Page 18 of Undercover Hearts

But another gasping breath, slightly louder than before, made the decision for her.

Their operation depended on honesty between them. On trust. On acknowledging reality rather than hiding from it. If Michelle couldn't admit her attraction even to herself, how could they possibly maintain their cover convincingly?

More than that—something about Michelle's desperate attempt to maintain control while clearly losing it stirred a protective instinct in Jenna. The isolation in that sound, the angry frustration beneath the pleasure, spoke of a woman denying herself connection while simultaneously craving it.

Jenna's fingers closed around the doorknob. She hesitated one final moment, weighing consequences against necessities. The muffled sound of Michelle's quickening breathing made the final argument.

Jenna turned the knob and pushed the door open.

The bedroom was dimly lit by a single bedside lamp, casting long shadows across the space. Michelle lay on the bed, still fully clothed but with her slacks unbuttoned, one hand moving rhythmically beneath the fabric. Her eyes were closed, head thrown back, throat exposed as her other hand gripped the bedsheet with white-knuckled intensity.

She hadn't heard the door open.

Jenna stood frozen in the doorway, her presence still undetected. The moment felt suspended in time—intimate, raw, revealing. Her face, usually so guarded, was transformed by pleasure and frustration in equal measure, emotions playing across her features without the usual restraint.

Then Michelle's eyes snapped open.

For one breathless second, their gazes locked in mutual shock. Recognition, mortification, and something darker flashedacross Michelle's face. She yanked her hand away from her body as if burned, scrambling to sit up, to cover herself, to regain the control so catastrophically lost.

"What the hell are you doing?" Michelle's voice was hoarse, strangled with shock and humiliation. Her hands fumbled with her slacks, cheeks burning crimson in the dim light.

"I heard—" Jenna began, then stopped. There was no delicate way to explain her presence. "I'm sorry. I should have knocked."

"Get out." Michelle's words were clipped and furious, her body rigid with tension as she pulled herself to the edge of the bed.

But Jenna didn't move. Instead, she closed the door behind her, never breaking eye contact with Michelle. Something told her that retreat now would only cement the walls between them, making their partnership—and by extension, their operation—untenable.

"I said get out," Michelle repeated, the command undermined by the slight tremor in her voice.

"No," Jenna replied simply.

Michelle's eyes widened at the defiance. "That wasn't a request, Detective."

"I know." Jenna took a step forward, movements deliberately slow and non-threatening. "But running from this isn't helping either of us."

"There is nothing to discuss." Only her still-flushed cheeks and the rapid rise and fall of her chest betrayed her.

Jenna took another careful step forward. "There's everything to discuss. What I just saw?—"

"Was private," Michelle snapped. "And none of your concern."

"It is my concern when it affects our operation," Jenna countered gently. "When it affects us."

"There is no 'us,'" Michelle insisted, but the words lacked conviction.

Jenna moved closer still. "The tension between us isn't going away by denying it exists."

Michelle refused to look at her, staring fixedly at some point beyond Jenna's shoulder. "This is completely inappropriate."

"More inappropriate than what I just walked in on?" Jenna's question was soft, without judgment.

Michelle's eyes flashed back to hers, anger warring with lingering arousal and embarrassment. "You had no right to enter without knocking."

"You're right," Jenna acknowledged. "I should have knocked. But I'm not sorry I didn't."

The admission hung between them, honest and unapologetic.

"What do you want?" Michelle asked finally, her voice quieter but no less tense.