Page 71 of The Sniper

He leaned down, brushed his lips over my collarbone. Soft. Gentle. The ghost of an apology.

“I’ve spent so long living in that world, Hallie Mae—breathing it, bleeding for it, never questioning it. But then I met you. And I started thinking ... maybe there’s more. Maybe there’s something after.”

I closed my eyes as his hand slid up my ribs, over the soft swell of my breast. His thumb brushed across the peak, and I gasped—soft and startled this time, not outof anger but need. He kissed me again, slower now. Like he wanted me to feel it. Like he needed me to believe this wasn’t just more of the same.

“I don’t want to be part of something that hunts good men in church offices,” he whispered. “Whatever happened to your dad … I think Department 77 was behind it. They’ve been after my family, twisting things, setting traps—and now they’ve dragged you into it. I didn’t know, Hallie Mae. But I swear to you—I’m not one of them.”

He paused, voice rough. “That’s why I took out the gunman at Grace House. He was going to hurt people—innocent people. I couldn’t let that happen.”

His hips moved again, slow, deliberate, and I realized he was still inside me. Still part of me. We hadn’t pulled apart. Hadn’t drawn a line.

He kissed me once more—deeper now, his hand stroking down my side, then sliding between us, finding the soft place where I was still aching, still slick. His fingers circled, gentle, coaxing a sound from me I didn’t expect.

“I want to learn what life looks like with you,” he said. “No shadows. No blood. Just ... this.”

My heart stuttered.

He moved inside me, so slowly it felt like worship. Like confession. My legs fell open again, instinctive, and his name left my lips in a whisper as his mouth found my throat.

“Noah ...”

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice raw.

And he did.

His hands held me like something precious, like something breakable. He stroked inside me with long, lazy thrusts that had nothing to do with punishment thistime. This wasn’t hate-fueled. This wasn’t pain and betrayal tangled up in lust.

This was something else entirely.

His lips traced my jaw, the hollow of my throat, the curve of my breast. He whispered things I didn’t catch—half-mumbled prayers or promises, maybe. His hands never stopped moving. One in my hair. One pressed between my thighs, coaxing my body open for him again.

And God help me, I bloomed under it.

I cried out softly, arching against him, the pleasure sharp and slow and consuming. It took me apart a little at a time, undoing me with every gentle roll of his hips, every sweet stroke of his thumb.

I came again—softer this time, quieter. Just a gasp and a quake.

He followed moments later, groaning low into my skin, his arms tightening around me like he was afraid I’d vanish.

Then he stayed. Just stayed.

The storm that brought us together was gone for the moment, replaced by something that felt terrifyingly like ... peace.

I didn’t know what would happen next. What this meant. Whether I could trust him with everything broken between us.

We lay there for a while, tangled on the floor, breath starting to even out.

I shifted slightly beneath him, his hand still curled against my waist, and whispered, “Will you pray with me?”

He went still.

Slowly, he lifted his head, brows pulling together like I’d just asked him to step off a ledge.

“I’m not big into that,” he said after a long moment. “Not since I realized God wasn’t gonna show up with a bandage and a rescue plan.” He paused, eyes searching mine. “But I’ll do it. For you.”

I nodded.

“You’re not conflicted?” he asked, brushing a piece of hair off my cheek. “About praying after what we just did?”

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