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“That’s impossible,” she gasps after the third time, frustration and need written across her flushed face.

“It’s necessary,” I counter, resuming the torturous pace. I push two fingers inside her, feeling her inner walls clench around me, hot and tight. With my thumb, I continue the circles against her clit. “Your body, your reactions, they belong to you. Then to me. Never to fear. Never to panic.”

Her entire body quivers with the effort of remaining motionless as I bring her closer to the edge.

Sweat beads along her hairline, her pupils blown wide with arousal.

When she finally maintains perfect stillness despite the trembling effort it costs her, I reward her by curling my fingers to stroke that spot inside her that makes her breath hitch.

I increase the pressure, the pace of my thumb against her clit, seeing her struggle to keep her hips from bucking.

“Good girl,” I murmur, noting how the praise makes her inner muscles clench around my fingers. “You’re learning.”

The whimper that escapes her is half protest, half plea. I build the pressure, pushing her toward the edge but demanding she hold back.

“This is control,” I explain, watching her fight her body’s instincts. “This is survival.”

When she’s shaking with restraint, eyes glazed and breath coming in quick gasps, I finally give permission. “Now.”

The orgasm that tears through her is violent in its intensity, her body convulsing beneath my hands.

Her back arches off the floor, her restraint broken as waves of pleasure crash through her.

I watch the transformation on her face, the initial shock, the surrender, the complete abandonment of control.

Her eyes flutter closed, her lips parted in a silent cry that eventually finds voice.

The sound of her release echoes through the cabin, raw and unrestrained.

I don’t allow her the luxury of recovery. Before the aftershocks have subsided, I resume, watching her eyes fly open in surprise and what might be protest. The overstimulation makes her try to pull away, her body hypersensitive, but my grip on her wrists remains firm.

“We’re not done,” my voice a low command. “Real survival means pushing past your limits.”

She shakes her head, tears welling up in her eyes. “I can’t?—“

“You can,” I insist, continuing the relentless pace. “And you will.”

The second climax builds differently, slower, deeper, more powerful.

I watch her face as my fingers work deliberately against her most sensitive spots, noting how her resistance gradually transforms into surrender.

Each time she approaches the edge, I pull back, denying her just as she’s about to fall over.

Once, twice, three times I bring her to the precipice only to withdraw, watching her frustration and need build to almost unbearable levels.

“Please,” she begs, her voice ragged. “I can’t take anymore.”

“You can.” I circle her swollen clit with agonizing lightness. “Your limits are where I decide they are. Now stay still.”

Her eyes, initially wide with overwhelming sensation, begin to glaze over as pleasure builds again for the fourth time. Each time I change rhythm or pressure, her breath comes in short, desperate gasps. Her skin flushes from her cheeks down to her chest, a visible map of her mounting desire.

When I feel her approaching the edge once more, I consider stopping again, watching the desperation on her face. Instead, I press my fingers deeper, curling them against that zone inside her while applying firm pressure with my thumb.

“That’s it,” I murmur, feeling the tension building in her body. “Now you can come.”

When the climax crashes over her, it’s more powerful than the first, a full-body surrender that leaves her totally undone.

Her muscles tense and release in waves, her inner walls pulsing around my fingers.

She calls my name, over and over, each repetition more broken than the last. Tears spill from the corners of her eyes as the intensity overwhelms her.

Her entire body trembles with aftershocks, vulnerable and conquered in a way that stirs something fiercely protective in my chest.

“Perfect,” I murmur, releasing her wrists to gather her against me. “That’s exactly what control looks like.”

“Lesson two,” I say, gathering her trembling body against mine. “Sometimes control means surrendering to the inevitable.”

Her eyes find mine, dazed but questioning. “And what about your control?” she whispers, her hand tentatively reaching for my obvious hardness still confined in my tactical pants.

I catch her wrist, bringing her palm to my lips instead. “My control isn’t the lesson today.” The restraint costs me, but I maintain it. “This was about you learning your body’s responses.”

She studies me with surprising perception despite her post-climactic haze. “You’re still training me. Not just satisfying yourself.”

“Both can be true,” I admit, brushing damp hair from her forehead. “But survival comes first. Pleasure is secondary.”

A small smile curves across her lips. “Says the man who just made me come twice using ‘survival training’ as an excuse.”

I don’t deny it. Instead, I help her to her feet, steadying her when her legs wobble. “Get cleaned up,” I tell her, allowing myself one more lingering touch along her jawline. “We have more techniques to cover before nightfall.”

She nods, but hesitates before turning away. “Cole?”

“Yeah?”

“Is this really just training to you?”

I meet her eyes, knowing I should lie, knowing I should maintain a professional distance. Instead, I give her the truth. “No. But that doesn’t change what we need to accomplish.”

Something softens in her expression, understanding, perhaps, or relief.

She nods once and disappears into the bathroom.

The sound of running water follows, and I force myself to turn away, to return to the maps and security plans waiting on the table.

My body still burns with unmet need, but there’s satisfaction in the restraint, in knowing I’ve put her safety above my desires.

For now.

Later, as dusk settles over the cabin, I show her the panic room hidden behind a false wall in the bedroom closet. Her eyes, still heavy from our “training session,” take in the emergency supplies, weapons cache, and communications equipment with newfound understanding.

“If we’re separated,” I explain, programming a sequence into a secure satellite phone, “this is how you contact my network. Memorize these codes.”

She repeats them back perfectly, her intelligence another layer of attraction I’m finding increasingly difficult to ignore.

“What if they find us?”

“They won’t,” I say with more certainty than I feel. “But if things escalate, I have contacts who can create new identities. We’d disappear completely.”

The implication settles between us, a life erased, a future uncertain. Her hand finds mine in the dimness of the panic room, fingers intertwining with surprising intimacy.

“I should check the perimeter,” I say, pulling away before I can forget all the reasons this attachment is dangerous.

Outside, the motion sensor on the northwest camera flickers. Probably a deer or fox, but I magnify the image anyway, scanning the tree line with practiced attention. For a moment, I think I see movement too deliberate for wildlife, but it doesn’t repeat.

When I return inside, Molly has fallen asleep on the couch, one hand curled beneath her cheek. I should wake her and move her to the bed. Instead, I sit beside her, positioning myself between her and the door, my weapon within easy reach.

I have to keep her alive. That’s the mission. But as I watch her sleep, I know the truth. The motion sensors, the dead witnesses, Alessio’s desperation: we’re running out of time. And I’ve crossed lines I can’t uncross. When the attack comes, I’ll choose her over everything else.