Page 111 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

"Forever."

"Ten minutes."

"I'll take it." His arm tightens around me, and I can feel his cum still leaking out of me, marking his sheets. Marking me.

The silence stretches, our breathing slowly returning to normal. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back—shapes that might be letters, might be nothing.

"You stopped counting." His voice rumbles through his chest. "At the end. You just... let go."

I did. For the first time in thirteen years, I didn't count. Didn't analyze. Just... felt.

"But before that." His hand slides into my hair, gentle now. "You were counting in eights. Like a rhythm. Like choreography."

The observation makes my whole body tense. My feet shift against the sheets, unconsciously falling into first position—heels together, toes turned out.

"Mira?" He pulls back to look at my face. "What just happened?"

"Nothing." But my feet maintain that perfect turnout that took years to develop. "Muscle memory."

"That's ballet position." Not a question. An observation backed by recognition. "First position, right?"

I stare at him, shocked. "How do you—"

"My sister danced for twelve years." His thumb brushes my cheek with devastating gentleness. "I drove her to classes, sat through recitals. I know what dancer's feet look like."

A sister. He has a sister who danced. The information reshapes something in my understanding of him.

"You were a dancer." Again, not a question. Just quiet recognition. "Before."

Before. Such a small word to contain so much loss.

"It doesn't matter what I was before." I try to pull away but he doesn't let me go.

"It matters." His voice carries that dangerous edge—the alpha under all that eager-to-please energy. "Everything about you matters."

"Stop—"

"No." He cups my face between his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. "I see you, Mira. The real you. Not just the weapon they made, but the girl who used to dance."

Heat builds behind my eyes. Dangerous, unwanted heat that threatens to spill over.

"That girl died when she was sixteen."

"Did she?" His thumb catches the single tear that escapes. "Because I think she's right here, counting in eights and falling into first position when she feels safe."

Safe. The word hits hard. When did I start feeling safe with him?

"Stay put." He kisses my temple and slips out of bed. I watch him disappear into the bathroom, admiring the scratch marks I left down his back.

He returns with a warm washcloth, settling beside me on the mattress. "Let me take care of you."

The gentleness catches me off guard after the intensity. His touch is careful as he cleans between my thighs, wiping away the evidence of what we just did. When he's finished, he tosses the cloth aside and pulls me back against his chest.

"I should go." The words come out rough, desperate. "Mission parameters require—"

"Fuck mission parameters." He pulls me closer, and I let him. "Stay. Sleep. Let me hold you without turning it into strategy."

"I don't sleep in other people's spaces."