Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“I agree,” I answer. “What do you propose?”
“You sleeping in the bed for starters.”
I huff, standing as I do. “Fine.” I remove my boots, shirt, and pants. I’m in nothing but boxer-briefs, and I swear I can hear a sharp intake of breath from Charlotte, but I don’t think she can see me through the darkness. I climb into the bed, sliding onto my back. “Better?”
I can tell she’s smiling by the way her voice is light and a higher pitch than normal. “Much. I was also thinking…” her words fall away.
I’m curious. “Thinking about…” I prompt.
She hesitates, then—brave as ever—says, “We could practice.” A beat. “Kissing.”
Every muscle goes taut. Immediate threat check: heart rate spikes into the nineties. I clear my throat. “We’re lying down. Kissing while lying down together is dangerous.” However, my body grows harder at the idea of it all.
“I’ll turn the lamp on,” she counters, flicking the bedside switch. Warm gold spills over the linens, flooding the space with something that feels intimate and incredibly exposed. Her cheeks flush a delicate pink, but her chin stays lifted. “Strict parameters, Hawke. Training drill.”
“Sit up,” I demand of her.
She does as I say, and I groan at how submissive she is. I catalog that reaction, but not sure why. Fuck, who am I kidding? I know why I’m cataloging everything she does. Because I want her. Plain and simple, but I can’t go there.
“One kiss,” I stipulate, like issuing a range order. “Controlled duration. No… escalation.”
Charlotte’s lips twitch, half nervous smile, half challenge. “Copy, soldier.”
We lean toward the center at the same measured pace—battlefield ballet. Her hand alights on my chest for balance, and the heat of it burns straight through me. My own palm rises almost of its own accord, my fingertips brushing her jaw. Her skin’s warm, and impossibly soft. In that instant every threat assessment I’ve ever run feels obsolete.
Then her lips meet mine.
Fuck.
First contact is light, tentative, a reconnaissance pass. Her exhale ghosts across my mouth, tinged with the plum notes of the cabernet she’d nursed downstairs. The scent hits me like a memory I never had—ripe fruit in late summer, sun-warmed and decadent. I keep it gentle, angle adjusting, eyes half-closing while my senses map the moment with forensic clarity. The fine tremor in her hand, the silk whisper of her hair as it brushes my knuckles, the tiny hitch in her breath when I deepen the pressure a millimeter has me ready to buckle to my knees and worship this woman.
Second beat: she tilts her head, inviting, and I accept, letting my thumb glide along the edge of her cheekbone, guiding her closer. Mouths align and the kiss blooms, slow and thorough, no longer a test but an exchange. A low hum vibrates in her throat. It’s a sound I feel more than hear. It detonates heat down my spine, and pools in my stomach. I taste soft lips, a tease of tongue, and everything inside me reorients. Protecting her was my mission, but wanting her is instinct.
I catch myself, pulling back before the line blurs completely. My breathing’s elevated, ninety-five BPM. We hover inches apart, foreheads nearly touching, her lashes fanning down as if processing the same internal collision.
Charlotte opens her eyes—blue depths storm-lit—then breaks the silence first. “That…felt convincing.”
I clear my throat, searching for professional vocabulary but come up empty. “Operationally…effective,” I manage, voice rougher than intended.
She laughs softly, the sound as fragile as crystal. “Your tactical report will be fascinating.”
The lamp clicks off under her hand. Darkness returns, but it’s changed. It’s now charged with an energy I’m unable to deny any longer. We slide beneath the covers, shoulder to shoulder now. The diplomatic eighteen-inch buffer is gone, replaced by inches, maybe less. I remain hyper-aware of her breathing pattern—slow, steady, laced with the faintest tremor of excitement or nerves. Probably both.
I stare at the ceiling, trying to recalculate threat hierarchies. Outside: Wade, corporate sabotage, stalkers. Inside: the inferno currently replacing my cardiovascular system. Sleep is unlikely. But Charlotte shifts closer… fuck… just enough that her arm brushes mine, and whispers, “Thank you, Asher,” like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like that kiss didn’t just rewrite every protocol I’ve ever followed.
I answer the only way I can. Quiet, resolute. “Always.”
And I lie awake, mapping the ceiling, mapping her breath, tucking both into memory like the most valuable intel I’ve ever acquired.
8
Charlotte
Last night was intense. Let me repeat… intense. After that kiss Asher laid on me, I couldn’t sleep. Instead I pictured a life with him. I imagined this engagement was real. I let myself live a life that I loved.
Us. Together. Working a farm, hand-in-hand. He’d be all broody, while tactical. Always tactical. A chill races up my spine at the memory of the way he commanded me to sit up. His voice was deep, the timbre making my body vibrate in a way it hasn’t in years, if ever.