Page 7 of The FBI Agents Who Stole Me

“Nothing between us could ever be a mistake. You’re in my soul, Ettie.” I drag my mouth over her jaw, trying to reach the woman disappearing in front of me. “I’ll fix this. He broke in. You thought he was a threat. Self-defense. I’ll make the call and handle the cleanup. No one has to know what really happened here.”

Her body tightens around me, that perfect, greedy pulsing that always undoes me. God, those storm-gray eyes are shattering. She shakes her head against the wall, silver hair sticking to her wet cheeks.

"No, Julian." Her voice cracks. "You can't fix this. You can't fix me."

I thrust deeper, harder, trying to drown out her words. And to remind her she’s mine.

Her nails dig into my shoulders, urging me to keep going. The heat of her, the way she clenches every time I bottom out, takes my breath.

But she's pushing my chest now, weak at first, then stronger the second time.

"Stop."

The word is small, broken.

"Please stop."

I go still instantly.

I’m buried to the hilt with my forehead pressed to hers. Our breaths mingle, ragged and hot. I can feel her heart hammering against my ribs.

"Ettie—"

"Get out."

She presses against me again. This time, her legs unwrap from my waist.

I slide out of her with a wet sound that feels obscene in the sudden silence.

She slides down the wall until her bare feet touch the floor, robe hanging open, thighs glistening with us.

I reach for her again, but she snatches the gun from the entry table before I can touch her. The barrel shines even in the dark as she raises it, pointing it dead center at my chest.

"Ettie, baby⁠—"

"Don't." Her voice is steel now. Her lower lip trembles, but her hand remains steady. "Don't call me that. Don't come closer."

The dead man is cooling on the floor between us, blood pooling toward the rug.

"You don't understand what you've seen tonight," she says quietly. "What I am. What I've been doing."

"Then tell me." I take a step anyway, because I can't not. "Whatever it is, we'll—put the gun down, Ettie."

"No." Her voice isn’t trembling anymore. "You need to leave. Right now. Walk out that door and forget this address. Forget me."

"I'm not⁠—"

"You are." She cocks the hammer. The sound is deafening in the blood-scented silence, and my heart seizes. "Because if you don't, I'll put you down right next to him. I swear to God, Julian, I'll do it."

I believe her. Not that she would really kill me. But she’s killed us. The life I wanted with her is bleeding out on the floor right alongside the dead man. It’s over and she's already mourning me.

My hands rise slowly, palms open in surrender. I pull up my sweats, the fabric catching on my cock, and slide my feet into the shoes I kicked off beside the front door earlier.

She bites her lower lip when I look up at her once more and grab my bag.

Her wrist flicks. She motions me toward the door with the sharp, impatient movement of the gun.

I back away. Every step feels like tearing something vital out of my chest. The door handle is cool under my fingers.