Page 76 of Tag (The Golden Team #9)

Aponi

T he safehouse was quieter than I’d ever heard it.

Gideon and Faron were running shifts watching Graves in the secure room, and for the first time in what felt like forever, it was just me and Tag in the living quarters. The low hum of the heater filled the silence, the desert night pressing cool and still against the walls.

I sat on the edge of the bed, boots off, hair still damp from the shower. Tag came in, the faint scent of soap and leather clinging to him. His shirt was loose, sleeves pushed up, his hair still wet enough to curl at the ends.

“You should get some sleep,” he said, closing the door behind him.

I shook my head. “Not yet. My brain’s still in fight mode.”

He crossed the room, stopping in front of me. His hand lifted, brushing a strand of damp hair from my face. “You scared the hell out of me in that mine.”

“You weren’t exactly safe either,” I countered, my voice softer than I meant.

His thumb lingered against my cheekbone, and that steady look in his eyes… it undid me. All the adrenaline, all the tension of the past few days, it was still there—but under it, there was something else. Something that had been building since this chase started.

I rose slowly, closing the distance between us. “We’re still breathing, Tag. I think that means we get to take what we want… at least for tonight.”

His breath caught, and then his mouth was on mine—hard, deep, no hesitation. I fisted my hands in his shirt, pulling him closer as his arms wrapped around me, lifting me off my feet like I weighed nothing.

We tumbled back onto the bed, his weight braced over me, the kiss turning slower, hungrier. My fingers found the warm skin at his waist, sliding under his shirt, and his low groan sent a shiver down my spine.

Clothes became an afterthought—shirts tossed aside, denim giving way to skin, every brush and graze of his hands leaving heat in its wake. He kissed down my throat, lingering at the pulse racing beneath my skin, his stubble scraping just enough to make me gasp.

When he finally slid into me, it was slow, deliberate, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged. “You feel like home,” he murmured, and my chest ached with the truth of it.

The world outside didn’t matter. Graves didn’t matter. There was only this—his body against mine, our rhythm finding something deep and perfect, the kind of connection that made you forget anything could hurt you.

When we finally came down, tangled in sheets and each other, he kissed my temple and pulled me in tight.

“Sleep,” he said softly. “I’ll be right here.”

And for the first time in a long time, I believed him.