Page 80 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

When I finally collapse beside her—fifth orgasm, maybe sixth, I've lost count—we're both shaking.

"Jesus," I finally manage. "That was—"

"Intense." Her voice cracks, hoarse from screaming. She tries to sit up but immediately falls back, legs trembling violently. The mask she's trying to rebuild keeps slipping—pupils still blown, pulse visible at her throat, my cum leaking out of her.

"About your capabilities." She traces my chest, aiming for clinical, but her hand shakes so badly she has to stop. When she shifts slightly, a whimper escapes. "Good to know what you're capable of."

"Mira—"

"Cole and Remy will be wondering what we're up to." She tries to sit up again and gasps—everything hurts in the best way. Her thighs shake uncontrollably. "We should probably—"

"Yeah?" I watch her struggle to reach her shirt, arms barely cooperating. There's something different in my expression now—not desperate anymore. Strategic. Calculating. "I doubt they're wondering about anything. It's not like you were quiet. And good luck explaining why you can't walk straight. Or hiding those."

My fingers trace over the bite marks blooming dark on her throat, the bruises already forming on her hips, the scratches she left on me that she'll have to see across the table.

She finally manages to grab her shirt, but putting it on is another challenge entirely. Every movement makes her wince. The fabric catches on the scratches I left on her back.

"This doesn't change—"

"Everything?" I stretch, completely comfortable now while she struggles. "Sure, Mira. Whatever you need to tell yourself."

I stand, pulling on my boxers with easy movements, then turn back to watch her still struggling to pull her shirt on and step into her pants.

"But tomorrow morning, when you can barely stand? When everyone sees my marks all over you? When your body reaches for mine without your permission?" I lean down, voice dropping to that dangerous register she just discovered. "We'll see how well those walls hold up."

The shift in me should concern her. The desperation replaced with absolute certainty.

I watch her clench her thighs together though, already wanting more.

"Get some rest," I tell her, voice deceptively gentle as she finally makes it to the door. "You'll need it for tomorrow's briefing."

"I can handle a briefing."

"Sure, you can." I smile, knowing exactly how her body will betray her with every movement. "See you at breakfast, Mira."

The way she pauses at the door tells me she knows exactly what kind of performance she'll have to give tomorrow. Pretending she can walk normally. Pretending those marks don't exist. Pretending this didn't change everything.

Good luck with that.

nineteen

Jax

"Morning, sunshine. You look like death warmed over."

I'm leaning against the granite island in the center of the kitchen, intelligence reports spread across the polished surface between coffee mugs and tactical gear. The 400-square-foot space flows seamlessly into the great room, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the Pacific that should be calming but feels like anything but.

Cole sits on one of the six bar stools, making notes on the encrypted tablet docked at the island's communication station. Remy's claimed another stool with his third cup of coffee from the industrial-grade machine, while Asher has his laptop open at the far end of the granite surface, satellite imagery of the Grand Prix circuit filling his screen.

"Couldn't sleep," I lie, not looking up from the surveillance photos scattered between us. My hands are steadier than I expected, but everything else feels off-balance in the morninglight streaming through those massive windows. The scratch marks she left down my back burn every time my shirt shifts.

"Stress about today's operation?" Cole asks, stylus pausing over the tablet screen. Always precise, always professional. His voice stays calm, but his eye notice everything.

"Something like that."

Asher glances up from his screen, morning sun catching the angles of his face. "Overwatch positions optimal. Convention center rooftop provides clean sight lines."

"Weather's cooperating too," Remy adds, gesturing with his mug toward the ocean view. But his eyes track the fresh bruise on my collarbone visible above my shirt. "Should give you perfect visibility up there."