First Rule: Don't Fall For The Enemy

CHAPTER 8

MIRA’S POV

“What proof do you want?” I found myself asking, even though I knew what he was talking about.

"Prove that you’re still in control. That you haven’t lost sight of what’s important." His eyes searched mine, looking for something—reassurance, maybe, or hope. "Prove that you’re still mine."

The possessive edge in his voice made something snap inside me. I was tired of being questioned, tired of being doubted, tired of everyone thinking they knew what was best for me.

"Fine," I said, grabbing his wrist and pulling him toward the storage closet. "You want proof? I’ll give you proof."

"Mira, what are you—"

I yanked open the storage room door and dragged him inside, my heart pounding with a mixture of anger and desperation. The moment the door clicked shut behind us, I grabbed his belt and pulled him against me.

"Is this what you want?" I whispered, my voice rough with emotions I couldn’t name. "Is this the proof you need?"

He barely had time to nod before I was pressing my mouth to his, pouring all my frustration and confusion into the kiss. His hands tangled in my hair, and I felt him respond immediately, his body pressing against mine with desperate need.

This was familiar territory; Jesse and I had been together for two years, had found comfort in each other through countless dangerous assignments. But as his hands roamed over my body, as he lifted me and pressed me against the wall, all I could think about was dark eyes and almost-kisses—about the way Adrian’s voice dropped to that dangerous whisper when we were alone.

"Mira," Jesse breathed against my neck, his hands rough and needy. "God, I’ve missed this. Missed you."

I closed my eyes, trying to lose myself in the familiar heat of his touch, trying to erase the memory of Adrian’s fingers on my skin. Jesse’s movements were desperate, almost frantic, like he was trying to reclaim something he felt slipping away.

I dropped to my knees. The tile was cold. My hands found his zipper, and his fingers found my hair. The familiar grip of Jesse’s hands sank into my scalp. His breath caught as my mouth wrapped around him. He groaned out loud.

I closed my eyes. Sucked harder. Let the taste, the texture, the rawness drown me.

I didn’t want to think.

But I did.

Adrian’s mouth. His lips. The heat of that almost-kiss still lingered on mine like a phantom limb. The way he stopped himself. The way I didn’t.

Jesse moaned my name—"Mira"—like a question. Like he wanted to believe I was still there with him. I moaned around him in response, desperate, messy, noisy. He bucked. My teeth grazed him, a warning.

This wasn’t for him. It was for me.

I wanted to feel powerful again. Like I owned my body, my choices, my fuck-ups.

“Get up,” Jesse panted, pulling me up by the shoulders. “Mira, fuck, what are you doing?”

“What you said I couldn’t.” My voice was hoarse, defiant.

He pinned me to the wall. I yanked his shirt collar hard, bringing his face inches from mine.

“You think I’m soft?” I hissed. “You think Adrian gets to me?”

His eyes searched mine. His hands were already hiking up my skirt.

“You don’t even see what you’re doing,” he murmured. “Every time you defend him—”

“Shut up.”

He slammed into me.

And I did forget.

At least for a few seconds.

My head thumped back against the drywall. My legs wrapped around him, ankles locking at the base of his spine. His hips snapped forward—again, again. Fast, rough, and desperate.

His breath was in my ear. My nails dug into his shoulders. One of the overhead light bulbs flickered.

We weren’t quiet.

I finished first. The kind of climax that hit like a punch, clenched tight, sudden, biting my lip to stay quiet. My breath came in short, hot gasps against his jaw.

He followed, slower, grinding into me until his rhythm broke and his mouth found the curve of my throat.

We were a tangle of sweat and spit and bad decisions when I heard the voice of Adrian.

“Has Elise gone home?”

I froze.

Jesse didn’t move. He was still inside me.

I held my breath as Adrian kept walking closer to us.

“Hello?”

Jesse looked at me, panic widening his eyes. I shoved him off. He stumbled back, and I was already adjusting my skirt, my trembling hands smoothing it down. My panties were nowhere—lost in the heat of five minutes ago. I wiped at my thigh, where his cum had started to drip. It smeared.

Fuck. Fuck.

Adrian knocked lightly. Three taps.

“Mira?”

I pressed myself flat against the wall, chest heaving, heart a snare drum.

He was looking for me. I couldn’t tell if that made it better or worse.

Jesse, still breathless, mouthed, “Do we say something?”

I shook my head violently.

I didn’t trust my voice.