Page 11 of The Agent’s Curvy Seduction

I nod because words are impossible. He starts moving—deep, powerful strokes that rock me back against the cabinets. One of his hands stays on my hip, holding me exactly where he wants me. The other braces on the counter beside my head. Every thrust drags against the spot that makes my vision blur. I dig my nails into his shoulders and hang on.

“Louder,” he orders when I try to muffle a moan. “I want to hear every sound you make. Don’t you dare hold back on me.”

I stop trying to stay quiet. The kitchen fills with the sound of skin against skin and my broken cries and his rough praise. He tells me how perfect I feel. How long he’s wanted this. How he’s never letting me go. Each filthy promise drives me higher until I’m coming again, clenching around him so hard he curses and follows me over, burying himself deep and spilling inside me with a groan that sounds like my name.

We stay locked together after, breathing hard, his face pressed against my neck. His hand strokes up and down my bare back in slow, soothing passes. I feel claimed in a way I’ve never felt before. Safe in a way I didn’t know was possible.

Eventually he pulls out carefully and lifts me off the counter like I weigh nothing. My legs are useless. He carries me upstairs to the big bed I woke up in this morning and lays me down on the soft sheets. He disappears for a minute and comes back with a warm cloth, cleaning me with a gentleness that makes my throat tight. Then he strips the rest of the way and climbs in beside me, pulling me against his chest.

I fit there like I was made for the space.

His hand settles on the scars at my hip, not hiding from them, just resting there like they belong to him now too. I listen to the steady beat of his heart under my ear and feel the last of the fear from last night finally loosen its grip.

“This isn’t just protection anymore,” I whisper into the quiet.

His arm tightens around me. “No. It isn’t.”

I close my eyes and let myself believe him.

We fall asleep tangled together, his body wrapped around mine like he's already decided I'm staying. And for the first time in seven months, I don't dream about the crash.

four

. . .

Rhys

I wake up with Willow soft and warm against my chest, her curls spilling over my arm, one of her legs tangled with mine. The morning light cuts across the bed and catches on the scars along her hip. I rest my hand there without thinking, tracing the raised edges with my thumb. She doesn’t pull away. She just sighs in her sleep and presses closer.

I’ve never been the kind of man who plans a future around anyone. The job doesn’t allow it. You stay sharp, you stay alone, you stay alive. Looking at her now, that rule feels like something I made up a long time ago for a different man.

I let her sleep a little longer. When she finally stirs, those brown eyes open slow and find mine. There’s no panic in them this time. Just quiet recognition.

“Morning,” she murmurs.

“Morning.” I brush a curl off her cheek. “You hungry?”

She nods. I kiss the top of her head and climb out of bed before I can decide to keep her there all day. Downstairs, I make coffee and scramble eggs while she showers. When she comes down in one of my t-shirts and a pair of soft shorts, the sight of her in my clothes hits harder than it should. The shirt hangs off one shoulder and barely covers the tops of her thighs. I want to drag her right back upstairs.

We eat at the counter. She steals bites of bacon off my plate when she thinks I’m not looking. I let her. After, she helps me clean up again, and the domestic quiet of it settles something restless in my chest. I could get used to this. I already am.

The rest of the day passes in a strange kind of peace. I show her the perimeter of the property, the places where the cameras are hidden, the old logging road that leads out if we ever need a second exit. She listens carefully, asks smart questions, and doesn’t flinch when I hand her a small handgun and teach her the basics. She’s a quick study. Stubborn, too. When she keeps missing the target, she just resets her stance and tries again until she hits it.

By the time the sun starts dropping behind the trees, the air between us is charged again. We’ve been circling each other all day—small touches, lingering looks, the kind of silence that says we’re both thinking about what happened earlier on the kitchen counter. I make dinner. She sets the table. We talk about nothing important and everything that matters. Her favorite songs. The way she used to bake with her little brother on Sunday mornings. The fact that I haven’t taken a real vacation in twelve years.

She laughs at something before I even finish the sentence, and it derails me completely.

"Twelve years," she says again, like she's tasting the number. "That's not a vacation problem, Hudson. That's a personality problem."

"I've been busy."

"Everyone's busy. You've been avoiding rest like it's a tactical threat." She props her chin on her hand, studying me across the table with an expression that's equal parts amused and genuinely curious. "What would you even do? If someone forced you. Gun to your head, go relax."

"Fish, probably."

"That's not relaxing, that's just work with worse odds."

"It's relaxing when nobody's shooting at you."