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Hawk complies. It's as if we're suspended in time, every inch of me hyperaware of his presence.

And then I do the one thing sober Isaac Thoreau never would.

I press my lips to his, tentatively at first, as though testing uncharted waters. The sensation is electrifying, sending shock waves through my body. My heart pounds in my chest, demanding more. My skin’s abuzz.

Pulling back slightly, I search Hawk's eyes for any sign of rejection or hesitation. It’s almost as if I’m looking at him through a photo lens. The edges of my vision are blurry and his face goes in and out of focus but I’m certain he wants this too—or at least, he's willing to explore whatever this is. Because he doesn’t say no. He doesn’t try to escape.

And I know a lot about consent. I know when it’s given even when the words aren’t said.

Emboldened, I lean in once more, our mouths meeting in a kiss that’s a little bit deeper than the first one, a little bit longer and far from gentle.

The hunger within me grows, fueled by an insatiable need I've never allowed myself to acknowledge before. It's raw and primal, possibly born after years of starvation for physical contact initiated by me. Our lips move together in a dance that's both urgent one minute and unhurried the next, as if we have all the time in the world and yet not nearly enough.

The taste of him lingers on my tongue, an intoxicating blend of whiskey, cinnamon, and something uniquely Hawk.

I feel alive in a way that terrifies me, my senses heightened to the point of near-pain. But it's a pain I welcome, a pain that reminds me I'm still capable of feeling anything at all.

Our mouths continue to explore each other, the tempo of our kisses shifting with every passing moment. It's as if we're both trying to communicate something unspeakable, something that can't be put into words but must instead be experienced like this.

For the first time in my life, I do want something for myself—something that has nothing to do with power or control or revenge. It’s warmth. Warmth of the human touch.

I draw back with a ragged breath, just enough to mutter a "fuck."

I now crave the very thing I've always been scared of and I’m not sure how to handle it.

Without saying a word, I turn around and start walking to my room.

CHAPTER 17

DALLAS

I lean against the cold wall of the hotel hallway, my heart pounding in my chest as I try to catch my breath. Isaac's lips linger on mine even after he's gone, and I can't shake off the feeling that something has shifted between us. This wasn't part of the plan, but then again, nothing about this mission has gone according to plan.

Thoughts race through my head, vying for attention, but none of them make sense. I've spent months undercover as Cody "Hawk" Smith, trying to get close to Isaac Thoreau—the mystery man who's become the FBI’s new obsession—and now that I'm finally making progress, everything feels wrong.

Entering the dark hotel room, I wince at the pain shooting through my arm from the wound. The adrenaline is wearing off, leaving me exhausted, both physically and mentally.

After swallowing down another painkiller Doc gave me earlier, I pull off my T-shirt and collapse onto the bed, still fully clothed waist down. I’m too tired to take off the rest. Just thinking about removing the boots gives me jitters. My body no longer feels like mine and I don’t want to fight this heaviness tonight.

"Focus on the mission," I tell myself, gritting my teeth at the ceiling as I force back the memories of Isaac's lips on mine. They are softer than I thought. Sweet and tangy with a hint of cigarette smoke.

Just admit it, Dallas. He’s a good kisser. Probably better than anyone else you've been with.

Do I use this thread that he created between us tonight to gather information? Or am I getting too close? The idea is simultaneously thrilling and terrifying, but I can’t go there. I can’t do option number two even if Isaac is the one who opened the proverbial doors.

I have a job to do. I can't afford to let my emotions get in the way.

With a sigh, I close my eyes and let the darkness swallow me, hoping that sleep will bring some clarity to my chaotic thoughts.

A dull ache in my arm along with the lingering heaviness from the painkiller I took last night wakes me the next morning. As I pry my eyes open and squint at the sunlight streaming through the slit between the heavy curtains the memories from yesterday's events flood back into my consciousness—the ambush in the parking lot, saving Isaac, and that kiss.

Fuck.

It wasn’t a dream.

It did happen.

Isaac Thoreau kissed me and I don’t have the slightest clue what do to about it.

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