“Bullshit.”
His eyes narrow. “Obey without question. Without complaint or attitude.” The reminder is as pointed and sharp as my knife. “Get your shit together or it will go very badly for you.”
The doorbell rings, and the Consigliere tilts his chin up as though he’s about to sniff the air like a dog. “My cue to leave.”
The door opens. Nico registers the Consigliere’s presence a split-second before the two collide in the doorway.
“Commander Garcia,” the Consigliere nods in acknowledgement.
Nico’s eyes widen in surprise, and he pushes past the Consigliere. He notes the two large goons and gives me another quick look. I nod in return, a signal that I’m okay. “Have we met?” he asks the Consigliere.
“No. I’m glad you’re here, though. Perhaps you can get Mademoiselle Arseneau to focus on the mission. Get her back on track, eh?” He winks and gives Nico a solid clap on the shoulder. Before leaving, the Consigliere gives me another pointed direction: “Watch the hologram files I gave you. I promise you’ll find them...enlightening.” He pauses. “Computer, return domestic controls to Clémence Arseneau. Authentication code: QE1.” He bows to me before the goons follow him out and the door closes behind them.
I rush to the door and slam the manual lock controls. The solid thunk of a deadbolt makes me feel better. “Computer,” I say, “get maintenance up here tomorrow to reprogram security protocols and add authentication layers.”
“Message to maintenance department sent,” the computer replies.
“Hello to you, too,” Nico says. “You okay?” His eyes narrow in concern and he takes my hands in his. “Who was that guy and why was he giving commands to your computer?”
“He works for the Benefactors. He was in my apartment when I got home.”
“A Consigliere broke into your apartment?” Nico breathes out a low whistle and takes a slow step back. “What the hell did you do, Dodger?”
“Nothing. I didn’t do anything.”
“Something happened. Whatever it was, it must’ve been big. These people don’t screw around, and the fact that you’re still breathing means his visit was a just a warning.”
“I handled it fine,” I say, jerking my hand from his, irritated that his tone has turned annoyingly paternalistic. Truth is, I don’t know what kind of deep shit I’m in or how much deeper it could get. I’m more spooked over the entire situation than annoyed at Nico for giving voice to my fears.
I head to the kitchen to order wine from the replicator. Nico follows, snuggling up behind me as I open the cupboard to grab two glasses.
“I’m sorry,” Nico says, nuzzling my ear as he rubs my shoulders. “I didn’t mean to imply...look, these people are deadly. I want to know what’s going on so I can protect you. That’s all.”
The day’s tension coils inside me like a boa constrictor, squeezing its way through my body. He kneads his fingers over one stubborn knot that runs the length of my neck until it melts beneath the heat and pressure of his hand.
“I know it’s been a hell of a day, but you can’t stay this tightly wound or you’ll explode.”
“I’ll forgive you if you keep doing that,” I say, letting my head roll forward.
One by one, the lumps soften until everything feels warmer, looser. Still, this relaxation is only skin-deep. My mind can’t let go of the agitation gnawing at my nerves, the frenetic anxious throbbing that won’t quit.
I need action. Need a roaring bonfire, not smoldering embers. By the time Nico moves to my neck, I know exactly the kind of release my body needs.
“Kiss me,” I say in an urgent whisper.
“Are you sure? You’ve had a rough day. I don’t want to take advantage—”
“Yes, damn it, I’m sure.”
I pull him to me. His mouth is hot and savage on my skin as his lips blaze a trail from my earlobe, down my neck to the top of my shoulder. He retreats to my ear, sending sparks through my insides like a flint igniting tinder.
“Yeah. That’s it.” My breath quickens.
He braces himself against the cabinet with one hand and cups my breast with the other. He works slow, beautiful magic on my neck with his mouth.
I flip myself around to face him. He lets out a slow breath and runs one hand straight down the front of my body from my breasts to the apex of the mound between my thighs. His mouth hovers over mine, the promise of a kiss lingers in the air. He cracks a small smile, teasing me with a light brush of his lips against mine.
“Now. Please,” I say.
My frantic tugging at his clothes and a deep, wild kiss convince him the undercurrent of slow and sensual is now a racing, fervent craving for some man-handling.
He holds me by the shoulders, searches my eyes for agreement. I nod and he launches himself into removing his clothes, and mine, at a speed I haven’t seen since our first fumbling attempt at sex over a year ago.
Amid a torrent of kisses, he cups my ass in both hands, and lifts me until my toes skim the floor. The leading edge of the counter top—the porcelain tile cool against my flushed skin—supports most of my weight.
I wrap one arm around his neck and plant my other hand against the counter for balance. He thrusts upward, taking me with skilled precision. We careen off of each other in frenzied, undulating waves.
Hard.
Fast.
He pulls me in tighter, controlling the roll of my hips with both hands. His buries his face into my neck, panting. My breath matches his, and I nip his earlobe. His hands grasp my hips harder, fingers digging into my skin with urgent need.
His release comes seconds after my own and we’re left gasping, slumped
