. You should be glad you don’t have to share it except for the next few days.”
The next few days.
So little time with him is left for me, and I want more. “Your name, soldier,” I try again, adding a teasing lilt to the request.
“No.” It’s the most direct and honest response he gives me. Most times he speaks in metaphors and codes—a language beyond my paltry four—of things I cannot fathom. “Here,” he says, rolling over me and off the bed.
He digs into his duffel bag and withdraws a small box with a checkerboard design on it. Sitting at the table, he hooks the other chair with his foot, turning it to face me. “Come here.”
I pad across the room to him and sit. “King me!” I suggest, recognizing the box as a checker board.