Page 42 of Raven's Mark
Raven looks at each of them in turn, calm and unhurried. "Let's get started," she says, and turns the laptop toward them.
She runs the debrief like she was born to it. The timeline first. Then the financial data. Then the shell company network she's mapped across three states. The team leans in without being asked. Cipher starts cross-referencing on his tablet halfway through her financial analysis. Rook asks two questions, both precise, both answered without hesitation. By the time she walks them through the cartel's operational pattern along the smuggling corridor, every man in the room has arrived at the same two conclusions: she's the sharpest person at this table, and she belongs to me.
When she finishes, Torque sets a hard case on the counter and opens it to reveal a row of encrypted radios, military grade. He distributes them without prompting, and each operative checks their unit with practiced hands. I take the last one and pass it to Raven.
"Rimrock Motel, off 290." I look at each of them. "Separate check-ins. Cash only. No contact outside encrypted channels."
They move out with the same quiet efficiency they arrived with. Rook catches my eye on his way to the door and givesa single nod that says everything it needs to. The door closes behind them, and the engine sounds fade down the drive until the woods swallow the last trace of them.
The cabin goes still.
Raven is standing at the kitchen island with the laptop closed in front of her. She looks at me, and her expression is careful, measured, the face of a woman deciding how to handle what just happened in front of four strangers.
"The kiss," she says. "That was deliberate."
"Yes."
"You wanted them to know."
"They needed to know." I cross to her, and she doesn't step back. "There's a difference between protecting an asset and protecting the woman I refuse to lose. I wasn't going to leave that open to interpretation."
Her composure holds, but the edges of it soften in a way only I would notice. She reaches up and straightens the collar of my shirt, a small precise gesture that lands harder than she probably intends.
"They'll follow your orders," she says quietly.
"They will." I cover her hand with mine and hold it flat against my chest.
Outside, the last of the daylight bleeds from the sky. The team is already moving and by morning the surveillance net will be in place. Tomorrow the operation begins in earnest. Tonight, for a few more hours, it's only her and me and the dark pressing in against the windows.
I'm not ready to let that go yet.
13
RAVEN
His hand is warm over mine, and the want I've been holding back all day settles into certainty. I turn my palm up, lace my fingers through his, and lead him toward the bedroom.
Jesse follows without a word, his calloused fingers curled around mine, his boots heavy on the hardwood behind me. The bedroom is shadowed with the curtains drawn against the last of the afternoon light, and I don't bother with the lamp. I don't need it to read his face. He's not hiding anything anymore. The want is plain and open, and the sight of it makes my pulse kick harder than it has any right to.
That kiss in front of the team lit a fire I can't put out. The deliberateness of it, the way he claimed me without apology or hesitation, burned through every rational thought I've had since. I spent the rest of the debrief running on adrenaline and professional habit while my body kept replaying the pressure of his mouth, the weight of his hand at my waist, the low sound he made against my lips before he pulled away.
I turn to face him. His broad shoulders block the faint glow from the living room, and the stillness in him is coiled and focused entirely on me.
His gaze finds mine in the dim light, and whatever he reads in my expression makes his lips part on a slow exhale. I reach for the hem of his shirt and pull it up. He lets me strip it over his head, and the low light catches the hard planes of his torso, the dark hair that arrows down from his navel, the pale scars mapped across his ribs. My palms press flat against his abdomen and the muscles contract beneath my touch.
His hand catches my jaw and tilts my face up. Those pale blue eyes have gone almost silver in the dark, and the hunger in them is predatory, sharp-edged. Not safe.
I don't want safe.
I sink to my knees on the hardwood floor, and the sharp intake of breath above me is the most satisfying sound I've heard all day.
My fingers work his belt open. Then the button. Then the zipper. Each one deliberate because I want him to feel every second of the wait. His jeans and briefs slide lower on his hips and I wrap my hand around him, thick and hard and hot against my palm. The groan that tears out of him makes my thighs press together.
When I lean forward and take him into my mouth, his hand fists in my hair with enough force to sting. The pain sharpens the want instead of dulling it, makes me take him deeper, my tongue dragging along the underside of his shaft while my hand works the base.
"Raven." My name comes out strangled and wrecked, and his hips rock forward, pushing deeper into my throat. I hollow my cheeks and suck hard, and the sound he makes is guttural and raw, his fingers twisting tighter in my hair to hold me exactly where he wants me.
He sets the pace with his grip, guiding my rhythm until his thighs are shaking and his breathing has gone ragged above me. The pull at my scalp burns, and I'm soaking wet from nothingmore than the sounds he's making and the way he's using my mouth.
