Under Covers

twenty-three | paris

A/N: SMUT ALERT! Wow, a gift just in time for the holidays ✨ xoxo Ami

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twenty-three | paris

a law enacted in 1799 making it illegal for women to wear men's clothes – including pants – in public within the city limits of Paris remained in place (though not enforced) until 2012

RAYNA

May 8th, 23:51 (GMT +2)
7 days until it happens

I DRESS MY wounds. The ceramic basin of my sink swirls pink with blood. Fresh, splotchy bruises melt across my torso.

He has a mean left uppercut, I'll give it to him. Not to mention the things he was able to do with his infuriating fucking mouth. Miraculous, cruel, incandescent things.

It's decided. I'll rip his eyes out but keep his tongue intact.

***

JAKE

May 9th, 00:09 (GMT +2)
6 days until it happens

THERE'S AN ACTIVE shooter skulking around the perimetre of the UK embassy and all I can fucking think about is Rayna's sopping wet cunt.

When I check in with the lead commander on site, he balks at the sight of me. "Christ, Morgan. Did you get run over by a lorry?"

"Yeah, something like that."

I'm knackered but wired, so tense I could drill my fist through cement. Even after leaving her behind, I can't escape her. Her scent, her laughter, her fire. I've been singed; the burnt edges still sting when she's not around.

"Morgan, you cover the north gate. Choudhry, take the west wing. Radio once you've cleared."

Fuck. If not for this bloody bellend with a gun, I'd be balls-deep inside her right now, nailing her to the wall. Or the bed, or the carpet. Fuck it, all three and more – why choose. "Shoot to kill, sir?"

"Negative. Disarm if possible."

I'll disarm his bloody knob...

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RAYNA

May 9th, 00:29 (GMT +2)
6 days until it happens

MY FINGERS AREN'T working.

I try one of my vibrators. I try another. I try a dildo. Nipple clamps. Porn. Audio porn. A smutty romance novel. I press and push and pull but all I do is frustrate myself. I lay in my bed, naked and sweaty, twisting and turning futilely into the sheets. Nothing does it.

There's only one thing my body wants.

Fantasizing about crushing Jake's stupid face between my open thighs is nearly enough to throw me over the edge.

Nearly.

I fist the covers angrily. My face still stings from where he slapped me. I want him to do it again, and worse.

I dig a vicious finger inside me and try pretending that it's his.

(It doesn't work.)

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JAKE

May 9th, 00:34 (GMT +2)
6 days until it happens

RED AND BLUE lights and a swirling blare of sirens muck along the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. The offender is being cuffed and stuffed into a Paris Police car.