Page 144 of Mission Shift

The pressure built fast. The sounds of our bodies, his ragged breathing, the way he angled every thrust to hit just right—it all spiraled until I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

My body tightened around him as my climax approached. “Oh God, Braxton, I’m close. So close.”

“Come for me, Daria.”

That was all it took.

The orgasm hit like a shockwave. My muscles seized, my back arched, and my mouth opened in a silent scream of pleasure. My hands tingled, then gripped him harder. He didn’t stop, even as I lost control under him.

His breath stuttered. His thrusts turned frantic, desperate, each one slamming deep as I met him stroke for stroke.

“Come,” I whispered. “I want you to come inside of me.”

He groaned, buried himself to the hilt, and his whole body shuddered. “Fuck,” he said, low and deep as he came, his hips jerking against mine, his forehead pressed to my collarbone.

Then he stilled and collapsed on top of me, arms sliding under my shoulders before he kissed my neck.

I held him there, relishing every inch of skin-to-skin contact. His heart pounded against mine, slowing gradually as I traced light patterns on his back. I kissed the side of his throat and breathed him in.

Then, with gentle movements, he pulled out and fell onto the bed beside me, drawing me into his arms and cocooning me. His fingers tangled in my hair as I snuggled against him and rested my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“That was…” I started, searching for the words to describe what had just happened between us.

“Incredible,” he finished for me. “You’re amazing, Daria.”

I smiled, nuzzling into his chest. “So are you,” I murmured, my eyes drifting closed.

“Get some sleep, sweetheart.” His voice was thick with exhaustion. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

I wanted to argue, to tell him that I wasn’t tired, that I wanted to stay awake and discover everything there was to know about him. But before I knew it, sleep pulled me under, and I drifted off to the sound of his heart beating beneath my ear. The last thing I remembered before sleep claimed me was the feel of his lips brushing the top of my head.

Safe. Warm. Held.

Chapter forty

The early morning light pushed in through the cabin’s porthole blinds, slanted and soft. It was just after seven, and the quiet hum of the engines indicated we were still making good time. It had been thirty-two hours since we’d slipped out of St. Petersburg, and theValkyriewas somewhere in the Baltic Sea, cutting through open water. Currently we were on our way toward the Norwegian coast. We weren’t in the clear yet—Finnish and Swedish patrols were still a factor—but compared to the chaos we’d left behind, things were calm. Despite the problems we’d encountered—the Russians attempting to chase us and various maritime authorities making enquiries—we had settled into life onboard a boat. To say we were safe would be a stretch, but our current situation beat the hell out of where we’d started.

I’d never spent this much time on a boat before, not even during fishing trips with my brothers, and I’d definitely never been on anything close to a cruise. But somehow, my body had adjusted fast. No nausea. No nerves. I was getting used to the steady roll of the water beneath us and the strange quiet that surrounded us. It surprised me how quickly I’d adapted—how fast it all had started to feel normal.

My arm was draped over Daria’s waist, her bare back warm against my chest. She fit perfectly there—long, lean, and soft. My thumb rested just above her navel, the other fingers curled loosely around her lower belly. I tightened my hold a little, like that might keep the moment from slipping away.

During our time together yesterday, she had started to look more peaceful. The storm that usually lived behind her eyes was beginning to recede.

God, she was beautiful. Not just in the obvious way—though, yeah, her body had the kind of lines that stopped time—but also in how she carried all her damage without letting it define her. Her strength was threaded through every part of her, woven so deeply that even she didn’t always realize how formidable she was.

Since she and I had crossed paths, I’d been watching her fight—not just soldiers and bastards like Malinov but life itself. She never gave an inch unless she had a damn good reason. She was quick, lethal, and she moved like someone who’d been fighting since she could walk. Maybe she had.

She may have looked delicate, but without a doubt, she was the toughest person I’d ever met—man or woman.

And she was here. In my bed. In my arms.

I didn’t deserve her—but damn, I wanted to try.

Slowly, I traced a line over her belly, stopping just before I got to the curve of her breast. She stirred, her muscles shifting as her breathing deepened.

Then she moved—pulling my arm tighter around her, pressing my forearm up under her chest like I was her shield.

My heart rate kicked up.

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