Page 24 of No Words

I grip her hips, lifting them higher, positioning myself behind her. Leaning over, I let spit fall from my mouth, slow and filthy, landing right where I want it.

Then I press the tip of my cock against her tight little ass. She tenses instinctively, breath catching, but doesn’t pull away.

Good.

“Relax,” I murmur, voice low and dangerous. “You’re going to take all of me.”

“No one else gets this.” My voice drops, rough and wrecked with need as I push my thumb inside her to gently stretch her, prepping her for what’s coming, leaving her gasping with each thrust. The way she pushes back against my thumb tells me everything I need to know; her body’s begging, even if her mouth won’t say it.

I work her open, steady and relentless, my free hand slipping beneath her to circle her clit, keeping her right on that razor’s edge. She whimpers, caught between aching need and the pressure building inside her.

When I finally line myself up and press the thick head of my cock to her ass, the resistance is fucking exquisite. Her body fights it, tight, trembling, but she moans like she wants more.

I push deeper with slow, merciless control, forcing her to take every inch until I’m buried to the hilt. She shudders beneath me, stretched and full, bound and helpless.

“Tell me what I am to you,” I demand, sliding one hand up her spine and pressing her down, forcing a deeper arch while my other hand works her clit with ruthless precision.

“Everything,” she gasps, face buried in the mattress, straining against the belt cinched tight around her wrists.

Her surrender, her need to obey, feeds something feral in me. I drive into her harder, the bed frame crashing into the wall with every thrust. Each one a claim. A brand. I’m rewriting her from the inside out until her body knows no one but me.

“Please,” she breathes, a bead of sweat slipping down her temple, her voice breaking. “I can’t—I need?—”

I lean down and catch the drop with my tongue, tasting the salt of her desperation.

“Not yet,” I rasp against her skin, grinding in slow and deep, stretching the torment. “You come when I say. Not before.”

Her whole body shakes with the restraint, a broken sob ripping from her chest. I don’t let up. I drag her to the edge and yank her back, once, twice, a third time, until tears streak her cheeks and her begging dissolves into incoherent need.

Only when she’s wrecked and trembling, undone by desperation, do I press my fingers hard against her clit and screw her with a rhythm designed to destroy.

“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 trembling in 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.

Subject moving to safe house on Prescott Ave. Team of four. Standard rotation.

Witness statement locations in filing cabinet, third drawer, red folders.

They’re moving her tomorrow. Route attached.

“Is that...?” Molly’s voice trails off, her eyes widening as she realizes what she’s seeing.

“Daniel Thornton. Lead agent on your protection detail.” I turn the screen toward her. “Every safe house location, every witness statement, every move you made. He sold it all.”

Her face goes white. “The leak Killian suspected.”

“Now we have proof.”

“He was feeding Alessio information about me? About the witnesses?” Molly’s voice holds more outrage than fear now. The prosecutor in her, infuriated by the perversion of justice.

“About everything.” I scroll through more messages, each one confirming what I already suspected. “Your case would never succeed. They knew every move before you made it.”

Outside, the sound of a pressure washer cuts through the morning quiet, removing bloodstains from the cabin’s exterior walls. The steady white noise forms a backdrop to Molly’s measured breathing as she processes this revelation.

“So you were right,” she says finally. “Everything was compromised from the start.”

I meet her gaze across the table. “This is why I went off-grid. Why I brought you here.”

She nods slowly, the final piece clicking into place for her. “And now? What happens now?”

I set the phone down and pull out my own secure satellite phone. “Now we make the evidence impossible to ignore. Killian has contacts in the media and a few clean agents who can’t be bought. I’m sending everything to them. This level of corruption can’t stay buried.”

As I work, Molly moves to the coffeemaker, the domestic normalcy of her actions a surreal contrast to the cleanup operation happening outside. The rich scent of brewing coffee mingles with the chemical smell drifting in through the windows, industrial cleaners designed to break down blood.

“Any chance of ever returning to prosecution is gone,” she states, not asking. Her back is to me, shoulders tight with tension.

“That bridge burned the moment I pulled you from that office,” I reply, continuing to compile the evidence. “This just confirms I made the right call.”

She flinches slightly but doesn’t look away. “So what happens to me? To us?”

“We disappear.” I finish the data transfer and set the phone aside. “I have contacts through Killian’s network. New identity, new location.”

“And the Borsellini family?”

“The evidence will still reach the right people. Your case files, combined with what we’ve discovered on Alessio’s phone. Giovanni Borsellini will go down, just not the way you originally planned.”

She nods, processing. She straightens her shoulders, meets my eyes directly. Her ability to adapt, to survive, to face brutal truths without flinching. It’s one of the many reasons I?—

I stop that thought before it can fully form.

Jayce enters without waiting for a response, his expression grim but satisfied.

“All clear. Bodies are being handled. We’ve wiped all trace evidence from the grounds and structures.

” His voice is clinical, professional. “Satellite shows no unusual activity within a ten-mile radius. I think we’re good. ”

“How long until we’re completely clear?”

“Another hour, maybe two. Then we ghost.”

I nod. “Tell the team they did good work. I’ll handle the final arrangements from here.”

After Jayce leaves, silence falls between us, heavy with possibility. Molly sets her coffee down on the counter, her eyes never leaving mine.

“So this is it,” she sighs. “The end of our old lives.”

“Yes.”

“And the beginning of what, exactly?” Her question carries weight beyond the words themselves.

I move toward her nonchalantly, giving her every chance to step away. She doesn’t. I place my hands on the counter on either side of her, caging her between my arms. She tilts her head to maintain eye contact, the difference in our heights forcing her to expose her throat.

“That depends on what you want it to be,” I say, my voice dropping lower.

“What I want?” A humorless laugh escapes her. “I’m not sure I even know anymore.”

I lean closer, my instincts drawing me to her. “Let me tell you what I want, then.”

Her pupils dilate, dark centers expanding to swallow the warm brown of her irises. “Tell me.”

“I want you. All of you. Not just your body, though God knows I want that too.” My voice roughens. “I want your submission. Your trust. Your surrender.”

Her breath catches. “Why?”

“Because that’s who I am. It’s what I need.” I let her see the darkness inside me, the part that’s always lurking beneath the professional exterior. “I protect what’s mine. I control what’s mine. I cherish what’s mine.”

“And you think I’m yours?” A challenge in her voice, but her body betrays her, leaning subtly toward me.

“I think you could be.” I close the remaining distance between us until my lips hover just above hers. “If you choose to be.”

“And if I don’t?” Her voice a whisper now.

“Then I’ll still get you safely away from here. Ensure you have a new identity, a new life. And I’ll walk away.” The words cost me more than I care to admit.

For a beat, she says nothing, her eyes searching mine. Then, slowly, deliberately, she lowers her gaze, the universal signal of surrender, of trust freely given.

“I choose you,” she whispers, “all of you, even the darkness.”

For a second, I forget how to breathe. I’ve heard confessions. Begging. Promises whispered in the dark. But not this. Not someone choosing me, knowing who I am.

My hand finds her cheek, and I tilt her face back up to mine. “You have no idea what that means to me.”

Her lips part, and I kiss her. Not like before, not to claim or to control. But to thank her for seeing every broken piece and choosing to stay.