Page 18 of Sawyer (The Maddox BRAVO Team #1)

Sawyer

Morning sun cuts through clerestory windows, scattering trapezoids of light across the padded floor.

Camille bounces on her bare toes in black yoga pants and my charcoal brAVO tee tied at the back, determined to look fierce even with cobalt streaks still ghosting her forearm.

She stretches her wrists, watching me set a metronome pulse on the smart speaker—steady, not frantic.

“Run?” She shakes her head, braid loosening. “That’s anticlimactic.”

“Survival usually is.” I demonstrate a basic stance—feet triangular, weight on the balls of my feet. “Show me.”

She mirrors with surprising accuracy. “Like this?”

I nod my approval. “First move is the wrist release. Predator grabs your arm? Rotate toward the thumb, and yank free. Strike soft tissue, and then retreat.” I reach gently, clasp her right wrist. Her pulse flutters against my fingers—impossibly distracting, but I lock focus. “Ready?”

She inhales, rotates, yanks, then snaps her elbow down—textbook. She springs back, eyes bright. “Again!”

We cycle through variations: single-hand choke defense, knee strike to groin, heel stomp to instep. Each repetition she grows more confident, laughter slipping through grunts.

After a combo that ends with her knee nearly grazing my abdomen, she backs off, panting. “How’d I do?”

I wipe a bead of sweat from her brow with my thumb. “If I were the perp, I’d rethink life choices.”

She grins. Then—without warning—lunges, hooks my dominant wrist, and executes the thumb-break release perfectly. I let it happen, half proud, half aroused. She skips away, raising her fists in mock triumph.

“Unexpected attack,” she taunts.

“Solid tactic,” I admit. “Except you forgot the retreat.”

Two strides and I catch her waist, spinning her until her back kisses the padded wall. She laughs breathlessly. Our faces hover inches apart, heat pulsing. I want to kiss her, but the comm in my ear crackles.

“Andersson to?One. Morning sweep complete. Thermal clear, seismic negative; drones on loop.”

“Copy,” I reply, not moving from Cam’s stare. “Status green.”

Cam taps the radio bud on my collar, playful. “Tell him I almost neutralized you.”

“Fifty-fifty,” I murmur, brushing a stray hair from her cheek. She knocks my hand playfully, hearts still thudding.

Rae’s voice chimes in next. “Kitchen perimeter set. I made breakfast burritos. Get them before Andersson inhales the tray.”

Cam’s eyes light. “Survival fuel.”

09:12 — Kitchen island

Rae leans against the counter, pink buzz-cut poking from a baseball cap that reads Trust But Verify. Andersson towers nearby, halfway through a burrito the size of his forearm.

“How’s our ninja in training?” Rae asks as Cam reaches for salsa.

“Deadly,” I say. “Consider yourselves warned.”

Cam raises her foil-wrapped feast in salute. “You guys sure eat like mercenaries.”

“Calories equal tactics,” Andersson mumbles around eggs and chorizo.

We debrief overnight sensor logs. Nothing breached. The black SUV never returned to the Kingsley House. Live feeds scroll across a wall-mounted monitor—pine swaying, a deer nibbling brush at the fence line. Idyllic calm.

Still, my shoulders ride a little too high; last night’s text crosshairs etched a permanent brand.

Cam nudges me with her hip, whispering, “Your brow is doing that storm-cloud thing.”

“Thinking.” I stuff the unease down, and flash a reassuring half-smile.

The sun climbs high in the sky. We decide on a short hike—recon disguised as a nature stroll. Rae remains at command. Andersson patrols the southern ridge. I guide Cam along a switchback path edged by granite outcrops and moss plush enough to paint with. The air smells of sun-baked pine needles.

“Have you ever been off-grid this long?” I ask.

“Only at artist retreats, but those had Wi-Fi. This is… primal.” She tips her head back, eyes closed, breathing deeply. “Do you ever miss combat?”

“Not combat. Purpose.” I flick a pebble off the trail. “I thought brAVO filled that void, until you.”

She stops walking and studies me. “I’m purpose?”

“More like meaning.” The confession slips out, raw.

She rests a hand on my chest, thumb rubbing the spread-eagle stitching on my Henley. “You’re mine, too. Meaning, I mean.”

Branches rustle overhead, but the world stills. I tuck a curl behind her ear. “We’ll end this. Then you can paint without barricades.”

“And you’ll watch without an earpiece,” she hopes aloud.

“From your studio floor, coffee in hand.” I smile. “Maybe shirtless. For inspiration.”

She laughs, cheeks pink. “Deal.”

We crest a knoll overlooking a glassy lake. Reflections ripple silver. Cam snaps a mental picture. I know because her fingers twitch as if holding a brush. She whispers, “So many blues.”

Standing behind her, I wrap my arms around her stomach, my chin resting on her shoulder. “We’ll capture it for the mural you’ll finish.”

She covers my forearms with her hands, and for a breath everything is okay.

Until Rae’s voice breaks in: “All stations, be advised—satellite ping shows media helicopters leaving Saint Pierce, vector unknown. Possible press hunt.”

Cam stiffens. I squeeze. “They won’t find us.”

But the calm cracks. We head back, scanning the sky.

The afternoon passes in contingency planning—new drone patrol patterns, remote noise generators to confuse thermal scans. By dusk, we’re mentally fried. Andersson volunteers to grill salmon on the deck. Rae whips up lemon-dill couscous and charred asparagus.

At the long cedar table, with floor-to-ceiling windows reopened to the valley twilight, dinner feels almost like a vacation.

Conversation drifts to normal things: Andersson’s hobby forging knives, Rae’s attempt to brew kombucha that exploded.

Cam tells a story about painting a community mural in Rio that locals protected with lawn chairs and nightly karaoke.

Laughter stirs the air, and my stress loosens. I study Cam’s face in candlelight—how the glow warms her freckle constellation, how grief at last night’s terror moves to the background. Hope flickers.

After dessert (Rae’s canned peaches flambéed with bourbon), Anderssen and Rae excuse themselves. Andersson to the perimeter, Rae to the command station. Cam and I linger, flames in the hearth crackling behind us.

She runs a fingertip around the rim of her wine glass. “Would it break discipline if I challenged you to a rematch from this morning? No mats.”

“What do you have in mind?”

She pushes back her chair, stands, and offers her hand. “Bedroom floor.”

Blood surges. I rise, link our fingers, and lead her down the dim hallway.

With every step the air thickens—anticipation and the lingering scent of woodsmoke.

We pass the secured Faraday office, the silent gallery of blank canvases waiting for safer days.

At the master suite entrance she stops me, and palms my chest.

“I need tonight to erase that ticking, Sawyer.” Her voice shakes with honesty. “Erase the picture of you kneeling before that bomb.”

I brush my lips over her forehead. “Then let’s paint something louder.”

We barely cross the threshold before our hands roam.

Her mouth finds mine, eager, tasting of bourbon peaches.

I cup her jaw, angle for deeper, our tongues sliding together in a slow promise.

She pushes up my Henley, her soft fingertips grazing my bare skin.

I shiver, discarding the shirt. Her top follows—soft cotton drawn over her head, revealing a pale blue lace bralette.

“Color’s nearly matching the lake,” I murmur, tracing the lace edge.

“Wait until you see the set.” She smirks, stepping back to shimmy out of her leggings, leaving a matching lace thong. I drink her in—sun-kissed curves, and strength from this morning’s training.

“You are lethal,” I whisper. I approach, trapping her between me and the wall. Our bodies align, and heat leaps. She drags her nails lightly down my spine, eliciting a rumble from my chest.

I pepper kisses along her neck, over her collarbone, and down the slope of each breast restrained by lace.

Her breaths hitch into tiny gasps. I slip a hand behind her back, unclasp her bra, and let the fabric drop.

The sight steals the air from my lungs. I lower my mouth, and worship her.

Gentle, then greedy. She tugs my hair, whispering my name like a prayer.

We move toward the bed but stumble, laughing, and land on the plush rug instead. I lay her down, moonlight silvering her skin through the skylight. She looks up—eyes dark, trusting, blazing.

“Your turn,” she says, tugging at my pants’ waistband. I strip away my pants and briefs, the remaining barrier. Her gaze rakes eagerly, then softens. “Beautiful,” she whispers, palming my cock. It hardens instantly from her touch.

“You’re the one who is beautiful.”

Kissing her again is like coming home to a storm you crave. Our hands explore familiar terrain made new by hunger. Her thigh hooks around my waist, and I drag my fingers up her calf, savoring all of her.

“Ready?” I murmur against her lips.

She rolls her hips in answer, desperate. “Now.”

I guide her thighs, position, then enter her with a slow slide. We gasp together, our passion igniting. I hold still, letting her adjust. “Fuck, this is…” my words fall away.

She presses her forehead to mine, finishing my thought, “Perfect.”

With that, my self-control unravels.

We find a rhythm, slow deep strokes that savor rather than rush. Each thrust pushes soft sounds from her throat. Her hands roam my back, her nails leaving trails. I kiss along her jaw, her ear. She arches, murmuring encouragement—“more, Sawyer, please.”

Heat coils tight. I change the angle, hitting a spot that makes her cry out. She shatters first, body trembling, pulling me deeper. Seeing her unravel triggers my own release.

I groan her name, riding waves of pleasure that blur edges of reality.

After, we remain tangled on the rug, hearts drumming. I stroke her hair from her damp forehead as she traces lazy circles on my chest.

“No bombs, no reporters,” she whispers. “Just us.”

I kiss her temple. “World can burn. We’ll paint it back brighter.”

She smiles sleepily. “Promise?”

“On every brush you own.”

When we finally crawl into bed, exhaustion tugs but peace settles deeper. She sprawls across my chest as I adjust the duvet, then key the bedside panel to arm the night sensors.

Because here, on this mountain, behind encrypted doors, our line is more than lasers and steel. It’s skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat—until the outside world recedes into hush and only our breaths map the future.