Page 14 of No Words

“That’s it,” he encourages, watching my fingers work in rhythm with his thrusts. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you surrender completely.”

My entire body tightens, hovering on the precipice. Cole recognizes the signs and leans down to whisper in my ear.

“Come for me. Now.” He urges, his breath hot against my skin.

His command obliterates my last restraint. The orgasm crashes through me with devastating intensity, my entire body convulsing as I cry out his name. The sound seems to break something loose in him as well. His rhythm falters, becoming erratic as his control finally breaks.

“Molly,” he groans, his body tensing above me. I feel him throbbing inside as he empties himself, his face transformed by pleasure in a way that makes him look almost vulnerable.

For a moment, we remain joined, both gasping for breath, sweat-slicked bodies pressed together in the aftermath of something that feels like more than just sex. He withdraws carefully, making me wince at the sudden emptiness. My legs shake when I try to stand, and he steadies me with gentle hands.

“Easy,” he murmurs, studying my face with concern. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been completely ruined,” I admit, surprised by my honesty.

A satisfied smile crosses his features. “Come on.”

He guides me toward the bathroom, one arm supporting my unsteady steps. I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror and barely recognize my reflection. Hair disheveled, lips swollen, skin flushed and marked. I look thoroughly debauched and wholly satisfied.

In the bathroom, Cole turns on the tub faucet, and steam begins to rise, carrying the scent of lavender and eucalyptus.

The hot water stings slightly against my sensitized skin, but it’s exactly what I need.

I sink down with a grateful sigh, the heat immediately beginning to soothe muscles I didn’t realize were so tense.

Cole kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves.

He soaps the cloth, the lather warm and slippery between his fingers as he washes me with the same careful attention he showed during our encounter. His touch is gentle now, reverent even, as he cleans away the evidence of our passion.

“You’re being very gentle,” I observe.

“You deserve gentle right now,” he replies quietly. “What we did was intense. I need to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m more than okay.” I catch his hand with mine. “But this side of you, this caring... it’s unexpected.”

“Good or bad, unexpected?”

“Good,” I say without hesitation. “Very good.”

“How do you feel though? Not just physically, but emotionally too.” His fingers trace soothing patterns on my skin.

I consider the question seriously. “Overwhelmed. But not in a bad way. Safe, despite everything.”

“Good. That’s exactly how you should feel.” His voice softens. “We’ll always talk afterward. Always check in.”

He continues washing me, shampooing my hair with careful fingers that massage my scalp. This tenderness hits deeper than his dominance did. Care instead of control. Trust instead of surrender.

He stands to leave to get a towel, but I catch his wrist. “Cole?”

“Yeah?”

“I meant what I said earlier. About trusting you. That hasn’t changed.”

Something shifts in his expression, a vulnerability I haven’t seen before. “Good. You can trust me with this. With all of it.”

He helps me out of the bath, wrapping me in a thick towel. His touch is different now, tender rather than demanding, yet still possessive. He dries me with careful attention, his fingers lingering over the places he marked earlier. When he reaches for clothes, I shake my head.

“Not yet,” I say, surprising myself with my boldness.

Instead, he nods and retrieves a soft blanket from the bedroom.

In the living room, he builds a fire in the extensive woodstove.

The cabin fills with warmth and dancing light.

Wood smoke drifts through the air, mixing with the lingering scent of sex and sweat.

He settles on the couch, pulling me against him, my back to his chest, both of us wrapped in the blanket.

For a long while, we simply exist in the quiet. His heartbeat steady against my spine, his arms secure around my waist. The silence feels comfortable, as if we’ve known each other far longer than these few intense days.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, his voice a gentle rumble I feel through his chest.

“That I didn’t know it could be like this,” I answer honestly. “That control isn’t always safety.”

His arms tighten slightly. “It isn’t. Sometimes, surrender is strength.”

We stay like that, watching the fire, our bodies still connected though the urgency has passed. Eventually, he shifts, reaching for his communications equipment on the side table. I watch as he checks the messages, his professional demeanor returning as he scrolls through the data.

His face tightens at whatever he reads.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Borsellini’s men. They’ve narrowed the search area. We may not have much time left here.”

Fear spikes through me, but it’s different now, not the paralyzing terror of before, but something sharper, more focused.

“How close?” I ask, sitting up straighter, the prosecutor in me momentarily resurfacing.

“Too close for comfort. Three neighboring towns have reported strangers asking questions. They’re working in a grid pattern. Methodical.”

I nod, processing the information. “And our options?”

“We move before they find us. Change locations, possibly identities.” He studies my face. “Or we make a stand. Killian could have a team here in a few hours.”

Killian. Another name, another connection I know nothing about. How many people does Cole have at his disposal? Yet I trust him completely with my life, with my body, perhaps with more.

“What will happen to us when we leave here?” The question encompasses far more than our physical safety.

Cole looks at me, his expression softening slightly. “That depends on what you want to happen.”

I used to lecture law students about the importance of working within the system, about how vigilante justice undermines everything our society stands for. Those lectures feel like someone else’s memories now. The system I defended so passionately couldn’t keep me alive for a single week.

The woman staring back from the reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows has steady hands and clear eyes.

She could kill if she had to. She could disappear if she wanted to.

Most importantly, she could choose. The reflection isn’t Molly Morrone, federal prosecutor.

She’s not quite Isabella Gallo either. She’s someone formed in the crucible of danger and desire, someone unafraid of her own darkness.

“I want to survive,” I tell him, though part of me wonders what survival means now.

The Molly who believed in due process and constitutional rights is dying piece by piece.

But maybe she was na?ve. Maybe the world was always this dark, and I was just too sheltered to see it.

“And I want this. Whatever this is becoming.”

He nods once; the gesture contains volumes. His hand finds mine beneath the blanket, our fingers interlacing.

“Then we’ll make it happen.”