I squinted, fixing my expression when Irene stood in front of us, arms crossed. She had asked us a question that not even Mitch wanted to answer.
"Footage surveillance from the bedroom was cut off the first week you were here," she said, her sharp eyes scanning our faces. "Now, just earlier, it was cut off for about two hours. Until now."
"This isn't an issue to be concerned about," Mitch replied, keeping his posture perfectly composed, his arms resting casually behind his back.
I stayed alert and serious, even as my mind flashed back to the shower, thinking about the dark, bruising hickeys I had left on his collarbone and down his torso—everywhere that was currently hidden by his operational gear.
"It might be a security breach," Irene countered, looking down at her phone and pressing a couple of buttons. "Once is a glitch. Twice for this amount of time is a problem. Something to look into."
"Okay, I'm super embarrassed right now," I broke in, letting an organic flush of embarrassment color my cheeks as I looked down. "Mitch, did you..." I stopped, biting my lip perfectly. "I um... I had asked for some toys to satisfy some needs, and I am now realizing Mitch has spared me the embarrassment of the surveillance team witnessing, well... you know."
I pursed my mouth after the lie spilled out. Mitch didn't even take a glance in my direction, maintaining his strict, unbothered soldier mask.
"Oh. Well." Irene looked deep in thought for a moment before nodding slowly. "We will keep the cameras outside the room and outside your window, but not pointed inside. When there's a security threat to the system, we want to make sure it's real, so this will prevent us from losing vigilance when there are disruptions." She was calculated in her speech.
"Yes, Ma'am," Mitch nodded.
"I want you to train her to fight," Irene added, her tone shifting to business. "Have you started training her?"
"Not yet. I'm still setting up the gym out back," Mitch explained cleanly. "The cameras are already surrounding the perimeter, but I'm having it be an enclosed garage gym for low visibility instead of having an open backyard gym."
Irene's phone rang. She looked between us, turned around while picking up the call, and walked out the front door without another word.
Later that afternoon, the heavy air of the enclosed garage gym was thick with the scent of rubber and sweat. I stood with my arms crossed, staring at Mitch as he repeatedly struck the heavy punching bag, demonstrating the best way to drive a blow using your full body weight.
"You only got a preview in the academy that you didn't complete," he explained, his bicep flexing beautifully with every punch demonstration. "But Irene wants you to be able to kill a guy if he tries to get to you."
His eyes lingered on mine as sweat dripped down his shirtless body. Looking at the raw power in his shoulders, I could see the fading, purple marks I'd left on his chest a couple of days ago under the harsh gym lighting. I knew he was glad he hadn't put cameras in the gym, or my room, or the bathroom.
"Lauren. Focus," he snapped at me.
I smiled, stepping forward. "Make me focus."
I walked closer to him, keeping my steps measured. Little did he know that I already knew exactly how to fight. I would bet a hundred million dollars on the fact that I could give him a serious run for his money if I actually tried. Irene knew what I was capable of, but I wondered how he would react if he found out I was with Ghost not only romantically, but that I had been trained the exact same way Stan had trained him. Same tactics. Same maneuvers. Brandon always told me that my superpower was lying my ass off and adapting to any situation.
"If something happens to me, then you'll be dead," Mitch said, his voice dropping into that dark, serious register. "These guys are nothing to play about. We have been tracking them down for years."
He was thinking about them too much, but then again, it was his job. Why did Irene want us to do this? Was this a test to see if I could keep lying to Mitch about being completely defenseless?
I wanted to tell him I needed my physical needs met and taken care of, just like he had promised in the shower, but I hadn't made another attempt since we stepped into the gym. Everything he did had been sending me over the edge in the best way possible. Watching him stay focused and serious all day only made it worse. Every time I went into my room to touch myself, I knew he had to be scrubbing the footage clean of anything nude. He knew exactly what I was doing in there.
"I have a request," I said as he stepped up behind me, positioning my body in front of the bag. His large, warm hands guided my arms into the proper form for a basic swing.
"Yes?" His voice was a low, gravelly rumble directly against my ear.
I looked behind my shoulder, meeting his dark gaze. "I need you to—" I cut myself off, suddenly swinging a decent, heavy punch right into the airbag.
I turned fully to face him, maintaining complete focus. "Backspace. I just need you. Preferably right now. I need you on the bed, in the shower, on this workout bench. Dealer's choice."
Mitch didn't blink. His expression remained entirely serious, his professional composure unshakeable, but the air between us turned instantly electric. He didn't say a single word, but his chest rose and fell in a heavy, deliberate breath as he stepped completely into my space, his bare, sweating chest pressing firmly against my shoulder.
"We need to finish your warm-up and flexibility routine first," he said, his voice flat, completely professional, yet the dark hunger in his eyes completely contradicted his words. He was acting like a strict trainer, but the heat radiating from his skin was scorching. "Turn around. Touch your toes. Let's stretch out your hamstrings."
I bit my lip, turning around slowly. I bent forward, reaching down until my fingers brushed the tips of my shoes, completely exposing myself to him.
The moment I was fully bent over, Mitch stepped in flush behind me. He didn't hesitate. He deliberately pressed his entire, massive frame right up against my backside, his hard chest flattening against my back. He didn't touch me with his hands yet; he just used the heavy, unyielding weight of his body to anchor me down, forcing me deeper into the stretch.
"Hold it," he commanded roughly into the back of my neck, his hot breath making my skin goosebump.
I let out a soft whine as I felt the undeniable, rigid length of him pressing firmly against my thin, athletic shorts, perfectly molded into the crease of my thighs. He was completely rock-hard, his professional attitude entirely at odds with the thick ridge straining against his athletic gear.
"Mitch," I gasped, my fingers trembling against my toes as he shifted his weight, grinding his front heavily against me in a slow, agonizingly deliberate motion that made my knees shake.
"Keep stretching, Lauren," he murmured, his voice a low, disciplined baritone that sent a violent jolt of pleasure straight to my core. He leaned lower, his bare, muscular chest rubbing against my back as he kept me pinned in the position, intentionally maximizing the friction. "An operative has to stay flexible under pressure."
"You're torturing me," I whimpered, my head hanging low as the heat between our lower bodies became blinding. Every micro-movement of his hips was driving me insane. He was treating it like a mandatory exercise, completely serious, but the sheer size of him pressing into me was overwhelming.
Mitch let out a sharp, ragged exhalation through his nose. He didn't speak to break the routine. Instead, he gripped my hips, pulling me up just to adjust me into the next movement. "Straddle stretch. Feet wide," he muttered against my ear, the command cold but his grip burning hot.
I stepped my feet apart, bending low to the floor. Mitch instantly dropped down behind me, kneeling into the space between my feet. His large hands slid down the inside of my thighs, pushing my legs wider, while his own bare chest pressed hard against my lower back, forcing my torso closer to the concrete. The friction of his coarse leg hair and broad frame rubbing against my bare skin and thin shorts was intoxicating.
"Are you checking my form, or are you just trying to see how wet I can get these shorts for you?" I teased breathlessly, my hands gripping the gym floor for balance.
Mitch didn't answer with words. He simply shifted his weight forward, pressing his rock-hard length even harder against my core through the fabric, pinning me down until a loud, broken moan left my lips. He held me there for several agonizing seconds, letting me feel the absolute power and rigidity of his body before he stood up, pulling me with him.
"Quad stretch," he commanded, his breathing getting heavier, his tone remaining clinical as if he were running a textbook military physical. "Stand on your left leg. Pull your right foot up behind you toward your glute."
I shifted my weight, lifting my right foot. Mitch immediately stepped in close, his bare chest flattening against my side to steady me. He reached around my waist, his heavy hand clamping over my hip to press it forward, deepening the stretch in the front of my thigh, while his other hand wrapped firmly around my raised ankle. He leaned his entire weight into me, forcing the alignment, but his crotch was pressed solidly against the side of my leg, every ragged breath he took vibrating straight into my skin.
"Mitch, please," I choked out, completely undone by the clinical, agonizing teasing. "If you don't take these shorts off right now, I'm going to ruin them myself."
"Silence, Lauren," he rumbled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark octave. He didn't look at my face; his focus was entirely on my body, treating it like a machine he was testing to its absolute limits.
He abruptly released my ankle and gripped my waist with a sudden, bruising force. He pulled me out of the stance and pointed a single, dominant finger toward the heavy weight bench in the center of the garage.
"Bench," he ordered flatly. "Lean back on it. Knees to chest."
My heart hammered against my ribs. I walked over to the bench, sliding my back down onto the padded vinyl, laying flat. I lifted my legs, pulling my knees up toward my chest in a deep, fully exposed stretch. I was wearing thin, light gray athletic shorts, and the fabric between my thighs was already entirely soaked through, dark and clingy from how desperately I wanted him.
Mitch stepped directly in between my raised knees, his massive, towering frame completely shadowing me. He looked down at the dark, wet patch staining the center of my shorts, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle violently ticked.
"Look at how much I want you," I whispered, staring up at him, completely unraveled. "You're acting so serious, but you're about to lose your mind. I can see it. Come inside me, Mitch. Stop playing—"
Mitch didn't let me finish the sentence. He reached out, his large, calloused hand firmly cupping my jaw, his thumb pressing into my chin just hard enough to force my mouth shut. He didn't say a word, completely refusing to engage in the verbal games, but his dark eyes were feral, burning holes into mine.
With his other hand, he slid his palm down my inner thigh and pressed it flat against my crotch. He rubbed hard, his large hand grinding against my soaked shorts, applying a punishing, heavy pressure that made my hips instantly buck off the bench. I let out a muffled whimper against his hand, the direct friction through the wet fabric sending a violent shockwave of pleasure straight to my core.
Mitch suddenly let go of my jaw. Before I could even draw a breath to speak, his fingers hooked into the waistband of my thin shorts. With one sudden, violent jerk of his massive arm, the fabric gave way with a loud, sharp *rip*, tearing completely down the seam. He didn't waste time fully removing them; he just reached down and aggressively slid the thin string of my underwear to the side, completely exposing my dripping, swollen center to the cool air of the garage.
This time, he didn't lean down to make out with me. He didn't kiss my lips at all. Keeping his upper body hovering above me, his hand firmly holding my knees back against my chest, he bent his head down to my body.
Mitch began to press his lips all over my skin, mimicking the exact way I had marked him days before. He started at my inner thighs, his mouth hot and unyielding as he sucked a dark, bruising mark into the sensitive flesh. I shrieked, my hands flying to his shaggy hair as he dragged his lips upward over my stomach. He bit lightly at my hip bone, his tongue lashing over the sting, before moving up to my ribs.
Every kiss was heavy, dominant, and serious, his breath hot against my damp skin. He moved to my breasts, taking one tight nipple into his mouth and sucking hard, his jaw working against me until I was crying out, my back arching completely off the bench. He was systematically marking every single inch of my body, claiming me with a quiet, lethal intensity that left me completely breathless.
He pulled back, his chest heaving violently, his bare torso glistening with sweat. The fading hickeys I had given him on his chest were stark against his skin as his muscles contorted with his heavy breathing.
Without a word of warning, Mitch adjusted his stance between my legs. He gripped the edges of the weight bench for stability, his arms locking like iron bars on either side of my hips. He aligned his heavy, throbbing length against my slick opening, paused for a single, agonizing heartbeat as his blown-out eyes locked onto mine, and then slammed his hips forward, driving himself entirely inside me in one deep, devastating stroke.
The sensation of him inside of me was staggering. He felt incredibly large, thick, and scorchingly hot, stretching me so acutely that my eyes went wide. The friction of his bare skin sliding against mine was an overwhelming, electric rush. I reached up, my fingers digging viciously into the muscles of his back, gripping him just as hard as he was holding me.
Every single time he plunged deep into me, a broken, needy moan tore from my throat. I couldn't stop the horny comments from spilling out, completely uninhibited by the raw intensity of it. "You feel so fucking big... stroke right there, Mitch, yes... break me open, please..."
Mitch didn't speak, but his breathing became a harsh, ragged roar in my ears. He slammed his hips against mine, the rhythm turning frantic, punishing, and utterly destructive as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in my gut. I could feel him swelling inside me, his muscles locking up as he reached his limit. I was right there with him, the heat on the verge of exploding.
Right before we both hit the climax, Mitch suddenly let out a sharp gasp and abruptly pulled out completely.
I let out a loud whine, my lips pulling into a severe pout as the sudden loss of him made me ache. "Mitch! No, come back—"
He didn't answer. Ignoring my pouting, he reached down, gripped the adjustment pin on the weight bench, and slammed it down until the bench was completely flat.
"Get on your knees on the bench," he ordered, his voice thick but carrying that absolute, unyielding discipline. "Head down. Hands on the floor. Arch your back."
Desperate and completely tipsy from the adrenaline, I sloppily scrambled into the position. I placed my knees on the flat vinyl of the bench, dropping my head low and planting my hands firmly on the concrete floor, pushing my chest down while arching my back to hoist my hips high into the air.
Mitch didn't hesitate. He stepped up behind the bench, his large hands clamping onto my hips to lock me into place, and drove his thick length straight back inside me from behind.
The new angle was deeper, hitting me with a force that had me crying out, my hands sliding slightly on the concrete. Each heavy, rhythmic stroke was pure destruction, tearing through whatever sanity we had left. He was relentless, his bare chest slamming against my arched spine with every forward plunge. But just as the pace picked up into a frenzied blur, and he noticed my inner muscles beginning to squeeze tight—signaling I was slowly about to climax again—he abruptly pulled out a second time.
"Get off the bench," he muttered, his breath coming in ragged, heavy pants.
I whined, reluctantly dragging my body up. As I stood on the concrete floor, my legs were shaking so violently I could barely balance. The clear evidence of how wet he had made me—my own slick liquids mixed with a drop of his friction—was dripping and oozing down the inside of my thigh.
Mitch didn't look at it. He stepped up to the bench, grabbed the lever, and adjusted the lean just a little bit, setting it to a slight, comfortable incline. Then, his massive frame completely glistening with sweat, he laid down flat on his back on the padded vinyl.
He looked up at me, his dark eyes burning with an unholy amount of restraint, though his face remained perfectly serious and professional.
"Your choice of stretch for the last one," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.
A wicked, triumphant smile spread across my face. I walked over, stepping over his waist, and straddled his hips. I leaned forward, placing my hands firmly against his broad, tattooed torso, feeling the wild, rapid thud of his heart beneath his ribs.
"I think... I think I'll do squats here, yeah?" I whispered, my voice dripping with pure mischief.
Mitch sent me a single, firm nod.
He didn't make me wait. His large, calloused hands instantly came up, gripping my thighs with a fierce, grounding hold to lead my body up and down. Keeping his back leaned flat against the inclined bench, he watched me with a desperate, hyper-focused intensity as I began to drop my hips, burying his thick length inside me before pushing up.
I started riding him, the pace picking up instantly. His hands on my thighs guided my rhythm, but I took control, moving faster and faster, my moans echoing through the rafters of the garage. Mitch's eyes never left mine, his chest heaving violently beneath my hands as he watched me take every inch of him. The friction was blinding, the heat between our bodies melting everything else away until the coil snapped. A violent, screaming orgasm shattered through me, and a split second later, Mitch let out a loud, guttural roar, his hips throwing himself up into one final, deep thrust as he completely released inside me.
Completely spent and trembling, my muscles giving out entirely, I dropped my upper body straight down onto his chest, burying my face into his neck as the garage fell silent, save for the sound of our tangled, heavy breathing.
I lay completely flattened against his broad, sweating chest, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The heavy air of the garage gym gradually cooled the slick skin of my back, but the heat where our lower bodies remained fused was still blistering.
Mitch's large hands slowly slid up from my thighs, his calloused palms resting firmly on my waist. He didn't push me off, but his breathing began to regulate, shifting from a feral roar back into deep, disciplined expansions of his chest.
"Get up, Lauren," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated right through my collarbone. "Conserve your energy."
I shifted slightly, a soft, lazy moan escaping my lips as the movement caused a delicious friction between us. "Why?" I breathed against his neck. "Are we done with the physical assessment?"
"For now," he replied, his face completely returning to that strict, serious mask, though his chest was still glistening with sweat. "But I'm going to help you stretch later tonight as well. You need to remain limber."
The sheer implication of his words sent a sudden, intoxicating rush of heat straight back to my core. I pushed myself up, resting my forearms on his torso so I could look up into his dark, unblinking eyes. My hair was a damp mess, my body was covered in a mix of our sweat, and I was completely undone, but a dizzy, flirtatious smile pulled at my lips.
"Are you saying you're not done with me?" I asked, my voice dropping into a breathless, needy purr. I shifted my hips deliberately, riding the hard ridge of him beneath me. "Because I could go for however long you can, Mitch. Seriously. I'm not going anywhere."
I was practically begging him. The taste of how rough and dominant he could be had completely broken through my defenses. I wanted him to use me until I literally couldn't move a single muscle, until the rest of the world and Irene's twisted games completely vanished from my mind.
Mitch stared up at me, his jaw clenching tightly as he tracked the desperate, heavy-lidded look in my eyes. He let out a single, sharp exhalation through his nose, his expression terrifyingly calm yet utterly lethal.
"You wouldn't handle the limits I've been tested for, Lauren," he said flatly, his tone dripping with a cold, absolute confidence that made my stomach do a violent flip. "You think you want everything I have, but you wouldn't survive it."
A shiver ran straight down my spine, my body reacting instantly to the dark promise in his voice. "Try me," I replied hornily, my lips parting as I leaned down, completely intoxicated by his scent, desperately trying to capture his mouth in another bruising kiss.
Before my lips could touch his, Mitch's large hand suddenly moved. His fingers wrapped firmly around the front of my neck—not enough to choke me, but with a dominant, unyielding grip that instantly halted my movement. He gently but completely pulled my head back away from him, anchoring me in place and forcing me to look at him.
"Training is over for the afternoon," he stated, his voice completely devoid of emotion, entirely professional.
He slid his hands to my hips and easily hoisted my body off his lap, setting me down onto the concrete floor as if I weighed nothing. Mitch stood up from the inclined bench in one fluid, powerful motion, completely unbothered by his own nudity as he grabbed his discarded athletic shorts and pulled them back on. He didn't look back at me once. He didn't offer a hand to help me up. He just grabbed his towel off the rack, his broad, tattooed shoulders squaring as he shifted seamlessly back into the stoic soldier.
Without a single word, he turned on his heel and walked straight out of the garage gym, the heavy metal door clicking shut behind him.
I was left completely alone, sitting flat on the cold concrete floor in my ruined, ripped shorts. My lungs were burning as I tried to catch my breath, my inner thighs slick and dripping, and every single muscle in my legs was trembling so violently that I couldn't even attempt to stand up. I just leaned my head back against the weight bench, staring up at the ceiling rafters with a breathless, dazed smile, completely consumed by the terrifying realization of what I had just unleashed.
