Page 60 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

forty-two

Asher

T welve colorful throw pillows. Seven Star Wars figurines. Twenty-three neon sticky notes marking my belongings with her handwriting.

I stand in the doorway watching the invasion. Sunlight streams through windows, catching the chaos that is Vanessa. She stretches on her tiptoes, reaching into my kitchen cabinet for the matte black coffee mug that's lived seven inches from the edge of the second shelf for four years.

"What are you doing?"

"Reorganizing." She doesn't turn around. "Your kitchen setup makes my brain itch."

She moves my mug two inches to the right. I expect the displacement to trigger every instinct to restore order. But warmth spreads through my chest.

"That's not where it goes."

"It does now." Her shoulders lift in a casual shrug as she reaches for another mug. "This way makes more sense with how you move when you make coffee. I've been watching your patterns."

Pink streaks catch the light as her hair escapes its messy bun. My t-shirt drowns her small frame, and her bare feet tap rhythms against hardwood that only she can hear.

She's rewriting my space. Making it ours.

"You're moving in."

Her body freezes mid-reach, coffee mug suspended in air. For once, she goes still, her mind processing. I count her heartbeat at her throat. One. Two. Three.

Her eyes widen when she turns to face me, shifting from shock to something more cautious. Hope. Her fingers tighten around ceramic, knuckles whitening.

She sets the mug down with care. "You want me to move in? Here? With you?"

"Are you sure?" Her fingers resume their familiar dance against her thigh. "I'm chaos, Frost. You know this. I name my electronics. I leave dishes in the sink. I rearrange furniture at 3 AM when I can't sleep."

Each word tumbles faster than the last, hands fluttering between gestures.

"My brain doesn't have an off switch. I was driving you—"

I cross to her in two strides, boots silent against hardwood. The kitchen island behind her, cluttered with her rainbow laptop beside my disassembled Glock. The combination should disturb me.

It makes perfect sense.

My hands find her face. Thumbs against cheekbones, fingers curved along her jaw. Her skin radiates heat against my palms.

"Life without you is inferior to life with you, regardless of the disorder."

Her eyes search mine for uncertainty. There is none to find.

"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me." A smile breaks across her face like sunrise.

"It's fact."

"Nothing about this is simple." Her body relaxes into my touch.

I lean forward, closing distance between us, kissing her. Her body softens, breathing changes rhythm, fingers stop their dance.

These seconds when she stills under my influence, when my rigid order bends to accommodate her warmth.

My hands slide to her waist, lifting her onto the kitchen island in one motion. She gasps against my mouth, legs wrapping around my hips.

"I want you here." My voice drops lower, rougher. "Your Star Wars figures. Your pink hair dye staining my sink. All of you in my space."

Her fingers thread through my hair, tugging just enough to make my scalp tingle. The sensation burns down my back, waking parts of me that have stayed dormant.

"Even when I reorganize your sock drawer by color instead of fabric weight?" Her eyes spark with mischief, testing boundaries even as her body melts against mine.

"I'll adapt."

When did I become someone who adapts?

The words surprise us both. But looking at her, seeing how she transforms sterile space into something that feels like home, the answer becomes simple.

Her smile shifts, becoming hungrier. Her hands move to my chest, fingers spread across fabric. Heat burns through cotton.

"Show me," she whispers, voice carrying a challenge that makes my blood surge south.

I capture her mouth again, but nothing gentle remains. My tongue slides against hers, tasting coffee and something that's her. She responds with equal intensity, nails digging into my shoulders through cotton.

I note morning light, unlocked front door, neighbors who could see through blind gaps. None of it matters.

My hands slide under her shirt, finding smooth skin at her waist. She's not wearing a bra. The discovery floods my system with heat. My fingers dig into her sides, harder than I'd ever allow myself with anyone else.

My breathing turns ragged, military discipline crumbling with each beat of her pulse against my fingertips.

"Fuck, Vanessa."

The words escape as a growl, not my usual calculated delivery. My mouth abandons hers without tactical consideration, drawn to her neck by pure instinct rather than strategy.

She pulls back just enough to look at me, dark eyes wide with surprise, lips parted.

"Did you just—"

My hands tremble against her skin. The man who can hold a sniper position for twenty hours without a muscle twitch now can't keep his hands steady on her body.

"Lose control? Yeah." My voice drops an octave, rough and desperate. "You do that to me."

Something in her expression shifts, becomes bolder. Her hands move to my shirt hem, tugging upward. I help her pull it over my head, fabric joining the growing pile of disorder on what used to be a spotless floor.

Her eyes roam over my chest, taking in scars that map my military history. Fingertips trace puckered skin across my ribs.

"Beautiful," she murmurs, and I laugh at the description.

No one has ever called my battle-scarred body beautiful.

But the way she looks at me cracks something open in my chest.

My hands slide higher under her shirt, cupping her breasts. She arches into my touch, a soft moan escaping her lips that goes straight to my cock.

"Bedroom," I growl against her neck, tasting salt on her skin.

But instead of following, she pushes me back, small hands firm against my chest. The stubborn angle of her chin stops me.

"Wait." Her voice carries that tone I've learned means her brain has seized on something important. "I want to try something."

Before I can ask what, she's sliding off the island, feet hitting the floor with purpose. Her hands move to my belt, fingers working leather with quick efficiency.

My breath catches. "Vanessa—"

"Trust me." Her eyes find mine through dark lashes, and the blend of sweetness and resolve in her gaze breaks my control.

I trust her. The realization hits like a sniper's bullet. Clean, instant, devastating. I haven't trusted anyone with my body, my control, my vulnerability since I was eighteen.

She frees me from my pants, small hand wrapping around my cock with confident strokes that make my vision blur at the edges. I'm hard, have been since lifting her onto the counter, and her touch sends fire racing through every nerve ending.

"Fuck." The word rips from my throat, raw.

Her smile turns wicked. "I like hearing you curse like that. So different from your usual self."

If only she knew how she's destroyed every defense I've built over the past fifteen years.

She guides me backward until my shoulder blades hit the stainless steel refrigerator. Cold metal against heated skin should shock me back to awareness, but all I see is the way she's looking at me.

Like she wants to devour me whole.

"My turn to be in charge."

Her hands roam over my chest, mapping every scar and muscle with reverent attention. The words should terrify me. Control has kept me alive since Sarah died, the one thing standing between me and chaos.

But watching Vanessa take charge, seeing confidence in her movements, the way her nervous energy transforms into focused intent, I want to surrender to this woman nearly a foot shorter than me.

She stretches up on her tiptoes, one hand curling around the back of my neck to pull my head down to her level. When she kisses me again, she sets the pace despite having to reach up for my mouth.

Her tongue slides against mine with increasing demand. Her free hand explores my chest, reaching up to map every inch as if she's memorizing details she can barely reach.

Her smaller frame controlling my larger body only intensifies the surrender.

For the first time in fifteen years, I stop thinking about what comes next.

I just feel.

Her mouth moves down my throat, teeth scraping against my collarbone in a way that makes my knees weak.

When did I become someone whose knees buckle?

"Bedroom. Now." My voice comes out more plea than command.

She pulls back, studying my face with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. "You sure you can handle giving up control?"

The challenge in her voice makes my cock hard as steel. "Try me, little bunny."

She takes my hand, leading me through the living room where her throw pillows nest among my steel and leather furniture. Each step brings new awareness.

Soft pad of bare feet on hardwood. The way morning shadows stretch across spaces that used to feel sterile but now fill with shared life.

Against the living room wall, she stops, pressing me back against the cool surface. She rises on her tiptoes, but still only reaches my chest. I bend my knees, lowering myself.

She takes advantage immediately, her mouth finding the spot where my neck meets my shoulder, her teeth grazing my skin until I'm gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks.

"Vanessa..." Her name escapes my lips in a tone I've never heard from myself before—breathless, wanting, stripped of all control.

My head falls back against the wall, unconsciously giving her better access. That I'm automatically adjusting my body to accommodate her smaller frame, something I've never done for anyone, isn't lost on me.

Time stops. There's only her touch, her heat.

"I like the way you say my name when you're not thinking."

Not thinking. She's right. For the first time since I was eighteen, there are no threat assessments, no situational analysis. Just sensation and the woman creating it.

She's worked her way down to my chest, tongue circling my nipple in a way that makes me see stars. The wall supports my weight because my legs have forgotten how to function.