The Iowa sun was obnoxiously bright, pouring down on the manicured lawn of the church as if it were a day for a picnic, not a funeral. It gleamed off the hood of our ridiculous red SUV and made the white clapboard of the church look like it was made of bleached bone. The air was still and heavy with the scent of cut grass and impending doom.
Clyde came around the front of the car to stand beside me. He'd put on a dark suit jacket over his Henley, and the transformation was startling. He went from lethal operator to devastatingly handsome, lethal operator at a funeral. The jacket strained across his shoulders, and the dark fabric made his pale eyes seem even more piercing.
"You good?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
"I feel like I'm about to walk into a lion's den wearing a meat suit," I confessed, adjusting my own tie for the tenth time.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Then it's a good thing you brought a bigger lion."
He placed a hand on the small of my back, a warm, steadying pressure that felt both proprietary and protective. It was the only thing keeping me anchored as we started the long walk across the parking lot toward the church doors.
The whispers started before we even reached the steps. I saw heads turn, eyes widen. They weren't looking at me. They were looking at him. Clyde Adams, moving through this sleepy Iowa town with the quiet, dangerous grace of a panther in a petting zoo. He ignored them completely, his focus entirely on me, on scanning the crowd, the doors, the windows.
Inside, the church was cool and dim, smelling of old hymnals, lemon polish, and a faint, cloying sweetness from the massive flower arrangements flanking the altar. And at the front, sitting alone on a pedestal, was a simple, closed oak coffin.
The sight of it hit me like a physical blow. My breath caught. David. My big, laughing, grease-stained father was in that box. The reality of it, so final and stark, threatened to buckle my knees.
Clyde's hand on my back pressed a little harder, guiding me into a pew halfway back. He didn't sit immediately. He stood, letting his gaze sweep the entire congregation, a silent, unmistakable message to every person in the room: I see you. Behave.
Then he sat, his thigh immediately pressing against mine, a solid line of warmth and strength. He didn't try to make small talk. He just sat there, a silent, immovable presence, letting me feel whatever I needed to feel.
The pews filled up around us with people from my past. Faces I vaguely recognized from my father's garage, old neighbors, people who had known him as just "Dave," a good man who fixed their cars. Their presence was a comfort. They were here for him, not for the spectacle.
Then I saw her. My mother. She was sitting in the front row with Robert, both of them ramrod straight, dressed in impeccable, funereal black. She didn't turn around. She didn't need to. I could feel her disapproval radiating from her in waves.
The service began. A pastor I didn't know gave a generic, sanitized eulogy about a "good-hearted man" and "finding peace." He'd clearly never met my father, who was more likely to be found swearing at a stubborn carburetor than finding peace.
When it was over, people began to mill about, offering quiet condolences. We stood, and Clyde stayed close, his hand returning to my back. I needed to see him. I needed to say goodbye.
We made our way to the front. Each step toward that simple oak coffin felt like walking through wet cement. My heart was a frantic drum in my chest. I stopped in front of it, my vision blurring. I placed a hand on the smooth, cool wood.
"Hey, Dad," I whispered, the words thick and choked.
That's when I heard it. A voice, low and sneering, from a cluster of men standing off to the side—Robert's brother and his sons. "Guess David's special friend decided to show up after all. Bringing his… bodyguard. How touching."
The word "special" was dripping with venomous implication. Clyde's hand on my back went very still. I felt the muscles in his arm tense.
I ignored them, focusing on the coffin. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there."
Then her voice cut through the murmur of the crowd, sharp and cold as broken glass. "Troy."
I turned. My mother was standing there, her face a mask of icy fury. Robert hovered behind her, looking deeply uncomfortable.
"I believe I was clear on the phone," she said, her voice carrying. People were starting to stare. "Your presence here is… inappropriate. This is a private family time. We don't need a… a display."
The accusation, the sheer audacity of it, in front of my father's coffin, stole the air from my lungs. "A display? I'm here to say goodbye to my father."
"Your father," she spat the word, "made his choices. And so did you. Now you parade in here with… with that," she said, her eyes flicking toward Clyde with pure, unadulterated disgust. "It's a disgrace. I want you to leave. Now."
The homophobia, always implied, always a chilly undercurrent, was now out in the open, vicious and ugly. The church was utterly silent. Every eye was on us.
I was frozen, humiliated, gutted. But before I could form a response, Clyde moved.
He didn't step in front of me. He stepped beside me, so we were facing her together. His expression was not angry. It was coldly, terrifyingly calm.
"Ma'am," he said, his voice low but carrying absolute authority. "You will lower your voice. You will show respect. And you will not speak to him that way again. Are we clear?"
My mother actually took a step back, her eyes wide with shock. No one had ever spoken to her like that. Robert looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.
One of Robert's nephews, a thick-necked guy in his twenties who'd clearly had a few too many "comforting" beers, decided to play hero. "Hey, you can't talk to her like that!" he slurred, stepping forward and shoving Clyde's shoulder.
It was like shoving a mountain.
Clyde didn't even stagger. His head turned slowly, his pale eyes locking onto the guy. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
The nephew, emboldened by liquid courage, made a grab for Clyde's arm. "I said, back off!"
What happened next was so fast it was a blur. Clyde's hand shot out, not in a punch, but in a precise, open-handed motion. He caught the guy's wrist, twisted it in a movement that was almost gentle, and used the nephew's own momentum to slam him face-first into the nearest pew with a sickening thud. The guy grunted in pain and surprise, collapsing into a groaning heap on the floor.
The whole thing took less than two seconds. There was no wasted movement. No anger. It was pure and efficient move.
Clyde straightened his suit jacket. He didn't even look winded. He turned his cold gaze back to my mother, who was white as a sheet and trembling.
"As I was saying," Clyde continued, his voice still that same calm, deadly rumble. "The disrespect ends now."
The silence in the church was absolute. You could have heard a pin drop. Or a homophobic nephew drool onto the carpet.
Clyde turned to me, his expression softening infinitesimally. He nodded toward the coffin. "Take your time, Troy."
He then turned to face the entire stunned congregation, crossing his arms over his chest, making it clear that anyone else who wanted to interrupt would have to go through him first.
The message was received.
I turned back to my father's coffin, my hands shaking, but my head held high. The humiliation was gone, burned away by a fierce, protective pride. I placed my hand back on the wood.
"They're idiots, Dad," I whispered, a real smile touching my lips for the first time that day. "But you'd have loved the show."
The silence in the church was thicker than the scent of the lilies. It was a stunned, heavy thing, punctuated only by the soft groaning of Robert's nephew as he tried to peel his face off the pew. Clyde remained standing beside me, a statue of implacable force, his arms crossed. He wasn't looking at anyone in particular, but his mere presence was a command: The show's over. Proceed with the mourning.
And, miraculously, they did. People slowly turned away, pretending to be very interested in the stained-glass windows or their own shoes. The pastor cleared his throat nervously and began ushering people toward the doors for the procession to the cemetery. The spell was broken, but the power dynamic had been permanently, violently shifted.
My mother stood frozen for another moment, her face a marble mask of fury and humiliation. She shot me a look that could have curdled milk, then turned on her heel, grabbing a shell-shocked Robert by the arm, and marched out without a backward glance.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. My knees felt weak.
Clyde's hand was on my elbow again, steadying me. "You okay?" he murmured, his voice back to that low, private rumble.
"I think you just permanently short-circuited my mother's brain," I whispered back, a hysterical laugh bubbling in my chest. "I'm not okay, I'm fantastic."
A flicker of approval in his eyes. "Good. Let's go."
We filed out with the rest of the subdued crowd. The bright sunlight was a shock after the dim church. People gave us a wide, respectful berth, their eyes darting toward Clyde with a mixture of fear and awe. The nephew was being helped to a car by his red-faced father, who pointedly did not look in our direction.
Our ridiculous red SUV looked like a spaceship that had landed in a field of sensible sedans. Clyde beeped it unlocked. "You want to drive?" he asked, a completely serious question.
"God, no. I might accidentally run over my uncle. You're the professional."
He nodded and held the passenger door open for me. The gesture was so old-fashioned and at odds with the man who had just used a pew as an offensive weapon that it made my heart do a funny little flip.
The procession to the cemetery was a slow, solemn parade. Clyde followed the car in front of us at a respectful distance, his large hands relaxed on the wheel.
"You know," I said, watching the flat, green landscape roll by, "for a moment there, I thought you were going to break his arm."
"I considered it," he said, his tone conversational. "But a dislocated shoulder and a bruised ego send the same message with less paperwork."
I stared at him. "You are the most terrifying man I have ever met."
He glanced over at me, a real, actual smile—small, but undeniable—touching his lips. "You're not the first person to say that."
The cemetery was on a small hill overlooking the town. It was peaceful, dotted with ancient headstones and shady trees. We gathered around a fresh plot of earth, the coffin already suspended over it. The reality of it all came crashing back, stealing the brief levity the fight had provided.
I stood stiffly, my hands clenched at my sides, as the pastor said a few final words. Clyde stood so close behind me I could feel the heat of his body through my suit jacket. His proximity was the only thing keeping me upright.
As the service ended and people began to drift back to their cars, a small, wiry woman with my father's eyes approached me. It was my Aunt Sharon, his younger sister. She'd been the black sheep of the family, too loud, too blunt, too much like David for my mother's taste.
"Troy," she said, her voice raspy from cigarettes and grief. She pulled me into a tight, surprising hug. She smelled like perfume and coffee. "God, it's good to see you. He talked about you all the time, you know. So damn proud."
Tears I'd been fighting all day finally welled up. "He did?"
"Are you kidding?" She pulled back, holding my arms, her eyes shiny. "Drove everyone at the shop nuts. 'My boy, the brainiac in D.C., he's takin' down the bad guys with a calculator.'" She imitated his booming voice perfectly, and a sob mixed with a laugh escaped me.
She looked past me at Clyde, her eyes assessing but not unkind. "And who's this? Didn't know you traveled with your own SWAT team."
"This is Clyde," I said, my voice thick. "He's… a friend."
Clyde gave her a short, respectful nod. "Ma'am."
Aunt Sharon's eyebrows shot up. "A friend, huh? Well. Good." She squeezed my arms again. "He would have liked that. He'd have liked him." She nodded toward Clyde. "You take care of yourself, Troy. Don't be a stranger." She shot a venomous look toward where my mother was standing by her car. "And don't you listen to a word that ice queen says."
She walked away, leaving me feeling a little less alone.
The feeling was short-lived. My mother was marching toward us, having clearly decided that a public scene in a graveyard was preferable to letting me have the last word. Robert trailed behind her like a deflated balloon.
She stopped in front of us, her composure back in place, but her eyes were glacial. She completely ignored Clyde, as if he were a inconvenient piece of scenery.
"I trust you're satisfied," she said, her voice dripping with vitriol. "You've made a spectacle of yourself and disrespected your father's memory in front of everyone who ever cared about him."
I was too tired, too grief-stricken, and too empowered by Clyde's presence and Aunt Sharon's words to even react. I just looked at her.
Her lip curled. "I knew having you here was a mistake. You and your… lifestyle. It always brings drama. It's what drove a wedge between your father and me, and it's what ruined today."
The lie was so colossal, so perfectly aimed to inflict maximum damage, that it stole my breath. Clyde took a half-step forward, a low growl forming in his throat. I put a hand on his arm, stopping him.
My mother saw the gesture, and her eyes flashed with triumph. "I want you to leave. Now. Get in your… flashy car," she said with utter disdain, "and go back to whatever it is you do. And don't come back. This family doesn't need your kind of trouble."
The words hung in the air, final and cruel. Don't come back.
I looked at her, at her perfectly coiffed hair, her cold eyes, her miserable husband. I looked at the fresh grave of the man she'd left because he was too much life for her. And I felt nothing. No anger, no hurt. Just a vast, empty pity.
"Okay," I said, my voice quiet but clear.
She blinked, thrown by my lack of fight. "What?"
"I said okay." I offered her a small, sad smile. "Goodbye, Mother. Give my best to Robert."
I turned my back on her. I turned my back on the grave, on the town, on the whole damn painful history. I looked up at Clyde. "Let's go home."
His expression was fierce with pride. He placed his hand on the small of my back again, a solid, warm anchor, and guided me toward the car, away from the vitriol and the past, and toward whatever came next.
The walk back to the ridiculously red SUV felt like crossing a finish line. The Iowa sun, once so obnoxiously cheerful, now felt warm on my back, a benediction. Clyde's hand was a steady brand on the small of my back, a silent promise that the worst was over.
We were almost to the car, the keys already in Clyde's hand, when her voice cut through the peaceful cemetery air like a shard of ice.
"Troy. We are not finished."
I closed my eyes for a second, summoning patience I didn't have. Clyde's hand tightened slightly, a silent question. Do you want me to handle this? I gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of my head. This was mine.
I turned. My mother stood a few yards away, having broken away from a mortified-looking Robert. Her composure was cracking, fine lines of rage etching around her mouth.
"I believe we are," I said, my voice calm. It was a new sound, even to my own ears.
"You think you can just walk away? After that… that display?" she hissed, her voice low so it wouldn't carry, but vibrating with fury. "You humiliated me. You humiliated this family in front of the entire town!"
I just looked at her. I didn't say anything. My silence seemed to infuriate her more.
"This is what it always comes down to with you, isn't it?" she spat, taking a step closer. Clyde shifted his weight, a predator ready to intercept, but I held up a hand, stopping him. This needed to be said. "Your… your choices. Your need to flaunt yourself. It's what ruined everything! It's what drove your father and me apart!"
And there it was. The grand, delusional lie she'd built her entire narrative upon. The one I'd let her have for years because it was easier than fighting. But I wasn't that boy anymore. I had a warrior at my back, and his strength was flowing into me.
I laughed. It was a short, dry, humorless sound that made her flinch. "My choices? My choices?" I took a step toward her, and for the first time in my life, I saw a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "You left Dad because he was too loud, too messy, too real for your pristine, boring fantasy. He loved his life. He loved his work. He loved me. And you couldn't stand it because you're not capable of loving anything that isn't a perfect reflection of yourself."
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. I kept going, the words I'd held inside for decades finally breaking free.
"And don't you dare blame my being gay for your failures. Dad knew I was gay since I was twelve years old. He caught me looking at a Sears catalog underwear model and sat me down." The memory was so clear, so warm. "He said, 'You lookin' at that fella's muscles, partner, or something else?' And I was so scared I couldn't speak. And he laughed that big laugh of his and said, 'Either way, he's got terrible form. Now, you wanna help me change the oil on the Buick?' He didn't mind. He never minded. The only person who ever minded, who was so consumed by what other people thought, was you."
I was breathing heavily now, the truth a cathartic fire burning through me. Clyde was a silent, approving statue beside me.
"You were not content with a happy man and a son who adored you," I said, my voice dropping, becoming deadly quiet. "You wanted a different life. A quieter, colder, more adequate life. So you left. That was your choice. And you don't get to blame me for it anymore."
She stared at me, her face pale, her hands trembling. The perfect mask had finally shattered, and underneath was nothing but empty, bitter regret. She had no defense because there was none.
"Now," I said, turning my back on her for the final time. "We're leaving. Don't call me again."
I walked to the passenger door of the SUV. Clyde was already there, holding it open for me. He didn't look at my mother. His eyes were only on me, blazing with a fierce, proud light.
He closed my door, walked around the front of the car, and got in. He started the engine, the powerful rumble a satisfying end to the conversation. As we pulled away, I didn't look back. I watched her in the side mirror, a small, lonely figure in black, growing smaller and smaller until she disappeared from view entirely.
The drive to the airport was silent, but it wasn't the heavy silence of before. It was peaceful. The fields of Iowa, once a landscape of confinement, now just looked open. Free.
We returned the spaceship-red SUV without incident. The flight was called. This time, when we boarded, the flight attendants gave Clyde a wide, respectful smile and didn't try to touch his bicep. Word, it seemed, traveled fast.
We took our seats. Clyde had somehow managed to get us both in an exit row, so he had a precious extra inch of legroom. He still spilled over into my space, his thigh a warm, solid line against mine. I didn't mind. I leaned my head back against the seat and let out a long, slow breath.
"You okay?" Clyde asked, his voice low.
I turned my head to look at him. "Yeah," I said, and I meant it. "I really am."
He held my gaze for a long moment, then nodded. "Good."
The plane took off, climbing above the clouds, leaving the past behind us. The flight attendant came by with the drink cart. Clyde got two bags of peanuts again. He handed me both.
"I'm not that hungry," I said.
"You didn't eat. You need to keep your strength up."
"For what?"
He gave me a look that was all smoky promise. "For when we get home."
A shiver of pure anticipation went through me. I took the peanuts.
Somewhere over Illinois, I must have dozed off. I woke up with my head on Clyde's shoulder, his jacket folded under my cheek. His arm was around me, his hand resting on my side, holding me close. He was awake, looking out the window, but his thumb was absently stroking my hip.
I didn't move. I just lay there, breathing in his scent, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. The hum of the plane, the press of his body, the memory of his hand on the small of my back, the sound of my own voice finally speaking the truth—it all coalesced into a single, perfect feeling of rightness.
The past was buried back in that Iowa cemetery, right where it belonged.
The future was sitting right beside me, saving my peanuts and guarding my sleep. And for the first time in my life, I couldn't wait to see what happened next.
The gentle hum of the plane, the warmth of Clyde's shoulder, the sense of hard-won peace—it was all blissfully, perfectly tranquil. Which, in my life, apparently meant it was about to be violently disrupted.
It started with a raised voice a few rows back. A man, his words already slurred by too many miniature bottles of vodka, was arguing with a flight attendant about… something. I couldn't make it out, but the tone was belligerent and getting louder.
Clyde, who had been in a state of relaxed vigilance, went rigid. The hand on my hip stilled. I felt the shift in him before I saw it—every muscle coiling, his breathing evening out into something controlled and ready.
"Sir, I need you to please return to your seat and fasten your seatbelt," the flight attendant said, her voice strained but professional.
"I'll sit when I'm good and ready!" the man bellowed. "And I want another drink! This service is a disgrace!"
I sat up, the cozy moment shattered. Clyde's arm tightened around me for a second, a silent command to stay, before he released me and unbuckled his seatbelt in one smooth motion.
"Mr. Adams, please remain seated," the head flight attendant said, her eyes wide with alarm as he rose. He was a mountain unfolding in the cramped aisle.
"It's alright," Clyde said, his voice a low, calming rumble that somehow cut through the drunk's bluster. He didn't look at the attendants. His eyes were locked on the problem. "I've got this."
The drunk guy, a large man with a florid face and a too-tight polo shirt, saw Clyde coming. "What's your problem, buddy? You some kind of hero?"
Clyde didn't answer. He moved with a terrifying economy of motion. As the drunk took a wild, swinging punch, Clyde simply sidestepped it. He didn't block; he flowed. His left hand shot out, not to strike, but to capture the man's swinging wrist. At the same time, his right foot hooked behind the man's ankle. With a gentle, almost graceful twist, he used the man's own momentum to guide him face-first into the empty aisle seat of our row.
Thump. It was over in less than a second.There was no dramatic fight, no exchanged blows. It was like watching a master sculptor reveal the statue hidden within a block of marble—a few precise, efficient moves, and the threat was neutralized. Clyde kept a firm but non-violent pressure on the man's back, pinning him to the seat.
"The gentleman would like to sit down now," Clyde announced to the stunned flight attendants, his voice perfectly calm. "And I believe he's changed his mind about that drink."
The entire cabin erupted into applause. The drunk man mumbled something into the seat cushion that sounded like an apology.
Clyde accepted a handful of zip-ties from a grateful attendant and secured the man's hands behind his back with practiced efficiency. He then returned to his seat, buckled up, and looked at me as if he'd just taken out the trash at 30,000 feet.
"You're… really good at that," I said, my voice a little breathless.
He shrugged one massive shoulder. "Comes in handy."
The rest of the flight was blissfully quiet. When we landed, two air marshals were waiting to take the now-sobering drunk into custody. They shook Clyde's hand, their expressions full of professional respect. We collected our bags and headed for the taxi stand, the cool night air of D.C. a welcome relief.
Clyde's phone buzzed as he was loading our bags into the trunk of a cab. He glanced at it. "It's your boss." He handed it to me.
"Nash," O'Malley barked without preamble. "Jesus, Adams's file undersells him. I just got a report from the FAA. He subdued a drunk on your flight?"
"It was more like he… politely convinced him to take a nap," I said, sliding into the cab beside Clyde.
"Right. Well, tell him the Bureau owes him one. Listen, the reason I'm calling… your work on the Meridian Fund. The routing account you isolated before you left? We ran with it. It's a goldmine, Nash. We're ready to move. But these people know we're close. They're getting desperate. Watch your six. Adams is there for a reason."
The call ended, the warning hanging in the air. The good mood from the flight evaporated, replaced by a familiar, cold prickle of anxiety.
Clyde took the phone back, his expression grim. "He's right. They're getting sloppy." He leaned forward, speaking to the cab driver. "Change of plan. We're taking a longer route. Keep your eyes open."
The driver, a older man who looked bored, just shrugged and pulled into traffic.
Clyde wasn't looking at the scenery. He was watching the side-view mirror, his body tense. "We've got a tail," he said quietly, five minutes later. "Black SUV. Two cars back. They've been with us since we left the airport."
My heart leapt into my throat. I twisted in my seat, trying to see.
"Don't look," Clyde snapped, his voice sharp. "Act normal." He already had his phone to his ear. "Jin? It's Adams. I'm in a yellow cab, license Charlie-Papa-Lima-Eight-Niner. Heading north on 14th. I have a black Denali on me, two back, tinted windows. Intercept and identify. Now."
He listened for a moment, his eyes never leaving the mirror. "Acknowledged. Out."
He put the phone away and looked at me. His face was a mask of cold focus, but his eyes were alive, intense. "My team is inbound. Just stay calm."
The cab driver, finally sensing the tension, glanced in his rearview mirror. "Hey, man, I don't want no trouble."
"Just drive," Clyde said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Take the next right. Then left into the Georgetown hospital complex. Lots of turns, lots of traffic."
The driver obeyed, swerving suddenly. The black SUV matched the move, closing the distance.
"They're making their move," Clyde said, his voice deadly calm. "Hold on."
The world outside became a blur of lights and sudden turns. The cab driver was sweating, muttering in a language I didn't understand. Clyde was a statue of concentration, giving terse, quiet directions.
Suddenly, a different car, a nondescript grey sedan, shot out of a side street and slammed on its brakes right in front of the black SUV. Tires screeched. The Denali swerved violently to avoid it, mounting the curb with a jarring crash.
Our cab didn't slow down. Clyde didn't even look back. "Keep going. Straight to my place. Now."
Fifteen breathless minutes later, we pulled up in front of Clyde's building—a secure, anonymous-looking place in a quiet neighborhood. He threw a wad of cash at the driver, grabbed our bags, and hustled me inside, his hand once again on my back, pushing me forward.
We didn't speak until the door to his apartment was closed, locked, and bolted behind us. He did a swift, professional sweep of the rooms before coming back to where I stood, shell-shocked, in the living room.
His phone buzzed. He listened, grunted, "Good work," and hung up.
He looked at me, the adrenaline still sharp in his gaze. "Jin and the team have them in custody. They were hired guns. Low-level. They won't talk, but the message is sent." He took a step toward me. "They know we're coming for them."
I just stared at him, my heart still hammering. The quiet accountant in me was screaming. The part of me that had just watched this man orchestrate a tactical takedown in the middle of D.C. traffic was… something else entirely.
He reached out and cupped my face, his thumb stroking my cheek. "You're safe. You're home."
And I knew he didn't just mean his apartment. He meant with him.
The fear finally melted, replaced by a wave of something hot and powerful and undeniable. I grabbed the front of his shirt, fisting my hands in the fabric, and pulled him down to me, crushing my lips to his.
It wasn't gentle. It was desperate, hungry, full of the adrenaline and fear and sheer, blinding relief of the last twenty-four hours. He met me with equal ferocity, his arms wrapping around me, lifting me off my feet as he kissed me back like a man starved.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, he rested his forehead against mine.
"Okay," he breathed, his voice rough with want. "Now we're home."
The world had narrowed to the taste of his mouth, the feel of his shirt clenched in my fists, and the solid, unshakable reality of his body against mine. The fear, the grief, the airport chaos, the high-speed chase—it all burned away in the white-hot intensity of that kiss. It was a claiming, a confirmation, a homecoming more profound than any physical location could ever be.
He broke the kiss only to sweep me up into his arms as if I weighed nothing. My own arms locked around his neck, holding on as he carried me out of the sterile living room and into the hallway of his apartment. It was dimly lit, utilitarian, a space that spoke of function over form. But I wasn't seeing the walls. I was only seeing him—the sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in his pale eyes, the pulse beating at the base of his throat.
He shouldered open a door at the end of the hall and kicked it shut behind us. His bedroom. It was exactly what I should have expected: a large, low platform bed made with military precision, a simple wooden dresser, no clutter. The only personal touch was a framed black-and-white photograph on the wall of a group of men in tactical gear, their faces grim and smudged with dirt, standing in front of a dusty Humvee. It was a room that belonged to him, and now, he was bringing me into it.
He set me down on my feet beside the bed, his hands coming up to frame my face. His thumbs stroked over my cheekbones, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the raw power thrumming through him.
"Tell me this is what you want," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated deep in my chest. "Tell me to stay."
As if I could ever tell him to leave. As if my entire world hadn't just recently been reordered to revolve around his presence.
"Stay," I breathed, the word barely more than a whisper. "Clyde, please."
That was all the permission he needed. His mouth crashed down on mine again, but this time it was different. Less frantic, more deliberate. This was a kiss with intent. A promise of what was to come. His tongue swept into my mouth, and I met it with my own, a desperate, hungry dance that left me dizzy.
His hands left my face, skating down my neck, over my shoulders, pulling my suit jacket off and letting it fall to the floor without a second thought. His fingers made quick work of the buttons on my dress shirt, pushing it open and off my arms. The cool air of the room hit my skin, raising goosebumps that were immediately soothed by the heat of his palms sliding down my chest, over my stomach.
I was just as eager, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of his henley. I needed to feel him, all of him. I pushed the soft fabric up, and he obliged, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside.
The breath caught in my throat. I'd seen glimpses of his strength, felt the power in his frame, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality of his bare chest. It was a landscape of hard, defined muscle, carved from a lifetime of extreme physicality. A dusting of dark blond hair trailed down the center of his ridged abdomen, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. Old, faint scars—silver lines on his sun-kissed skin—mapped a history of violence and survival. He was breathtaking. A work of art and a weapon, all in one.
"You're staring," he murmured, a hint of self-consciousness in his voice that was utterly endearing.
"You're… a lot," I managed, my voice husky. I splayed my hands over his pectorals, feeling the solid muscle jump under my touch. "In the best possible way."
A low growl rumbled in his chest. He captured my mouth again, his kiss turning possessive, demanding. He walked me backward until my knees hit the edge of the mattress, and I sat down hard. He followed me down, covering my body with his, his weight a delicious, anchoring pressure.
The rest of our clothes became a frustrating barrier, dealt with in a tangle of limbs and hurried, desperate movements. Jeans were kicked away, boxer briefs were shoved down. And then there was nothing between us. Skin to skin. Heat to heat.
He rose above me, braced on his arms, and just looked. His gaze was a physical caress, sweeping over my body, taking in every inch of me laid bare for him. In the dim light, his eyes were dark with desire, his expression one of awed reverence that made my heart clench.
"Troy," he breathed, my name a prayer on his lips.
He lowered himself, and the feel of his entire body pressed against mine, the slick slide of skin, the hard evidence of his desire pressing against my hip—it was almost too much. I arched into him, a helpless moan escaping me.
He kissed me again, deep and slow, as his hand slid down between us. His fingers, those capable, calloused fingers that could disarm a man or cook me breakfast, found me. He wrapped his hand around my length, and I cried out into his mouth at the contact, the sensation electric. His stroke was firm, sure, setting a rhythm that had me bucking up into his fist, my fingers digging into the hard muscles of his back.
"Clyde… please…" I begged, incoherent, lost in the sensation.
He reached over to the nightstand, fumbling for a moment before returning with a small bottle. The snick of the cap was loud in the quiet room. Then his slick fingers were there, probing, preparing me with a careful, meticulous attention that was at odds with the raw need pouring off both of us.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
I forced my eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. He was watching me, reading every flicker of pleasure, every hint of uncertainty on my face.
"I've got you," he promised, his voice rough with emotion. "I'll always have you."
And then he was pushing inside. It was a slow, inexorable invasion, stretching me, filling me completely. There was a brief, sharp burn that quickly melted into a overwhelming feeling of fullness, of rightness. I gasped, my head falling back against the pillow.
He stilled, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. "Okay?" he gritted out, a sheen of sweat on his brow.
I nodded, words failing me. I wrapped my legs around his hips, pulling him deeper. "Yes. God, yes. Move. Please."
That was all he needed. He began to move, a slow, deep, rolling rhythm that stole the breath from my lungs. Each thrust was a perfect, devastating friction, hitting a spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyelids. He was everywhere—his scent, his taste, the feel of his skin under my hands, the sound of his ragged breathing in my ear.
It wasn't just sex. It was a conversation. A claiming. A promise. With every deep, measured stroke, he was erasing the loneliness, the fear, the feeling of never being quite enough. He was rewriting my history with the strength of his body and the shocking tenderness in his eyes.
I felt the coil of pleasure tightening low in my belly, spiraling tighter and tighter with every thrust. My cries became broken pleas, his name a mantra on my lips.
"Clyde… I'm close… so close…"
"Look at me," he demanded again, his pace never faltering. "I want to see you."
I forced my eyes open, locking with his. The intensity there, the raw, unfiltered emotion, was my undoing. Pleasure detonated through me, white-hot and all-consuming. I came with a broken shout, my body convulsing around him, my vision whiting out.
My climax triggered his. With a guttural groan that was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard, he buried himself deep and stilled, pulsing inside me as his own release claimed him.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing and the frantic beating of our hearts. He collapsed on top of me, his full weight a welcome burden, his face buried in the crook of my neck. I held him, my hands stroking over the sweat-slicked skin of his back, feeling the powerful aftershocks that still racked his frame.
Slowly, carefully, he rolled us to our sides, pulling me with him so I was tucked against his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around me. He nuzzled my hair, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my temple.
Neither of us spoke. Words were inadequate. The silence was filled with the profound, humbling truth of what had just happened.
My body felt boneless, sated, and utterly claimed. My mind, usually a whirlwind of numbers and patterns, was quiet, peaceful. The last coherent thought I had before sleep pulled me under was that I had finally, after a lifetime of searching, found my way home. And it wasn't a place. It was a person. It was him.