Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 133321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 667(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 667(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Blake motions me forward, which means he’s sent a text message to Savage and Luke, telling them the same. I give a nod and prepare to move forward on my own, while Savage will do the same on the other side of the property where he awaits with Luke. After a lot of fucking pressure, he and Luke finally agreed to stay back and run guard. I move forward with two goals: search and deposit, and thanks to blueprints and an old Zillow posting that offered floorplan knowledge, my destination a basement window. Savage’s is a living room window on the other side of the house.
I climb a wall, drop to grassy terrain, and then settle into a squat to watch and wait. Crickets chirp and an owl hoots, but there is nothing else. If Savage is moving, that big-foot Beret is one smooth operator. Staying low, I rush to the window and remove a small flashlight I intend to use to break the window, but when I try it, just to see if it might be open, it is. I’m not sure if that makes Brian stupid or if it tells us the Dungeon has been here and gone. I hope the fuck not.
I slide the window open, use the flashlight, and scan the dark finished basement to find Savage standing in front of me. “You slow as fuck fish-face SEAL. Come the fuck on. It’s all clear.”
The man is a piece of work, but I’m smiling as me and my bag jump into the room, shut the window and face Savage, a small handheld light between us in his big monstrous hand. Savage is about six-five give or take an inch. And broad as hell. Either he’s going to trip over himself and fuck us over or he’s going to jump on top of the bad guys and they’ll suffocate.
“Did we find the safe?” We know he has one from Blake hacking his data files.
“I haven’t been to the office beyond a cursory glance.”
“I’ll head there and handle the safe. See what else you can find.”
“You sure you can open his safe?”
Me and hacking safes have a history thanks to the Navy, who logically assumed a savant with a thing for numbers could crack a safe that was all about numbers. “I got this.” I move through the room and leave him to do what he needs to do: find anything we might need to end this hell for Grayson and put away this asshole Brian. “Because I handled the one in his office so shitty?” I ask sarcastically, because I’d opened that safe in about thirty seconds.
“Yeah, you made that look easy, but that could have been a freak fucking luck kind of thing.”
I shake my head and turn my light to low before I leave him where he stands, wasting no time crossing the room and climbing a winding set of stairs. Nearing the top, I kill the light. I hesitate before rounding the corner, listening for a change that I know won’t exist. Blake and Luke are in my ear, on an earpiece. They’d warn me, but years of missions and the unexpected, taught me to expect the unexpected.
After a full minute, I move forward, guided by open windows and the burn of moonlight and stars, passing through an overly luxurious living area and down a hall to the office. Once I’m there, I walk to the sitting area next to the heavy wooden desk, sit on the couch, and lift the rug. And then I go cold.
The safe is there, but the damn thing is wired to explode.
Chapter seventy-three
Grayson
My lips part Mia’s and I can taste a million missed moments on my tongue, a million wants, and needs. A million demands my body craves and I want to bury them all inside her. I reach up and catch the top of her blouse just above her buttons and yank, tiny buttons flying everywhere. She gasps and already I’ve unhooked the front clasp of her bra. Already, my gaze is raking over the swell of her high breasts, the pucker of her pink nipples.
“Grayson,” she whispers, and there was a time not so long ago that I thought I’d never hear my name on her lips again, at least not spoken with that raspy burn of a plea. And that’s what my name is on her lips right now: a plea.
I know what she wants, what she needs and I need. That forbidden burn of submission she has often admitted to wanting, the need in her that answers my need for control. For her, it’s the only time she allows herself to fully let go, to dare to give me that control, and fear nothing. For me, inside that control is her trusting me, her being all-in in every possible way. I’d like to say I know she is, and on most levels I do, but the bite of her leaving is fresh. Her believing I cheated is a bleeding wound, only now healing. But it is healing. That said, it’s true, absolutely fucking true, that her submitting right here in our bedroom and showing me how much she trusts me, feels urgent. It feels necessary.