Chapter 5: The Gun on the Nightstand
Sunlight knifed through the blinds in thin, aggressive lines. Vera's eyes cracked open, then slammed shut against the brightness. Her mouth tasted like tequila and regret. Her head throbbed with a dull, percussive ache that synced with her heartbeat.
She reached for him. The space beside her was empty. Cold.
Of course.
She sat up slowly, the sheets pooling around her waist. The apartment was quiet—just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant rumble of traffic three floors down. No note on the pillow this time. No whispered promise. Just the silence of a man who knew how to disappear.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet finding the floorboards. The room smelled like sex and something sharper. Something metallic.
She looked at the nightstand.
The pistol sat there like it had always been there.
Matte black. Compact. A Glock 43, single-stack, the kind of gun that disappeared in a waistband or a purse. Unloaded. Safe. But still—a gun. On her nightstand. In her apartment.
Her heart stuttered. Not from fear. From something else. Something electric that started in her chest and spread outward until her fingertips were tingling.
She didn't touch it. Not yet. First, she looked at the note.
It was folded once, placed directly beneath the grip. The same neat handwriting from yesterday. The same deliberate strokes.
You said you were a good shot. Prove it. Tonight.
She read it three times. Then a fourth. The words didn't change. The meaning didn't soften.
He'd been listening. Last night, when she'd told him about the Ozarks, about her father, about the bodies in the barn—he'd been listening. And he hadn't run. He'd brought her a fucking gun.
A single bullet sat beside the pistol. Brass casing. Copper-jacketed. It caught the sunlight and threw it back like a dare.
Vera picked up the gun.
The weight was familiar. The grip settled into her palm like a handshake from an old friend. Her thumb found the magazine release. The magazine dropped into her hand. Empty. She pulled the slide back—smooth, well-oiled—and checked the chamber. Clear. She released the slide and dry-fired it, the click loud in the quiet room.
Muscle memory. Pure and immediate.
She hadn't held a gun in three years. Not since she'd left the Ozarks. Not since she'd walked away from her father and everything he'd made her into. But her hands remembered. Her hands had never forgotten.
She set the pistol back on the nightstand and picked up her phone.
Her fingers moved before her brain caught up. She opened the camera, held the phone at arm's length, and snapped a photo. The gun in her right hand. Her face half in shadow, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep but sharp. Almost feral.
She sent it to Leo.
You have no idea what I can do.
The three dots appeared before she could set the phone down. She watched them pulse, her heart hammering against her ribs. The reply came fast. Two words.
Show me. Wear the red dress.
The red dress. The one she'd worn to the party. The one he'd peeled off her in the alley. The one that now hung in the back of her closet, stained with whiskey and dust and the memory of his hands on her hips.
She laughed. It came out sharp and surprised, a sound that didn't quite belong in the quiet of her bedroom. This man. This impossible, terrifying, infuriating man. He'd left a gun on her nightstand and asked her to prove herself. And all she could think about was the way his mouth had felt on her skin.
She got out of bed.
The apartment was a disaster. Worse than usual. Tequila bottles everywhere—on the counter, on the coffee table, on the floor beside the couch. Shot glasses scattered like fallen soldiers. The air still carried the ghost of last night: sex and sweat and something sharper underneath. Gunpowder. She hadn't noticed it earlier, but now that she knew the pistol was there, the smell was impossible to ignore.
She grabbed a trash bag and started cleaning.
She didn't know why. Maybe because the chaos was starting to feel less like freedom and more like drowning. Maybe because the gun on her nightstand demanded a certain level of order. Or maybe she just needed something to do with her hands while her mind raced in circles.
She gathered the bottles. Dumped the stale tequila. Wiped down the counters. Threw away the crumpled receipts and the old takeout containers and the socks that had somehow ended up in the kitchen.
An hour later, the apartment looked almost livable. She opened a window, letting in the cold afternoon air. It smelled like rain and wet pavement. Clean.
Then she sat down at the kitchen table and field-stripped the Glock.
The process was mechanical, meditative. She removed the magazine. Pulled the slide back. Depressed the takedown pins. Separated the slide from the frame. Removed the barrel and the recoil spring. Each piece clicked into place on the table like a puzzle she'd solved a thousand times.
She cleaned every component with a cloth and a bottle of gun oil she'd found in the back of a drawer—leftover from a boyfriend who'd been into hunting and not much else. The metal gleamed under her fingers. The polymer frame felt cool and solid in her hand.
When she was done, she reassembled the pistol. Racked the slide. Dry-fired it twice. The click was satisfying. Sharp. Final.
She loaded the single bullet into the magazine.
It felt like a ceremony. Like a vow.
She set the gun on the table and stared at it. The sunlight had shifted, turning the room amber and gold. The red dress hung on the back of her closet door, waiting.
She picked up her phone.
What exactly are we doing tonight?
His reply came after a minute. Long enough that she checked her reflection in the black screen. Long enough that she started to worry.
There's a range. Private. I'll send the address. 8pm.
She typed back: And after?
The dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
After, we'll see if you still want me.
She smiled. It was a dangerous smile. The kind that lived in the corners of her mouth and only came out when she was feeling reckless.
She typed: I always want you. That's the problem.
He didn't reply.
She didn't need him to.
She spent the rest of the afternoon getting ready.
The shower was scalding. She scrubbed her skin until it was pink and raw. Washed her hair twice. Shaved her legs with the kind of precision that felt like a meditation. She dried off slowly, luxuriating in the ritual, in the anticipation.
Then she stood in front of the mirror.
The phoenix on her back spread its wings, orange and red and gold, a firebird rising from the ashes of everything she'd been. The octopus on her hip curled its tentacles down her thigh, dark ink against pale skin. She traced the lines with her fingers. The scars underneath—the old ones, the ones from her father's belt, from the barn, from the life she'd left behind.
She was a map of survival. Of pain. Of everything that had tried to break her and failed.
She reached for the red dress.
It was a simple thing. Deep crimson. Sleeveless. Cut low in the front, low in the back. The fabric was soft, clinging to her curves like it had been made for her. She'd bought it on a whim two years ago, never imagining she'd actually wear it. Never imagining she'd wear it for a man like Leo.
But here she was.
She stepped into the dress and zipped it up. The hem fell just above her knees. The neckline showed off her tits, the swell of them, the silver barbells that pierced her nipples. The back dipped to the base of her spine, exposing the phoenix, exposing the scars.
She didn't wear a bra. Didn't need one.
She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on black stockings. The kind with the seam up the back. Then a garter belt. Lace. Delicate.
She stood and slipped into her heels. The same black heels from the party. The ones she'd walked home in, the ones she'd kicked into the corner. They still carried the scuff marks from that night.
She looked at herself in the mirror.
She looked like a weapon.
The address Leo sent was for a building on the outskirts of the city, past the warehouses, past the abandoned factories, past the places where the streetlights stopped working and the darkness swallowed everything. The kind of place you only went if you knew exactly what you were doing.
She drove herself.
The Glock sat in her purse, loaded, the single bullet nestled in the magazine like a secret.
She didn't know what to expect. Didn't know if she was walking into a test or a trap or something else entirely. But her hands were steady on the wheel, her breathing even, her heart a slow, deliberate drum.
She was ready.
The building was a low, rectangular structure with no windows and a single steel door. No signage. No indication of what it was. Just a door.
She parked and got out.
The air was cold. The night was quiet. Her heels clicked on the concrete as she walked to the door.
It opened before she could knock.
Leo stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light behind him. He was wearing black—black shirt, black pants, black boots. His sleeves were rolled up, forearms bare, tendons and veins standing out like ropes. His jaw was tight. His eyes were black.
He looked at her the way he had in the alley—like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing.
"You came," he said.
"I said I would."
"You brought the gun?"
She opened her purse and showed him. The Glock glinted in the low light.
"Loaded?"
"One bullet."
He nodded. Stepped aside.
"Come in."
She walked past him, her shoulder brushing his chest. The contact was brief. Electric. She felt his gaze on her back, on the phoenix, on the scars.
The door closed behind her with a click that sounded like a lock and a promise.
The room was a shooting range. Not a commercial one—no fluorescent lights, no rental counter, no paper targets. Just a long concrete corridor with sandbags at the end and a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling. The air smelled like cold stone and gun oil.
"Not bad," she said.
"I don't do things halfway."
She turned to face him. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching her.
"What exactly am I proving?" she asked.
"That you're what you said you are."
"And if I am?"
His lips twitched. Almost a smile.
"Then I'll show you what I am."
Her heart stuttered.
She walked to the firing line. Ten yards. Twenty. Thirty. The sandbags were piled high, marked with faint chalk lines. Someone had been here before. Someone had practiced.
She drew the Glock from her purse.
The weight was familiar. The grip settled into her palm. She racked the slide, chambering the single bullet, and raised the gun.
She didn't aim. Not really. She just pointed the barrel at the center of the sandbags and squeezed the trigger.
The gunshot was deafening in the concrete corridor.
The bullet hit dead center. A puff of sand and dust.
She lowered the gun. Turned to look at Leo.
He was still leaning against the wall. His expression hadn't changed.
"Lucky shot," he said.
"Want me to do it again?"
"You only have one bullet."
She smiled. "Then you'll have to trust me."
He walked toward her. Slow. Deliberate. Each step measured, like he was approaching a wild animal. When he was close enough to touch, he stopped.
"You're something else," he said.
"I know."
He reached out and took the gun from her hand. His fingers brushed hers. Warm. Rough. He cleared the chamber expertly, ejected the empty casing, and set the pistol on the ground.
"I don't trust people easily," he said.
"Neither do I."
"I don't let people in."
"I noticed."
"I don't do this."
"Do what?"
He didn't answer. He just looked at her—into her—like he was trying to memorize every detail.
"Tonight," he said. "We go to my place. And I show you things I don't show anyone."
She felt the weight of the words. The promise. The threat.
"Okay," she said.
He nodded. Turned. Walked toward a door at the back of the range.
She followed.
The door led to a hallway, then another door, then a room. It was simple—a bed, a chair, a table. No windows. No decoration. Just a space.
"Yours?" she asked.
"Sometimes."
He closed the door behind them.
The click of the lock was quiet. Final.
"Take off the dress," he said.
"No."
He raised an eyebrow.
"You want me," she said. "You prove it. Show me what you are."
Something flickered in his eyes. Something dangerous. Something hungry.
He crossed the room in three strides. His hands found her hips, gripping hard, pulling her against him. His mouth crashed into hers—rough, demanding, all teeth and tongue and want.
She kissed him back. Biting his lip. Dragging her nails down his chest.
He groaned. Grabbed the hem of her dress and yanked it up over her hips. She raised her arms, letting him pull it over her head. The fabric pooled on the floor.
She stood in front of him in stockings and a garter belt and heels. Nothing else.
"Fuck," he breathed.
He took a step back. Just one. Enough to look at her.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"Tell me something I don't know."
He laughed. A real laugh. Low and rough and surprised.
Then he dropped to his knees.
His hands found her hips. His mouth found her cunt—hot, wet, insistent. She gasped and grabbed his head for balance.
He licked her like he was starving. His tongue circled her clit, teased it, sucked it. He pushed two fingers into her and curled them, hitting that spot that made her vision white out.
"Leo—"
He didn't stop. He fucked her with his fingers, ate her with his mouth, until her legs were shaking and she was begging.
"Please," she gasped. "Please—"
He pulled back. Looked up at her. His chin was wet. His lips were parted.
"I want you on the bed," he said. "On your back. Legs spread."
She climbed onto the mattress. The sheets were rough, cheap. She lay back and spread her legs.
He stood up. Pulled his shirt over his head. Unbuckled his belt.
His cock was thick and hard, curving up toward his stomach. She reached between her legs and touched herself, watching him.
"Don't," he said. "That's mine."
He knelt on the bed between her legs. His mouth found her throat, her tits, her nipples. He bit them. Sucked them. Left marks that would bloom purple.
"Please," she said again. "I need you."
He positioned himself at her entrance. The head of his cock pressed against her, hot and hard and inevitable.
"You're mine," he said. "Say it."
"I'm yours."
He thrust into her.
She screamed.
He was thick. Hot. Filling her completely. He didn't wait for her to adjust. He just started moving. Hard. Fast. Pounding into her like he was trying to fuck the past out of both of them.
She wrapped her legs around his waist. Her hands clawed at his back. Her heels dug into the mattress.
"Harder," she said.
He obliged.
The bed slammed against the wall. The headboard rattled. She didn't care. She didn't care about anything except the feeling of him inside her. The way his cock stretched her. The way his hips slapped against hers. The way his breath came in ragged gasps near her ear.
"Come for me," he said.
"I—"
"Do it."
He reached between them and rubbed her clit with his thumb. That was all it took.
She came with a broken cry, her body convulsing, her cunt clenching around his cock like a fist.
He fucked her through it. Didn't stop. Didn't slow down.
"Again," he said.
"I can't—"
"You can."
He flipped her over. Pulled her up onto her hands and knees. She was still trembling, still coming down, but he was already behind her, already pushing into her again.
The angle was different. Deeper. She felt him in her stomach.
He grabbed her hips and fucked her. Brutal. Relentless. She clawed at the sheets. Moaned into the pillow.
"You wanted to know who I am," he said. "This is who I am."
She came again. Harder.
He kept going.
She wasn't sure how many times she came. Three? Four? But eventually he was pulling out, flipping her onto her back. He jacked his cock twice, three times, and then he was coming—hot ropes across her stomach, her tits, her chin.
He collapsed beside her.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Just breathing. Just sweating. Just existing in the aftermath.
Then he turned his head.
"Still want me?" he asked.
She laughed. Breathless. Broken.
"You're a bastard," she said.
"I know."
She turned her head to look at him.
"I'm still here," she said.
He reached out and touched her face. His fingers traced her jaw, her lips, her cheekbone. Gentle. Tender. Nothing like the man who'd just fucked her like he was trying to break her.
Then he sat up. Swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Get dressed," he said. "I want to show you something."
She watched him pull on his pants. The muscles in his back shifted as he moved. Lean. Powerful. Covered in tattoos and scars just like her own.
"What kind of something?" she asked.
He turned to look at her. His eyes were dark.
"The kind that means you can't go back."
She sat up. The come was drying on her skin. The room smelled like sweat and sex and something sharper underneath. Something that had been there all along.
"The kind that makes you mine," he said.
She looked at him. At the gun on the floor. At the red dress crumpled in the corner. At the man who'd just fucked her and now wanted to own her.
She smiled.
"Too late," she said. "I already am."
He didn't smile back. He just looked at her for a long moment. Then he reached down and picked up the red dress. Handed it to her.
"Get dressed," he said again. "We're leaving."
She took the dress.
She didn't know where they were going. Didn't know what he meant by the kind you can't go back from. But she stood up, pulled on the dress, smoothed down her hair, and followed him out the door.
The night was cold. The stars were hidden behind clouds. The city was quiet.
She climbed into his car. Black. Sleek. Expensive.
He got in beside her. Started the engine.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
He looked at her. Then he looked back at the road.
"I'm going to show you my world," he said. "And you're going to decide if you want to be part of it."
She didn't answer. She just looked out the window and watched the city slide past.
She already knew the answer.
She'd known it the moment she saw the gun on her nightstand.
She was already part of it.
She just hadn't admitted it yet.
She just hadn't admitted it yet.
The car hummed through the empty streets, tires hissing on wet asphalt. Leo drove with one hand, the other resting on the gear shift, thumb tracing slow circles on the leather. Vera watched his profile—the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his eyes flicked to the mirrors every few seconds, cataloging, calculating.
"You always this paranoid?" she asked.
"Only when I'm not."
She snorted. Looked out the window. The city had thinned to warehouses and chain-link fences, then to nothing at all—just dark fields and the occasional flicker of a farmhouse light in the distance. The clock on the dash read 11:47.
"Where the hell are we going?"
"You'll see."
She hated that answer. Always had. But she settled back into the leather seat and let the motion of the car rock her, the warmth of the heater seeping into her bones. Her thighs were still sticky. Her cunt still sore in that good way, the way that reminded her she'd been thoroughly fucked and would be again.
Twenty minutes later, Leo pulled off the highway onto a gravel road. No sign. No mailbox. Just a narrow path cutting through trees so dense they blocked out the sky. The headlights carved a tunnel through the dark.
Then the trees opened.
The house was enormous. Not in a flashy way—no columns, no wrought iron gates. Just a sprawling brick and glass structure that seemed to grow out of the earth, all clean lines and dark windows. A single light burned in the upper corner.
Leo killed the engine.
"Nice place," Vera said. "Yours?"
"Ours."
She looked at him.
"Not like that," he said. "It's a... gathering place. For people in my organization."
"Organization." She tested the word. "That's what we're calling it?"
He didn't answer. Just got out of the car. She followed.
The gravel crunched under her heels. The air smelled like pine and woodsmoke and something else—something chemical, faint but unmistakable. Fertilizer. Or maybe that was just her imagination.
Leo led her to a side door. Keypad. He punched in a code she didn't see. The lock clicked. The door swung open.
Inside was a hallway. Concrete floors. White walls. Recessed lighting that cast everything in a cool, clinical glow. No art. No furniture. Just doors.
"This way."
He walked. She followed.
The hallway ended at a staircase. Down, not up. She hesitated at the top step.
"You trust me?" he asked.
"No."
"Good."
He descended. She followed.
The basement was a different world.
Warm. Low ceilings. Leather furniture. Persian rugs layered over concrete. A bar in one corner, fully stocked. A card table in another, chips stacked in neat columns. And people—a dozen of them, maybe more, scattered across the room in small groups. Talking. Drinking. Laughing.
They all stopped when Leo walked in.
He didn't acknowledge them. Just crossed the room, Vera at his side, and poured himself a drink. Whiskey. Neat. He didn't offer her one.
"You brought her," someone said.
A man. Tall. Gray at the temples. Dressed in a suit that cost more than Vera's rent.
"I did," Leo said.
"She's not—"
"She's with me."
The man looked at Vera. She looked back. Didn't smile. Didn't flinch.
"Does she know?"
"She's about to."
Leo turned to her. His eyes were dark. Unreadable.
"This is my world," he said. "These people work for me. They move product. They handle problems. They do things that would make your fucking head spin."
She didn't blink.
"You wanted to know who I am. This is it. I run a cartel. I move cocaine and guns and money across three borders. I've killed people. I'll kill more. And I don't regret a single fucking one."
The room was silent. Everyone watching.
Vera reached for his glass. Took a sip. The whiskey burned going down.
"Okay," she said.
Leo's jaw tightened. "Okay?"
"That's fair."
She handed the glass back. Then she looked around the room—at the men in suits, at the women with hard eyes, at the card table and the bar and the leather furniture that smelled like old money and newer blood.
"I made up my mind the second I saw the gun," she said. "You just took a while to catch up."
Leo stared at her. Something shifted in his face. Something she hadn't seen before. Respect. Or maybe relief. Or maybe something darker.
Then he laughed. Low. Rough. The laugh of a man who'd finally found something he didn't know he was looking for.
"Get her a drink," he said to no one in particular.
A woman appeared at Vera's elbow. Blonde. Beautiful. Carrying two glasses of champagne.
"Welcome," she said. Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
Vera took the glass. Didn't drink.
"I want to see the rest," she said.
Leo raised an eyebrow.
"The rest of your world. Not just the living room."
He considered her. Then he nodded.
"Follow me."
He led her through a door at the back of the room. Down another hallway. Through another door.
The room beyond was smaller. Quieter. A desk. A chair. A map on the wall covered in pins and lines and tiny handwritten notes. A safe in the corner, door ajar.
"This is where I work," he said.
"Where you plan."
"Where I decide who lives and who dies."
She walked to the map. Traced a line with her finger. Border. River. Highway.
"This is all yours?"
"This is all mine."
She turned to face him. He was leaning against the desk, arms crossed, watching her.
"You brought me here for a reason," she said.
"I told you. I wanted to show you."
"No." She shook her head. "You wanted to test me. See if I'd run."
"Would you have?"
"No."
"Then why the test?"
He uncrossed his arms. Stepped toward her. His hands found her waist. Pulled her close.
"Because I don't trust anyone," he said. "And I wanted to trust you."
She looked up at him. His eyes were dark and hungry and something else—something vulnerable that he'd never show anyone else.
"You're a bastard," she said.
"I know."
She kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tender. It was teeth and tongue and the taste of whiskey and the promise of violence. He grabbed her ass. Hoisted her onto the desk. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him close.
"Fuck me," she said. "Right here. On your map."
He didn't hesitate.
He yanked her dress up. Ripped her stockings at the seam. Pushed her panties aside and drove two fingers into her without preamble.
She was already wet. Ready. She'd been ready since the car.
"Jesus," he muttered. "You're fucking soaked."
"You have that effect."
He pulled his fingers out. Sucked them clean. Then he unzipped his pants and freed his cock—thick and hard and already leaking.
"Look at me," he said.
She looked.
He pushed into her.
She gasped. He was bigger than she remembered. Or maybe she'd just forgotten. Either way, the stretch was exquisite. The fullness. The way he bottomed out and stayed there, grinding his hips against hers.
"You feel that?" he said.
"Yes."
"That's me. That's who I am."
He pulled back. Thrust hard. The desk scraped against the floor.
"That's what you're choosing."
He fucked her. Hard. Fast. The map crinkled under her back. Pins scattered. She didn't care.
"Leo—"
"Say it again."
"What?"
"Say my name."
"Leo."
He fucked her harder.
"Again."
"Leo—"
He kissed her. Swallowed her moans. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her into every thrust, impaling her on his cock like he wanted to split her open.
"Come for me," he said.
She did.
The orgasm ripped through her. Made her arch. Made her scream into his mouth. Her cunt clamped down on him like a vice.
He kept going. Didn't stop. Just fucked her through it, his rhythm breaking, his breath ragged.
Then he pulled out.
She whined at the loss. Then she felt his hands on her shoulders.
"Turn around."
She turned. Bent over the desk. Her cheek pressed against the map. Somewhere on the other side of the wall, people were talking, laughing. She could hear them.
He pushed into her from behind.
She cried out.
He grabbed her hair. Pulled her head back. Fucked her like an animal.
"You wanted my world," he said. "This is it. No rules. No mercy. Just me."
She came again. Or maybe she'd never stopped. She didn't know anymore.
He fucked her for a long time. Long enough that her legs gave out. Long enough that her voice went hoarse. Long enough that the room filled with the smell of sweat and sex and something primal.
Then he came.
Hot. Deep. He held her hips against his and emptied himself inside her with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his chest.
They stayed there for a moment. Both panting. Both trembling.
Then he pulled out.
She turned around. Looked at him.
His face was flushed. His eyes were wild. His dick was still hard, glistening with her.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"That's fair."
She reached between her legs. Touched his come where it leaked out of her. Brought it to her mouth. Tasted it.
"You're a sick fuck," he said.
"So are you."
He laughed. Pulled her against him. Kissed her forehead in a gesture so unexpectedly tender it made her chest ache.
"You're staying," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yeah," she said. "I'm staying."
He pulled her toward a door at the back of the office. It led to a small bedroom—cot, sheets, a lamp. The kind of room where you collapsed when you couldn't make it home.
"We'll clean up," he said. "Then I'll take you back to the party. Introduce you properly."
"Back to the party?"
"They're waiting."
She looked at him. At the cot. At the door that separated them from his world.
"Let them wait," she said.
And she pulled him down onto the bed.
She woke to the sound of rain on a metal roof.
The cot was too small for two people. Leo was pressed against her back, his arm draped over her waist, his breath warm on her neck. The lamp was still on. The door was still closed.
She didn't move.
She thought about the gun on her nightstand. The bullet she'd fired. The map she'd been fucked on. The dozen people upstairs who now knew her name—or would, by morning.
She should have been afraid. Should have been running.
Instead, she felt something she hadn't felt in years.
Safe.
It was a stupid feeling. A dangerous one. But it was there, blooming in her chest like a wound she didn't want to heal.
She turned her head. Leo's eyes were open. Watching her.
"Morning," he said.
"It's still night."
"Same thing."
He kissed her shoulder. Lingered there.
"You snore," she said.
"You talk in your sleep."
"What did I say?"
"You said 'more.'"
She snorted. "That sounds about right."
He shifted. Pulled her tighter against him. His cock stirred against her hip, already half-hard.
"Again?" she asked.
"Always."
She turned to face him. The cot creaked. She straddled him, her knees on either side of his hips, her hands on his chest.
"There's no shower in here," she said.
"There's one upstairs."
"Think anyone will notice us?"
"I hope they do."
She looked at him. At the scars on his chest. At the ink on his arms. At the man who'd told her he was a killer and fucked her on a map of his empire.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"That's fair."
She reached for his cock. Guided it to her entrance. Sank down on him in one slow, deliberate motion.
He groaned. His hands found her hips.
She rode him. Slow. Steady. The way she wanted to. The way that made him gasp and curse and dig his fingers into her flesh.
"This is what I want," she said. "From now on."
"What?"
"To be part of it. All of it."
He looked up at her. His eyes were dark and searching and something else—something that looked almost like fear.
"You don't know what you're asking."
"Yes I do."
She leaned down. Pressed her forehead to his.
"I know exactly what I'm asking."
He kissed her. Pulled her tighter. Fucked up into her, matching her rhythm, claiming her with every stroke.
They came together. A messy, sweaty, tangled thing. She collapsed on top of him. He held her.
The rain kept falling.
The world kept turning.
And somewhere upstairs, the party went on.
She let him show her his world.
But she'd made up her mind already.