Page 69 of Isaac

It’s a rough dance of tongues, fighting for dominance, and a total surrender to all emotions until there’s no more air in my lungs.

And when I pull back, just enough to be able to see his face, to see those lips swollen and tinged with color, Hawk's gaze pins me in place even though he’s the one I’m pressing into the wall of lockers right now. He’s searching my eyes for an answer he won't find. "Have you been drinking?" His voice is a breathless whisper.

I'm quick to shake my head, the taste of him still on my tongue. "No," I say firmly. "I'm not drunk. This—" My gesture between us hangs unfinished in the air. "This was real. I meant it."

The silence stretches. Taut. A bridge over an abyss.

My heart is pounding, I realize. It’s never pounded this fast since before prison. I’m scared shitless. Scared he’ll reject this, whatever it is I’m offering. I don’t fucking know myself. I can’t think beyond here and now.

Finally Hawk’s tongue slowly slips out of his mouth and he runs it over his bottom lip and that does me in completely. All blood is drawn from my brain to my dick and that’s fucking terrifying.

I run one palm down the side of his neck and to his chest.

He inhales sharply at the contact, then murmurs, "Isaac… I don’t think this is a good id—"

I don’t let him finish. I don’t want to hear it yet. "Your new Mustang," I blurt out instead, eager to shift away from the topic I still am not sure how to discuss. "What do you think so far?"

"Love it." A very small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and the tension eases just a fraction. "You're a generous employer," he whispers it almost reverently and I’m sensing that’s not really what he means. There’s more.

"Good. I'm glad." The words are true but they feel like gravel in my throat. I stand, legs finally feeling more solid than they did moments ago. "Take care of her," I add, a last touch of warmth before I retreat back.

One step. Two steps. I’m separating myself from him completely. I need to clear my head and when he’s so close, when I touch him, my brain is all mush for some reason.

"Isaac—" Hawk starts again, but I can't stay.

"Later," I say and then I walk out, leaving behind the charged atmosphere of the break room, leaving behind Hawk and the wild questions in his blue eyes.

CHAPTER 21

DALLAS

I'm threading through a labyrinth of lawlessness, and I've finally struck the vein. The intel is gold—pure and promising—and it's all because of Isaac, whose presence lingers like smoke on my skin. It's been less than twenty-four hours since his lips branded mine in the secrecy of the locker room, a filthy kiss that's got my head spinning.

Now here I am, called to duty, rolling out with Jeremy and the rest of the guys—Seven, Marco, Hector, Flynn—like pawns on a chessboard, moving three trucks laden with Russian firepower destined for Toro on Arizona's sun-scorched reservation land.

As I’m sitting in one of the trucks next to silent Jeremy who doesn’t trust me with the wheel, the memory punches through my mind. It plays like an old film reel. Roughly a dozen men load the contraband, our movements orchestrated chaos. Rifles nestled into hollowed-out drill bits, sockets, machinery that's nothing more than a trojan horse with a steel heart. My hands remember the weight, the cold metal. But they itch for something else—the heat of Isaac’s touch.

I have to shake it all off because it begins to blend into one—Russian guns and Isaac’s kiss. And I don’t know if I can handleit. I choose to ignore the nagging voice inside my head telling me I’m a fucking traitor.

And now Jeremy's here, next to me, a stone-faced companion for the endless stretch of road. Conversation with him is like drawing blood from an old corpse, and frankly, I don’t have the stomach for it. Instead, Isaac fills every silent gap, his kiss a ghosting touch that keeps replaying, relentless and distracting.

What was that?

A flicker of real desire or just another power play?

And do I let myself get carried away with this?

The night swallows us whole as we drive through the bleak landscape, headlights cutting the darkness. The desert air is thick with tightness, the kind that clings to you and curls around your throat. I keep stealing glances at Jeremy. He's a riddle wrapped in barbed wire, always watching me with those hawkish eyes that don't miss a thing.

Does he really see through the guise of Cody "Hawk" Smith?

Or is it just paranoia nipping at his—and my—heels?

Jeremy and I ride in the lead, our cargo hidden beneath a facade of legitimacy. Behind us Marco and Seven. Flynn, who’s been throwing thanks left and right, is in the last vehicle along with Hector.

Six and a half hours later, the trucks roll to a stop. The growl of their engines eases into silence as we reach the reservation's edge.Smart,I think to myself immediately.If this is going the way I think it’s going.

A man’s silhouette enters my line of vision as I climb out of the truck, following Jeremy’s lead. He peels away from the shadows and starts walking in our direction, long-haired, broad-shouldered, and impressive. The uneven ground crunches beneath his heavy boots as he approaches, each step whispers a promise of danger.

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