Page 45 of Shadow Strike
“That’s not how this works,” he said.“We’re partners.That means we share the weight.You don’t get to carry it all, and you don’t get to decide that my choices are somehow your responsibility.”
“Your father?—”
“Is my father.My problem.My battle.”His voice softened, but his eyes held hers, unwavering.“I’m not asking you to save me, Regan.I’m asking you to let me stand beside you.That’s it.Not behind you, not in front of you.Beside you.We’re both good at what we do.Together, we can be unstoppable.”
She felt the resistance in her chest, the part of her that wanted to argue, to insist, to take control.It was safer that way.If she was the one driving, she couldn’t be let down.She couldn’t be abandoned.
But CB wasn’t asking her to give up.He was asking her to let go—just enough to make room for him.
“Partners,” she said quietly, turning the word over and over in her head.
“Partners.”He released her shoulders and held out his hand.“Agreed?”
She looked at his hand, then at his face.The steadiness there.The certainty.
She didn’t take his hand.She reached up and pulled him toward her instead.
His mouth found hers, and this time there was no hesitation, no interruption, no stopping.She kissed him like she’d been waiting to do for days—because she had been.Through all the fear and doubt and anger, this had been underneath it, building pressure, waiting for release.
CB’s hands slid into her hair, tilting her head back.She could feel the restraint in him, the careful way he held himself, giving her control of the pace.But she didn’t want careful.She didn’t want restrained.
She wantedhim.
Her fingers found the hem of his shirt and tugged.He broke the kiss long enough to pull it over his head, and then his mouth was on her neck, her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder where the towel had slipped.
“Regan.”His voice was rough against her skin.“Are you sure you want this?It…”
“Complicates everything.Yes, this is exactly what I want.”
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark in the low light.She saw the question there—the need to know she wasn’t doing this out of relief or adrenaline or some misguided attempt to thank him.
She answered by letting the towel drop.
For a moment, he just looked at her.Not with the hungry urgency she’d expected, but with something quieter.Something that made her breath catch.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.Not a line.Just a fact.He traced a finger over her tattoo.“I fell for you the first day at the bar.”
Then his hands were on her waist, pulling her against him, and she stopped thinking about anything except the feel of his skin against hers.
They moved to the bed, and CB laid her down with a gentleness that made her chest ache.She’d expected heat, urgency, the kind of frantic passion that had consumed them the previous night.
But this was different.He touched her like he had all the time in the world.Like learning her body was something worth doing slowly.
As he kissed over her skin, she guided his hands.She tugged on his jeans and soon, he toed off his boots, and the pants were on the floor with her towel.
She arched into him as he traced down her sides, her hips, her thighs.His mouth followed, pressing kisses to her stomach, the inside of her knee, the flat of her stomach.She felt worshipped.Seen.Known.
When he finally settled between her thighs, she pulled him down to kiss her again, needing his mouth, his weight, the solid reality of him pressing her into the mattress.
“Clive.”She breathed against his lips.
“I’m here.”
And then he was guiding himself inside her, pulling back, sinking in again, easing her open so she could take all of him in.
It was the best kind of torture.He moved slowly at first, letting her adjust, watching her face.She wrapped her legs around him and urged him deeper, and his expression shifted, control giving way to need.
She stopped breathing when he seated himself all the way.
