Chapter 2: A Breathless Secret
The whiskey’s warmth was a lie as Cole pushed through the Rusty Anchor’s door, the river’s damp chill swallowing him whole. He moved past the glow of the windows into the consuming darkness of the docks, the planks groaning under his boots like old bones.
The shadow detatched itself from a wall of corroded containers, resolving into the slender, deliberate shape of Agatha. “The pretty scholar’s bought herself a guide,” she murmured, her voice a dry rustle as she closed the distance, her cool lips brushing his ear. “The last men she sent that way came back in pieces, stuffed in grain sacks.”
“Her men?” Cole asked, his voice low. Agatha’s smile was a knife-slash in the gloom.
“Hired guns.” Her hand, startlingly warm, slid inside his jacket to rest flat against his chest. “They ignored the local arrangements. The garimpeiros there have their own rules.” She could feel his heart’s steady, unaccelerated rhythm. Cole couldn’t help but appreciate Agatha’s ragged, raw beauty, despite her dire words.
Moonlight caught the silver in her unbrushed hair and the ancient scar notching her eyebrow. She smelled of engine oil and jasmine, a dissonance he’d always found compelling. “You’re a peculiar kind of stupid, Mercer. Or you’re tired of living.”
“The pay’s good.” Her other hand moved down, fingers deftly working his belt buckle. “This isn’t a social call, is it?”
“Consider it a down payment.” Her palm pressed against him, a firm, claiming heat through the fabric. “My information for your… collateral. In case you don’t come back to settle your debts.” He caught her wrist, not to stop her, but to feel the frantic bird-beat of her pulse beneath his thumb. It betrayed her calm.
“You think I’m going to die out there.”
“I think you might.” She leaned in, her breath hot against his neck. “And I’d hate for us to part with things unfinished.” He released her wrist, a silent concession. The dock creaked, a lonely sound in the vast, oily dark.
The dock creaked, a lonely sound in the vast, oily dark.
Her fingers slipped into his open waistband, cool and sure. She pulled him free into the chill night air, her grip firm and knowing.
He was thick and already hard in her hand, a heavy heat against the river’s damp. Agatha didn’t look down; her eyes stayed locked on his, watching for a crack in his composure as she began to stroke him with a slow, practiced rhythm.
It wasn’t just his size, though that was part of it. It was the absolute, focused attention he gave her in that moment, the way his green eyes didn’t glaze with fantasy but sharpened, reading every micro-expression on her face as if she were a map. His hands came up to cradle her jaw, his thumbs rough against her cheekbones, holding her gaze with an intensity that felt more invasive than her touch.
He was present, completely, in a way most men never were. “You’re a fucking menace, Cole,” she breathed, her own voice losing its dry edge.
“You started it.” His hips moved slightly, a tacit encouragement. Her thumb swept over the head, spreading the wetness there, and he didn’t flinch or close his eyes; he just watched her, letting her see the effect she had, making it a shared thing, not a solitary take.
It was this transaction of truth that they both understood. A shudder ran through her, unrelated to the cold. He leaned down, his mouth hovering near hers, not kissing, just sharing breath. “The garimpeiros,” he murmured, the words a low rumble. “They have a leader?”
“A man named Costa.” The name left her lips in a rush. “He has a jagged scar from temple to chin. He’s the one who packed the bodies.”
Cole’s expression didn’t change, but the information settled behind his eyes, filed away. “Good.” His hand slid into her hair, tightening just enough to tilt her head back. “Now finish what you started.”
Agatha held his gaze for a charged second, a challenge flickering in her eyes, before she sank to her knees on the rough, damp planks. The cold seeped through her skirt immediately, a sharp contrast to the heat of him against her cheek. She took him into her mouth with a practiced, unhurried confidence, her tongue tracing a slow, torturous path along his length.
Cole’s head fell back against the cold metal container with a soft thud, his breath clouding in the air. His hands, which had been cradling her face, now fisted loosely at his sides, knuckles white. He watched the moonlit river between the slats of the dock, the swaying reflections, forcing his mind to stay present, to not get lost in the sheer wet heat of her.
Her rhythm was deliberate, a knowing push and pull that coiled tension low in his gut. One of her hands cupped him, fingers working in time with her mouth, and a ragged groan escaped him, swallowed by the lapping water. "Agatha," he warned, his voice thick.
She hummed in response, the vibration shooting through him, and he felt the inevitable crest building, a wave about to break. His muscles locked, a tremor running through his thighs.
Just as he was about to tip over the edge, she pulled away with a wet, soft sound. The cold air on his wet skin was a shock. She looked up at him, her lips swollen, and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. Without a word, she turned, bracing her hands against the rust-pitted container.
She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her skirt and underwear, pushing them down to her thighs in one pragmatic motion. The pale curve of her ass was luminous in the gloom. "Don't be gentle," she said over her shoulder, her voice stripped of its earlier taunt, now just raw and clear.
Cole didn't need the invitation. He stepped forward, one hand gripping her hip, the other guiding himself. He entered her in a single, deep thrust that forced the air from her lungs in a sharp gasp. She was tight and warm, and he buried his face against the back of her neck, inhaling the scent of jasmine and sweat.
He set a punishing pace immediately, each drive of his hips slamming her against the unyielding metal with a rhythmic, hollow bang that echoed off the containers. It was less about pleasure than a mutual exorcism, a physical conversation of risk and debt. Her fingers scrambled for purchase on the corroded surface.
"Yes," she hissed, the word fracturing into a moan. "That's it." Her own hips pushed back against him, meeting each thrust with equal force. The scholarly warnings, the ghost city, the man named Costa with the jagged scar—all of it was fuel for this frantic, animal collision.
Cole’s mind, usually a catalog of terrain and threat, went blissfully, dangerously blank. There was only the heat, the sound of skin on skin, the salt taste of her neck. His grip on her hip tightened, surely leaving bruises, a claim that would fade long before any debt was settled.
He felt her begin to clench around him, her body bowing. A series of short, sharp cries were torn from her, muffled against her own arm. That undid him. With a final, deep grind, he spilled into her, a groan rattling from his chest as the world contracted to a single, white-hot point.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the indifferent river. He stayed inside her, forehead pressed to her shoulder, coming back to himself piece by piece. The chill returned, the smell of diesel, the precariousness of his next move.
She shifted, and he withdrew, turning to lean against the container beside her as she straightened her clothes with swift, efficient movements. She wouldn’t look at him, busying herself with the buttons of her coat. The transaction was complete.
"Costa's camp is three miles south of the first major tributary fork," she said, her voice steady now, clinical. "He runs a dozen men, maybe more. They're armed with old rifles and a lot of territorial pride."
Cole adjusted his own clothing, the reality of the jungle settling over him again, heavier than before. "Noted."
She finally glanced at him, her expression unreadable in the shadows. "Try not to end up in a grain sack, Mercer. I'd miss our talks." She turned and walked away, her footsteps silent on the rotten wood, swallowed by the darkness between the docks.
Cole pushed off the container, his body already cataloging new aches. He looked at the oily water, then back toward the faint glow of the Rusty Anchor. He had forty-eight hours before he disappeared with a woman who talked in footnotes into a green hell guarded by a man with a scar. He needed to check his gear, and maybe buy better socks.