Page 53 of Code Name: Ghost

I let go.

The orgasm crashes over me, white-hot and devastating, pulling a raw cry from my throat as every muscle in my body tightens, then releases in a wave of liquid heat. I convulse around him, wrung out and undone, the intensity splintering through me like wildfire. My fingers claw at the sheets, seeking something to anchor me as I fall apart completely. Nick’s low, guttural groan rips free as he thrusts once, twice more, and then he follows me over the edge—hips jerking, rhythm breaking, his release spilling deep as he collapses over my back, bracing himself on his forearms.

For a moment, there’s nothing but our ragged breathing, the heavy press of his body, and the slick warmth between us. Then he gently lowers us both to the mattress, curling his arms around me from behind, holding me close as the tremors fade.

He holds me there, breath ragged. He turns me around, his lips soft against my forehead.

“You destroy me,” he murmurs.

“You put me back together,” I whisper.

For a long time, we lie there tangled in silence. No mission. No threats. Just us.

* * *

I wake to the scent of him on my skin.

It’s subtle at first—leather and smoke and something darker, something uniquely Nick. It clings to my bare shoulders, curls beneath the collar of his shirt that’s bunched around my waist and wraps itself around me like the memory of his hands.

My thighs ache, the tender kind of sore that whispers every time I shift. My pulse still hums low and slow, like it hasn’t yet decided if it’s ready to return to normal. I stretch beneath the sheets, muscles protesting, body deliciously wrecked, and the memory of last night presses into every cell like a brand.

I should feel sated. I should feel safe. But I don’t. Not completely. Because the man responsible for every shattered moan, every bruising kiss, every unraveling touch—is still lying beside me.

Nick’s arm is slung low over my waist, anchoring me to the bed like he means to keep me here. Like I belong here. Like last night wasn’t just about dominance and submission or covering up the adrenaline of a dangerous op.

It felt like more... a whole lot more, and that scares the hell out of me.

His breathing is steady and deep. His chest rises and falls in a rhythm that speaks of exhaustion—not just physical, but emotional. A rare kind of vulnerability I don’t think he lets anyone else see. I study him in the soft morning light. The faint crease between his brows. The pale scar beneath his bottom lip. The shadow of stubble on his jaw.

I could stay. Let him pull me back in, hold me there until the weight of the day forces us both to move. But something prickles at the back of my neck. A pulse of restless energy. A whisper of defiance. A need to remind myself that I’m not just the woman he brought back to life in a Monaco safe house.

I’m still Cherise fucking Pardo.

I ease from beneath the sheet, careful not to wake him. His fingers twitch once where they’d curled around my hip, like his body feels the loss before his mind does, but he doesn’t wake.

His shirt, rumpled, warm from the night, and saturated with his scent brushes my thighs, sleeves too long, fabric worn and soft. My legs ache with each step, but I don’t stop.

The elevator hums quietly as I descend. Each level down, my resolve hardens. I’m not sneaking around. I’m not running away. I’m reclaiming something. A sliver of agency. Of purpose. Of control.

When the doors slide open into the ops room, the glow of monitors greets me first. The silence comes next. Well… mostly silent.

Logan’s alone at the console, sleeves rolled, tie abandoned somewhere hours ago, a porcelain mug in one hand and a scowl aimed at the glowing screen like it’s just insulted his mother. He doesn’t glance up when I walk in. Doesn’t need to.

“Morning, sunshine,” he drawls, tone drier than the Sahara. “Didn’t think we’d see you upright before noon.”

I step into the ops room like I belong here. The scent of sex and Nick’s voice still echo in my head, clinging to my skin.

“Sorry to ruin your expectations.”

His gaze flicks over, slow and assessing. Hair tousled. Nick’s shirt hanging off one shoulder. Legs bare. His eyes narrow—not with disapproval or lechery—but with calculation. Like he’s trying to solve for X and I’ve just rewritten the equation.

“You’re alone,” he says. Not a question. Just a statement, loaded and precise.

“Wasn’t planning on staying that way.” I stroll to the monitors, ignoring the burn of scrutiny between my shoulder blades. “Came to check the sat feed. See if Vallois’ supply corridors are holding. Any new traffic pings near Lyon?”

One eyebrow lifts, mildly impressed. “You speak fluent ops now, do you?”

I shoot him a sidelong glance. “Was that a compliment?”

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