Brooke Codona is a beautiful young woman and tries to keep everything together. Everything felt good in her life especially her marriage until her husband cheated on her. With nowhere to go, she gets a letter from her late grandmother stating that s...
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The weeks blurred into a relentless cycle of sweat, pain, and precision. The adrenaline that had spiked during the initial planning session never truly went away. Instead it became a low, constant hum beneath the skin. I was a machine now, honed and sharpened by Sin's demanding perfection.
I moved with a lethal grace I hadn't known I possessed, my body remembering the lessons before my mind could process the threat.
I had learned to turn the rage that Damon had sparked into fuel, channeling it into devastating force. My cousins had stopped sparring with skepticism and started sparring with genuine caution. They saw the weapon Sin had forged, and they finally respected the steel in my spine.
In the brief, stolen hours between training and tactical briefings, Sin and I found our release. Our passion was not a distraction, it was a necessary grounding. It was the only time the world narrowed down to just two people, two heartbeats, a sanctuary built of skin and breath. We devoured each other with the urgency of those who know their time is borrowed, our pleasure always edged with the shadow of the coming conflict.
Tonight, the air itself felt heavy, charged with the scent of gun oil and ozone. This was it. The night the their plan became a reality.
I stood before the full-length mirror in the master bedroom, the reflection showing a woman I barely recognized. Gone was the slightly hesitant girl who had arrived months ago. In my place was a silhouette carved from shadow: dark tight leggings, a second-skin black tailored jacket, and the leather holster cinched tight around her waist. I wore high, lace-up boots, the perfect blend of mobility and protection.
I slipped a thin, razor-sharp stiletto into the sheath hidden in my left boot and another into the right. A third, curved fighting knife disappeared into the small of my back, nestled above the waistband of my leggings. I studied my reflection, noting the fierce resolution in my eyes, when a familiar warmth pressed against my back. Sin. He came up behind me silently, his large hands resting lightly on my hips, pulling me back against the solid plane of his chest. The smell of his leather jacket and his clean, masculine scent—my only true comfort—enveloped me.
"Ready?" he murmured, his voice a low vibration against my ear. I leaned my head back against his shoulder, feeling the tension momentarily drain. "As I'll ever be."
I watched in the mirror as his hands slid lower, tracing the curve of my hips beneath the tight fabric. He didn't rush. He never did. He was deliberate, sensual, drawing out the exquisite anticipation. His fingers hooked into the waistband of my leggings, pulling the material down just enough to slip a hand inside, cupping the warm, sensitive core of mine.
My breath hitched. I watched my own reflection, the way my eyes darkened, the slight tremor in my lips. This was our ritual: a moment of raw, unapologetic connection before the inevitable.
He found my clit, his thumb mapping the sensitive terrain, circling, then pressing with expert, agonizing slowness. A soft moan escaped my lips, quickly stifled, as the pleasure bloomed, sharp and immediate. I closed my eyes for a moment, savoring the sensation, letting the world dissolve into the rhythmic pressure of his touch.
