Illegal
mob!bucky barnes x fbi!reader
summary: You’re an FBI agent sent undercover to get close to the most dangerous mob boss in the city. But the deeper you go, the harder it gets to remember which side you’re really on.
word count: 10k
WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! for all the tags/warnings, please check series masterlist since it may contain spoilers. smut in this chapter; dirty talk, PiV, unprotected sex, breeding.
Chapter One — „Sinker” | Next Chapter
The bass throbbed through the floor of the club, a low, pulsing rhythm that rattled up your heels and into your spine. It smelled like sweat, alcohol, and too much cologne—exactly the kind of place you hated but had to pretend you belonged in. Neon lights flickered overhead, casting hues of violet and red over the writhing crowd, faces blending together in motion and blur.
You moved through it all like someone searching for a friend—like someone who didn’t have a miniature transmitter strapped just beneath their bra strap. Your eyes scanned every corner, every VIP booth, every hallway guarded by thick-armed men in suits. And then you saw him.
James Buchanan Barnes.
He was seated alone at the far end of the bar, not quite hidden but just removed enough to say: don’t approach unless you’re someone.
His posture was tense even though he looked relaxed—one hand wrapped around a crystal glass of something dark, the other glinting in the low light. That metal arm caught the glow of the club’s strobes, gold meeting silver where the shadows fell wrong. His hair was dark, longer than in his file. He wore a suit with the collar slightly undone, like he’d stopped caring halfway through getting dressed. Or maybe he never cared to begin with.
You could tell by the tight line of his jaw that he wasn’t here to party. He looked lost in thought, staring past the bottle shelves like they were a distraction he couldn’t quite drown in whiskey. That was your chance.
So you took it.
You approached slowly, hesitating just enough to sell it. You slid onto the stool beside him with a soft, uncertain smile, angling your body like you didn’t mean to sit so close.
“Hey,” you said, glancing around the bar. “Sorry—do you mind if I sit here? I kinda lost my friend in the crowd and I just needed a second to breathe.”
He didn’t look at you right away. He took a slow sip from his glass, eyes still locked on whatever thought had its claws in his head. But then he turned, and fuck—you hadn’t prepared for how sharp his gaze would be. Icy blue, unreadable, cutting straight through your fake smile and soft act.
Still, you held your own. Blinked a little like you were nervous. Smiled smaller. Softer.
“She started dancing with some guy and just disappeared,” you went on, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal, like your heart wasn’t thudding from being this close to him. “Probably making out in a dark corner by now.”
You gave a quiet laugh, just enough to lighten the air. Just enough to look harmless.
He didn’t smile. But his gaze flicked down—your lips, your dress, your hands—and back up again. Calculating. He was the type who didn’t talk unless he meant to. The type who had people to speak for him, but tonight he was alone. And curious.
“You don’t look like the type to get lost,” he said finally, voice low and even.
Your heart stuttered.
You laughed again, a little more genuine this time, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah, well. That’s what I get for letting her pick the place.”
He hummed, noncommittal, and looked back toward the bar. But he didn’t tell you to leave.
Didn’t tell you to fuck off or anything. It was a small victory, but you didn’t let it show.
Not in your face, not in your shoulders. You kept your posture just shy of confident, your hands folded loosely in your lap. It was a careful thing—this performance you’d rehearsed a thousand times over in briefing rooms and surveillance vans. The smile, the tone, the softness. No edge, no threat. Nothing that would make a man like him look too closely.
But your heart was racing.
Up close, James Barnes was worse than the photos. More dangerous. There was a weight to him, the kind that came with too many sins and not enough sleep. And that voice—low, rough, tinged with something cold—settled under your skin like smoke.
He hadn’t told you to leave. Which meant he was curious. Or bored. Maybe both.
You could work with that.
“Want a drink?” he asked, suddenly, like the thought had just occurred to him. He didn’t look at you when he said it—just raised two fingers at the bartender without waiting for your answer.
You blinked once, made sure your smile stayed put.
“Sure. Thank you.”
The bartender set a glass in front of you—neat, amber, expensive. You didn’t hesitate. You lifted it, brought it to your lips, and took a slow sip like it wasn’t your first drink of the night, like you weren’t here to spy on the biggest gangster in the city.
It burned all the way down.
He finally looked at you again. You could feel his gaze skim across your features—quiet, measured. The way someone studies a painting they’re not sure they like yet.
“Your name?”
You almost told him your real one. Almost. But you caught yourself just in time.
You answered with a fake name smoothly, adding a small shrug like you weren’t used to giving it out.
He nodded once, accepting it. “James.”
“Nice to meet you, James,” you said, soft and just a little unsure, like you weren’t quite sure what to do with a man like him.
He let the silence stretch between you. The music pulsed behind you like a second heartbeat, the scent of smoke and bourbon thick in the air. His eyes dropped again—this time to your wrist, where your fingers toyed idly with your bracelet.
Don’t fidget, you reminded yourself. Don’t let the nerves show.
Because the mission was simple.
Get close. Gain trust. Gather intel.
But no one had warned you what it would feel like to sit this close to him. To hear the steel under his voice and smell the whiskey on his breath. To feel his attention settle on you like a hand to the throat—not cruel, not yet, but with the potential to tighten.
You were playing a role.
So you smiled again, soft and apologetic, like the night had gotten away from you.
“I don’t really go out much,” you admitted, turning your glass slowly between your fingers. “Clubs aren’t usually my thing. Too loud. Too many people pretending they’re not watching each other.”
You glanced at him as you said it, like maybe you didn’t realize you’d said something that could apply to the two of you.
“But I don’t know—I guess I just wanted to do something tonight. Get out. Try not to be boring for once.”
You laughed a little, embarrassed.
“And now that my friend’s disappeared into the fog of cheap cologne and bad decisions, I’m kinda realizing this was a terrible idea.”
He didn’t laugh, but his mouth twitched. Just slightly.
Encouraging.
“I almost left twice already,” you added, leaning your elbow on the bar like you were settling in despite yourself. “But I kept thinking, maybe I’d give it five more minutes. I mean, it’s not a terrible place.”
You let your eyes wander around the club like you hadn’t already memorized every exit, every guard, every hidden camera.
“Good drinks,” you said, lifting your glass. “Surprisingly decent music. And I guess if I hadn’t gotten lost, I wouldn’t be sitting here.”
You let that hang in the air for a second—just long enough for the suggestion to feel deliberate, but not obvious.
He didn’t answer right away. He looked at you the way someone might look at a stranger asking for a lighter—like he was trying to figure out if you were harmless or hiding something sharp behind your smile.
So you took another sip and tilted your head at him, playful now.
“You don’t strike me as the clubbing type either.”
He gave a short exhale—barely a laugh. “I’m not.”
“Then what are you doing here?” you asked, tilting your head, your smile curious but not nosy. “Just hanging out alone at the bar, judging everyone in silence?”
He looked at you for a beat. That sharp, unreadable gaze of his didn’t waver. Then he leaned back slightly on his stool, one hand still wrapped around his glass.
“I own the place.”
You blinked. Once. Then again. Like you were processing the words. And then your eyes widened—just enough. The perfect touch of impressed.
“Oh.”
You let out a breathy little laugh, shook your head, and glanced around like you were seeing the place with fresh eyes. Like you’d walked into the lion’s den completely unaware.
“Wow. I had no idea,” you said, voice light and warm. “I mean… that kind of explains the vibe. It’s got that whole mysterious, expensive, ‘I-know-a-guy’ kind of energy.”
You took another sip of your drink, as if it might help cool the heat creeping up your spine.
Because inside? You were buzzing.
You did know. You knew everything—his name, his aliases, his entire criminal network, the offshore accounts, the alleged body count, the blood money that practically dripped off the walls of this club.
But here you were, playing the part. Soft voice. Easy smile. A little impressed, but not too impressed. Just curious enough to keep him talking.
“You don’t seem like the type to brag about that,” you added, eyes flicking back to him. “Most guys who own clubs walk around like they expect everyone to kiss their ring.”
He gave a faint shrug. “I don’t like noise.”
That made you smile again—genuine this time, almost.
“Well,” you said, lifting your glass in a half-toast, “your bar saved my night. So thanks, I guess.”
He didn’t toast back.
You let your gaze drop back to your drink, like you weren’t sure what to do with his silence. Like you were filling the air just to fill it.
“That friend I came with—” you began, voice a little lower now, more casual, “I don’t even know her that well. We met online, actually. On facebook. Kind of a last-minute thing.”
You gave a small, sheepish smile and shrugged, as if it all wasn’t a lie.
“I just moved here. A couple weeks ago. Figured I should try to meet people, get out of the apartment before I started talking to my furniture.”
That part, at least, was technically true. You had moved into your temporary apartment two weeks ago. The furniture was rented. You hadn’t talked to the couch yet, but the silence was starting to get to you.
“Anyway,” you said, resting your elbow lightly on the bar, “this girl invited me out, said this place was cool, that she comes here all the time. But the second we got inside she vanished so… Yeah, sorry for bothering you. I’m literally talking nonsense now.”
It was a story you’d used before. A version of it, at least. You’d tested it in interrogation rooms and sting operations, on low-level dealers and robbers. There was something about a stranger oversharing that made people drop their guard—something about being a little too open that made you seem harmless.
And men like him?
They were used to secrets. To shadows. A girl who talked too much and didn’t seem to know what room she’d walked into… that was just background noise.
„You don’t bother me.” He finally said, coldly but you smiled anyways.
You glanced sideways at him, lips tilting up again.
“I swear I’m not usually this messy,” you said, almost laughing. “It’s just been one of those nights.”
He was quiet again. Just for a moment.
You thought maybe he’d pull back—retreat into that silence, into whatever cold, locked-up corner he lived in.
But then he surprised you.
“I’ve had a few of those,” he said.
His voice was rough—like the words didn’t come easy, like they weren’t meant for strangers. But they came anyway.
You turned your head slightly, eyebrows raised, not pushing but giving him space to keep going if he wanted to.
He didn’t. Not really.
But he looked at you now. Properly. Like he was finally trying to see you, not just watch you. And for the first time since you sat down, there was something just barely soft at the corner of his mouth.
A weak smile. Brief. But it was there.
It knocked the wind out of you for a second. Not because it was charming—though, God, it was—but because it felt like something rare. Like a flicker of light from a place that hadn’t seen sun in years.
You smiled back, instinctively.
“You’re not gonna tell me about your terrible night, are you?” you teased gently. “I mean, I opened up about my terrible friend and tragic dance floor abandonment…”
That made him exhale again—just a short breath, but this time you were almost certain it was a laugh.
“No,” he said. “I’m not.”
You grinned. “Didn’t think so.”
He shook his head slightly, like he wasn’t sure what to make of you. Like he’d seen a hundred people try to talk to him and still, somehow, you didn’t fit the pattern.
And that was the whole point, wasn’t it?
Well, you did make him talk. It was working—the plan. You just earned a few more minutes at his side.
“I think I messed up the dress code,” you said lightly, glancing down at yourself with a faux sheepish little grin. “I mean, I knew it was a club, but I didn’t think it’d be this fancy.”
The dress had been intentional, of course. Tight but not desperate, elegant but still approachable—soft blue, the kind of color that made people underestimate you. It hugged your waist like it had been made for you, dipped just low enough at the back to catch the eye without begging for attention.
“Everyone here looks like they just stepped out of a magazine,” you added, voice warm and casual. “And I showed up like I was on my way to a dinner party.”
He didn’t respond but his eyes had dropped—just for a second. Quick. Controlled. But not quick enough to hide the way they dragged down your figure, slow and precise, before he pulled them back up to your face.
Like he didn’t mean to.
You didn’t react. Not outwardly. But inside, a smile curled behind your ribs.
There it is.
The beginning of a shift. The spark you needed. The interest that wasn’t entirely about your story anymore.
You leaned one arm casually on the bar, crossing your legs beneath the stool, not exaggerating anything—just giving him the chance to look again if he wanted to.
“So what’s the verdict?” you said, tone easy, lighthearted. “Do I pass the vibe check or am I getting kicked out the back door in five minutes?”
His eyes lingered. „You’re fine,” he said.
Not a compliment. Not really. But close enough.
And you let it hang there—eyes soft, mouth just a touch amused—as if you weren’t already clocking every micro-expression on his face.
The plan’s working.
You just had to keep it going.
His thumb dragged slowly along the rim of his glass, metal and glass catching the light. You wondered if he realized how quiet he got when he was thinking—how intensely he looked at people, like he was trying to solve them.
And then, finally, he leaned just a little closer.
“Maybe your night’s not ruined after all,” he said, voice low, smooth. A touch warmer now.
You met his gaze, eyes wide and soft like you hadn’t seen it coming. “Oh?”
He tilted his head slightly. Still composed. Still in control. But there was something in his expression now that hadn’t been there before—something playful. Curious. Testing.
“I mean, you came looking for your friend,” he said, slow and deliberate. “But maybe you found someone better.”
Your heart skipped.
Not because of the words. Not because of him. But because this was it. The first real crack in the armor. The first moment he dipped his toe into something more than polite conversation.
And you couldn’t bite back your smile—not all of it, anyway.
But you didn’t give in.
You tilted your head, eyes soft, a slight pout to your lip as you brought your glass to your mouth. Took a sip, then set it back down.
“Well…” you said, drawing it out, playful but firm. “I’m not that easy.”
He stilled just a little. Like maybe he hadn’t expected that. Like maybe women didn’t usually say no to him—at least not while smiling at him like they wanted to say yes.
Your smile didn’t falter.
“You could take me to dinner first, at least,” you added, tapping your fingers against your glass, light as air. “Old-fashioned, I know.”
His mouth twitched. Not a smirk. A real chuckle—quiet, brief, but honest. His head dropped just slightly, and when he looked up at you again, there was something new in his eyes.
Amusement.
Maybe even a little… respect?
“You always this picky with strangers in clubs?” he asked, tone edged with curiosity now.
You shrugged and grinned, sweet and easy. “You’re the first one I’m talking to.”
That made him smile again—barely there, but it counted and you knew, in that exact moment, that you’d landed the hook.
He saw you. Not as a threat. Not as noise. Not even as some company for the night but as a person.
And if you were going to finish this job—if you were going to bring him in, take down the entire network built under his name—then you needed more than flirtation and bar banter.
You needed him to want you around. To start needing you there.
This couldn’t be a one-night thing. A drunken kiss in a club, a bed you didn’t belong in. That wouldn’t get you close enough.
You needed him to trust you.
To confide in you.
To fall for you.
That was the real assignment. The real endgame. Not just evidence or names, not just one more name crossed off the FBI’s list of monsters in suits—but getting past the walls no one else had ever gotten through.
You had to make him believe you were someone he could let in. Someone he could lose his grip with.
Even if it meant slowly, carefully, becoming the one person he wouldn’t think to lie to.
Even if it meant becoming the only person he’d never see coming.
He studied you again, a little longer this time. Then, with a soft shake of his head, he said, “I’m not really the restaurant type of guy.”
His voice was smoother now. Less guarded. There was still that edge to it—like every word had been filtered, sharpened—but he was starting to loosen it, just for you.
You tilted your head, smiling like you weren’t giving him room to back out.
“Well,” you said, resting your chin lightly in your hand, “you’re gonna have to find another way then.”
You said it like a challenge, but your tone stayed soft, teasing. There was a little sparkle in your eye—like you were playing a game and you already knew you were winning.
He smiled. Not the faint twitch you’d seen before, not that half-hearted flicker of politeness he offered to most strangers.
No—this one was real. Slow. Honest. The kind of smile that made you see the man beneath the steel.
And God.
He found you cute.
And it wasn’t just about how you looked.
It was how you said no without saying no. How you stayed sweet, even when he tried to push. How you gave him nothing—and everything—all at once.
No one did that to him. No one made him smile like that. But you did and you didn’t even flinch.
You glanced at your phone, letting the screen light up for show even though you already knew the time.
You didn’t want to go—not really. The tension was finally shifting in your favor, his guard slipping piece by piece, the warmth in his voice blooming in ways you hadn’t expected.
But you had to keep control. So you offered him a small, apologetic smile as you reached for your purse.
“I should go,” you said softly. “It’s getting late.”
He didn’t argue. Didn’t ask why. Just nodded once, eyes on you.
“It was nice meeting you, James,” you added, sliding off the stool. Your voice was gentle, a little warm, a little regretful—just enough to leave a thread hanging.
And when you straightened, smoothing down the hem of your dress, your hand just barely brushing the side of your bag—
“You should come here tomorrow.”
You paused. Not dramatically. Not like a gasp or a breathless turn of your head. Just a small hesitation. A heartbeat’s delay in your movement.
And then you looked up at him.
He didn’t smile this time but he was watching you with that same quiet intensity. Like he wasn’t quite sure why he’d said it, only that he meant it.
You blinked once, then smiled. Soft. Sweet. Like you were flattered. Like this wasn’t the exact moment you’d been working toward.
“Maybe I will,” you said.
And then you walked away. On steady legs. With a racing heart. And a silent, ruthless fire under your ribs that whispered:
Hook. Line. Sinker.
———
Your apartment was quiet when you got back, the door clicking shut behind you with a dull finality. The city lights bled in through the blinds, casting soft streaks across the floor. You slipped off your heels by the door, toes curling into the cold wood as you padded into the kitchen, grabbed your burner phone from the drawer, and tapped the number without hesitation. One ring. Two.
“Hey,” came the familiar voice on the other end—low, a little groggy. „You alive?”
“Yeah,” you said, pulling the fridge open and grabbing a bottle of water. You twisted the cap off, leaning your hip against the counter. “I found him.”
There was a pause. “Already?”
“Mhm. Just like intel said—he was at the bar. Alone. I talked to him.”
“Jesus,” Mike muttered. You could hear him sitting up on the other end. “You talked to James Barnes? And you’re calling me from your apartment and not a body bag?”
You rolled your eyes. “I told you I could handle it.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d charm the devil himself on night one.”
You smiled faintly, despite yourself. “It went well. He didn’t suspect a thing. He actually—” You hesitated, voice hitching slightly. “He asked me to come back tomorrow.”
Silence stretched out.
Then a quiet, almost skeptical: “He what?”
You pressed the cool bottle to your cheek. “Said I should come back. Didn’t make a big thing of it. Just dropped it like… casual.”
“You got him interested already?”
“I told you,” you said again, this time softer. “I can handle it.”
Mike sighed through the phone. “This guy doesn’t just let people in. He’s paranoid. Brutal. We’ve had agents trying to get information on him for months.”
“Then maybe I got lucky,” you replied, voice smooth. You didn’t want to admit how your pulse had jumped when Barnes looked at you like that. Like he was trying to read something in you no one else ever bothered to search for.
Like he liked what he saw.
Mike didn’t buy it. “You don’t believe in luck.”
You exhaled. “I believe in getting the job done.”
“Alright,” he said. “Just be careful, okay? You’re playing with fire.”
You looked out the window, eyes tracing the dim skyline.
“I know.”
“You get what we need, you pull out. Fast. No second-guessing.”
“Got it.”
“No slipping.”
You were quiet for a second, knuckles tightening around the bottle.
“No slipping,” you echoed.
„Okay, get some rest now,” Mike answered. „And keep me informed if something happens.”
„Yup. Will do. Goodnight, Mike.”
Then you hung up.
The line went dead with a soft beep, and you set the burner face-down on the counter. For a moment, you just stood there, fingers pressing into the cold granite like it could anchor you in place.
You weren’t shaken.
You weren’t feeling anything.
You were just… tired.
This wasn’t your first undercover op. Not by a long shot. You’d done this dance before—smiled when your skin crawled, flirted when your instincts screamed, played the part so well it blurred at the edges. You were trained for this. Built for it.
But this one was different. Bigger. Riskier. The kind of job that could get someone killed if they slipped—if you slipped.
Mike knew that.
And Mike wasn’t just your partner.
He was your friend. You’d been working together for five years—through wiretaps and busts and assignments that left you both bleeding in motel bathrooms or laughing over diner coffee at four in the morning. He’d seen what this job could do to people. He’d seen it try to sink its claws into you too many times.
He worried.
But that was his job.
Just like this was yours.
James Buchanan Barnes. Criminal. Mafia boss. Weapon dealer. Money, launderer. Too powerful to touch directly, too smart to leave a trail. Everything about him was wrapped in shadow—clean records, silent witnesses, bodies that vanished before anyone could blink.
Getting close to him was the only way and you were going to do it. No matter what it takes.
———
The music hit you like a pulse the second you stepped through the door—low, heavy bass thrumming through your heels as the dim lights painted everything in gold and crimson. Different dress tonight. Something sleek but soft, the kind of thing that hugged your figure in just the right places without screaming trying too hard. No transmitter tonight. In case things would go… in more heated way. Your makeup was perfect. Hair done just right.
Calculated.
You scanned the floor like you weren’t looking for him.
But you were.
And there he was—just like last night—perched at the bar again, elbow on the counter, fingers wrapped around a half-empty glass of bourbon. He looked sharper tonight. The shirt was black, sleeves rolled up, the edge of his metal wrist glinting in the light. Same tense posture. Same haunted gaze.
Until he saw you.
Then… something shifted. His shoulders eased just slightly. The corner of his mouth pulled into a smile—not big, not flashy, but real. You stepped toward him, heels clicking, and just as your fingers brushed the edge of the bar to pull out the stool beside him, he spoke.
“Don’t sit down.”
You blinked. “What?”
He was already moving, setting his glass down and standing from the stool. “Come on,” he said, nodding toward the back of the club.
Your heart gave the faintest skip. “We’re going somewhere?”
“You wanted me to take you out, didn’t you?” he said over his shoulder, already walking. That smirk in his voice, clear as crystal.
You stared for half a second, lips parting. Then—without missing a beat—you followed.
The music faded behind you as he led you through a narrow hallway behind the bar, then out a side door that opened into the cool night air. The city buzzed faintly around you—distant car horns, laughter from people on the sidewalk, the hum of neon signs.
You glanced at him, adjusting the strap of your purse as you stepped in line beside him. “Where are we going?”
He looked over with that same crooked grin, more boyish now, less guarded. “Surprise.”
You raised a brow, half-joking, half not. “You know you’re basically a strange man leading me into the night, right? This doesn’t exactly scream safe.”
He chuckled—deep and low. “You’re safe with me.”
Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist—not in fear, but in something else. Something warmer. The confidence in his voice, the way he didn’t even hesitate.
Dangerous men always said shit like that.
But you let yourself smile, just a little, as you walked beside him.
He didn’t say much after that. Just shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and walked with purpose, guiding you. You expected a car waiting. A driver. Maybe some flashy rooftop reservation or private room with expensive wine and dim lights.
But instead… he just walked.
Down the sidewalk, away from the noise and traffic. Past the blur of people and lights. He kept his pace slow, matching yours without a word, like he’d done this before—like he liked the quiet.
Eventually, the blocks opened up into a promenade—a long, open walkway lined with benches and streetlamps, where the noise of the city dulled and the skyline stretched out in soft silhouettes against the night. The breeze rolled in off the water, lifting your hair gently as you looked around.
It was… peaceful. Simple.
You glanced over at him.
He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes ahead, jaw relaxed, lips pressed into something that almost looked like contentment. Like this, somehow, was better than all the crowded rooms and strobe lights. Like he needed this quiet as much as you did.
Because he could’ve taken you anywhere—but he chose this. And not for show. For peace.
“Wow,” you said quietly, your voice lighter now, real. “That’s a nice choice.”
You looked over at him and smiled, not the practiced one you’d used at the bar, but something gentler—genuine.
He glanced sideways at you, the corner of his mouth tugging into a faint grin. “You said I had to get creative.”
You laughed under your breath. “I didn’t think you’d go for a midnight walk, though.”
“I like quiet,” he said simply. “And space. The club gets… loud.”
You nodded, your heels clicking softly on the pavement as the two of you continued down the promenade. There was something easy about it. No pretense. No script. Just the hum of the city at your back, the glow of streetlamps ahead, and James Barnes—walking beside you, hands still in his pockets, face softer than it had been the night before.
“I haven’t been here before,” you said, keeping your tone breezy, conversational. “Still trying to figure out what this city has to offer.”
He looked at you again, and this time didn’t look away so quickly.
“What’ve you figured out so far?” he asked.
You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Well… clubs are overrated. Internet friends are flaky. And late-night walks with strangers? Surprisingly nice.”
He chuckled—a real one this time, low and warm in his chest. “You still think I’m a stranger?”
“Aren’t you?”
His lips twitched. “Guess I am.”
And for a while, that was enough. You just walked. Let the silence stretch comfortably between you while the city slowed around you.
Then, a beat later, his voice broke the quiet.
“I grew up not far from here,” he said, almost like it surprised even him. “Everything’s changed now, but… I used to come down here when I was a kid. Used to skip class and sit by the water. Thought the whole world ended right at the edge of the river.”
You blinked, heart pausing for a beat. That wasn’t small talk. That was something real. Something unguarded.
“You still believe that?” you asked softly.
He was quiet for a second, then shook his head.
“No. Now I know it just keeps going.” He looked at you again. “Sometimes I wish it didn’t.”
You didn’t know what to say to that.
So you just kept walking, closer now. The distance between your arms thinning with each step.
You nudged him lightly with your elbow, glancing up at him with that soft, teasing glimmer in your eyes.
“Why are you so brooding?”
He looked over, caught off guard by the question—and your smile.
“I’m not brooding,” he said, but there was a slight defensive edge to it, like he wasn’t sure if he should be amused or annoyed.
You grinned, unbothered. “Oh, you are,” you said, matter-of-fact. “The silence, the all-black look, the tragic childhood monologue a second ago…”
He huffed out a laugh—quiet, but real.
“I’m just not used to talking this much,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck.
“Talking’s not that bad, you know. Especially with someone who knows how to listen,” you said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you kept walking. “I mean, not to brag, but I’m a fantastic listener. Award-winning.”
That actually earned a small smile from him—no smirk this time, no guarded edge. Just a subtle shift in his expression. A softening.
“You’re not what I expected,” he said, almost like it slipped out.
You looked at him, your head tilted slightly. “Yeah? What did you expect?”
He didn’t answer right away. He just stared ahead, lips pressing together like he was thinking it through.
And then, with a quiet breath, he said, “I don’t know. Someone less nice.”
You laughed at that, warm and light. “Sorry to disappoint.”
He looked at you then. His eyes lingered for a moment longer than before, like maybe he was starting to see something more than a girl in a dress who wandered into his bar.
“You’re not a disappointment,” he said quietly.
And maybe he didn’t realize just how sincere it sounded. Maybe you weren’t supposed to feel it settle so deeply in your chest.
You kept walking together, slowly, letting the quiet night stretch around you. The water beside the promenade shimmered in the lamplight, and the breeze tugged at your dress, soft against your skin.
Conversation came easier now.
He wasn’t smiling constantly, no—but the corners of his mouth curved more often. Sometimes just for a second. Sometimes because of something you said. Sometimes for no reason at all, like he just forgot to keep the walls up.
“So,” he asked after a beat, glancing sideways at you, “what do you do?”
You gave a small shrug, stuffing your hands into the light jacket you’d thrown on. “It’s complicated.”
He raised a brow. “Complicated how?”
“I just lost my job,” you lied obviously, with a half-sigh. “I was working as a barista—nothing special, the only job I could find after moving here from Seattle—but I got into an argument with a customer. It got a little… heated.”
That made him laugh. An actual, short laugh that sounded good coming from him. He shook his head.
“You got fired for fighting a customer?”
“I didn’t fight him. I just told him if he had that much of a problem with oat milk, maybe he should drink water instead.”
He huffed again, clearly amused. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”
You smiled, looking at him sidelong. “I don’t have a bad side.”
He shot you a look, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Sure you don’t.”
You just gave a small shrug like believe what you want, and looked back out at the water.
And god, it was working. He was loosening up, letting his guard down. With every laugh, every glance he thought you didn’t catch—he was starting to trust you.
Exactly what you needed.
“So what about you?” you asked lightly. “Is that nightclub your only thing?”
You knew the answer. Of course you did. But you were curious—curious about what he would say. What version of himself he’d hand over to you.
He didn’t look at you right away. His eyes stayed forward, watching the stretch of the promenade like it might change.
“Not really,” he said finally, with a small shrug. “I just… do business.”
Your brows lifted a little, like you were waiting for more. But that was all he gave.
“‘Business, huh?” you repeated with a teasing lilt. “That’s vague.”
He looked at you now. “It’s meant to be.”
You laughed, quiet and warm. “Mysterious. I like it.”
He smirked at that, and didn’t say anything else—but he didn’t look away either.
Some time passed.
The night deepened around you. The promenade wasn’t empty, but it felt like it—like the world had carved out this quiet stretch just for the two of you. You’d been walking slow, lingering in conversation, in glances that lasted a second too long.
But eventually, you stopped.
You turned slightly toward him, arms folded loosely as the breeze played with the edge of your hair. “I should go home,” you said gently, your voice quieter now. “It’s getting late.”
He didn’t answer right away. His jaw shifted like he was thinking—then he shrugged a little, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. “We can go to my place or something,” he said casually, almost too casually, but there was something underneath it.
He didn’t want this to end.
You looked at him, startled for a second—not because of the suggestion, but because… you hadn’t expected it to come with that faint flicker of hope in his eyes.
You smiled, soft and honest. “I… I loved the walk and everything. I truly did. It was great.”
Then your voice lowered, almost sheepish. “But I… I’m not gonna sleep with you.” You let out a nervous laugh.
Then he chuckled—low, rough, genuine. “That’s not what I meant.”
You tilted your head with a playful squint, raising an eyebrow. “No?”
He shook his head, smile still lingering. “No.”
You crossed your arms, lifting your chin slightly with that mischievous little glint in your eye.
“Why?”
He blinked, caught off guard. “What—why what?”
You gave him an exaggerated shrug, your smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “So you don’t wanna sleep with me?”
He let out a groan, tipping his head back with a low laugh. “Jesus.”
You laughed too—bright and playful—and nudged his shoulder lightly. “I’m kidding. Relax.”
He shook his head with a grin, looking at you like you were trouble. The good kind.
You let your arms drop to your sides and took a step closer. “Yeah, we can go to your place then.” You smiled up at him. “But no funny business.”
He snorted. “I’ll behave.”
———
The elevator doors slid open straight into his apartment. Of course they did.
You stepped inside slowly, eyes sweeping over the place. Everything was sleek, minimalist, expensive. Marble and metal, dark polished wood. The lighting was low and warm, red-tinged against the black furniture and glass walls that looked out over the glittering city. Not cold, exactly—but private. Intimate.
His space felt deliberate.
You gave a soft whistle, turning in place. “Yeah. Should’ve guessed you’re rich rich.”
Behind you, he chuckled. “It’s just a place.”
You glanced over your shoulder. “Sure. Just a place with a private elevator and a skyline view.”
He walked past you and into the kitchen area, opening a sleek cabinet. “You want something to drink?”
You turned toward him, one brow lifting. “What do rich people drink? You got some hundred-year-old wine or something?”
That earned you a quiet grin. “I’ve got whiskey. Wine. Water. You pick.”
You smiled as you stepped out of your heels, letting yourself sink just a little into the soft rug beneath your feet. “Whiskey’s fine.”
He was already pouring two glasses—no hesitation, no second-guessing. Like he already knew you’d say that. Like he was learning you.
And for a second, as he handed you the glass, your fingers brushed—and your heart beat just a little too fast. But you steadied it. Because this was still a job.
A job. You knew that.
You took the glass from him with a soft smile and a quiet thanks, lifting it to your lips and taking a small sip.
Smooth. Aged. Expensive. Of course it was.
He turned away, busying himself with something in the kitchen, and your eyes drifted—casually, innocently—across the room.
You weren’t just admiring the place.
You were assessing it.
The layout was clean. Almost too clean. Like someone who didn’t like clutter. Or didn’t want people to notice things.
Where would a man like James Buchanan Barnes keep his secrets?
You took another slow sip as you scanned the room—mental notes stacking neatly behind your smile.
No visible security panel. No paper trail on the counters. No laptops or tablets left out. But there were drawers. A hallway leading to what you assumed was his bedroom. Maybe an office. Maybe something else.
There was a shelf to your left—low, black, with a few books and decorative pieces, but nothing that looked even remotely personal. Not a single photograph in sight.
Your eyes flicked toward the art on the walls. Abstract. Stark. Not sentimental. Not emotional.
Which meant any trace of who he really was—anything useful—wasn’t on display.
It was hidden. Locked. Protected.
You could feel him watching you now, so you turned your head, smile returning effortlessly.
“This place is really something,” you said again, your tone light, curious. “You live here alone?”
He gave a single nod, slow and unreadable. „Yeah.”
You hummed softly, taking another sip.
But your mind was still moving—filing away exits, windows, the faint outline of a keypad near the hallway door.
You’d find the cracks. The hidden corners. You always did.
But not tonight. Tonight, you had to keep his interest. And maybe… win a little more of his trust.
He sat down beside you on the plush dark couch, not too close, but not far either.
You turned your head slightly, smiling over the rim of your glass. “So,” you said softly, playful. “Do you bring all your guests here?”
„I don’t usually have guests.”
You tilted your head. “Really?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Not the kind who stay long.”
You chuckled, eyes dropping to your glass, and then back to him. “Well… I feel honored.”
You said it lightly, like a joke. But your smile lingered a little longer. Just enough to keep him looking.
And he was looking.
You didn’t pretend not to notice the way his gaze swept over you—your legs crossed, the dress you’d so carefully picked, the curve of your smile, the shape of your mouth when you took another sip.
You let him. You let him look.
And when he didn’t say anything for a beat, you turned a little toward him, curling your legs under yourself on the couch as if you were just getting comfortable.
His eyes followed the movement, the slow drag of your thigh beneath the hem of your dress as you shifted. You didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered. He didn’t bother to hide it.
You kept your expression soft, relaxed, even as your heart beat a little faster.
“You always this quiet when you’re alone with a woman in your penthouse?” you asked lightly, your voice a bit lower now, like you were sharing a secret.
He huffed a laugh, shaking his head slightly. “You always this bold?”
Your eyes sparkled, playful. “Just with you.”
And that was when it happened.
His hand moved—slow, easy—and came to rest on your thigh. Just above your knee. His palm was warm through the thin fabric of your dress, fingers relaxed but steady. Not demanding. Just… there.
Your breath caught—but only for a second.
Then you looked down at his hand, then up at him, your smile lazy and teasing. “You’re either very confident, or very reckless.”
He held your gaze, thumb brushing once, absentmindedly, across your skin. “Why not both?”
You swallowed—not nervously, but slowly, as if that single touch had knocked the wind out of your lungs.
Something about the way he looked at you—calm, unreadable, yet… still. Like he was waiting. Like this moment could tip either way and he’d still be here, still watching you like you were something rare.
And maybe you shouldn’t have—maybe it was too soon, maybe you should have waited… or maybe that was just exactly what you should have done for this job—but you shifted toward him anyway. Just a little. Then a little more.
He didn’t move. He didn’t need to.
Your hand came to rest gently on his chest, your fingers curling against the soft fabric of his black shirt as you leaned in. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your lips. You hovered there for just a second, eyes flicking between his and his mouth.
Then—finally—you kissed him. It was slow. Careful. Like testing deep water with the tip of your foot. Not demanding. Just soft, curious.
His hand slid further up your thigh, but not with urgency—he kissed you like he wasn’t in a rush either. Like he wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth.
But it only lasted a few moments. You pulled back before it could turn into anything more. Your eyes stayed on his for a second longer, searching.
Then you spoke—quiet, but steady. “I’m not a one night stand type of woman.”
His expression didn’t change at first—still quiet, still unreadable. But something shifted in his eyes. Something softer. Something close to… relief.
He gave a small, breathy laugh, then leaned his head back against the couch, looking at you sideways.
“Good,” he murmured.
He looked at you a moment longer, head tilted just slightly. Then he leaned forward and kissed you again. Deeper this time.
This wasn’t testing the waters anymore—this was a pull. A need. His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair as your mouths moved in sync, breath catching between each press. You felt his other hand on your thigh, firm now, guiding, coaxing you closer until you were practically straddling him.
You let him pull you in.
Because this was the plan all along—and it was working.
His lips were warm and steady, his breath hitching just slightly when your fingers slipped beneath the collar of his shirt. You were supposed to make him fall for you. Get close. Earn his trust. And god, you were so close now.
So when his hands gripped your hips and you wrapped your legs around his waist, you let him lift you. Let him carry you like you weighed nothing, your arms loosely looped around his neck, heartbeat thudding in time with each step he took up the stairs.
The apartment was quiet. Only the sound of his boots against hardwood. Only the soft hum of your breath near his ear. The smell of expensive cologne, the warmth of his body against yours.
He pushed the door to his bedroom open with his shoulder.
The bedroom was dim—all warm tones and shadows, soft and quiet except for your breath as he laid you down gently on the bed.
He hovered over you, metal arm braced beside your head, the other trailing down the side of your body, fingers brushing lightly over the curve of your waist. His eyes searched yours, the weight of his stare making your skin feel hot, your pulse quicken.
You let your fingers drift up to the collar of his shirt, tugging him a little closer.
He didn’t speak. Just dipped his head to kiss you again, slower now, unhurried—like he had all night. Like he wanted all night. His hand skimmed over your thigh, then up, tracing the line of your hip, the edge of your dress. He played with the hem, gaze dark, flicking between your face and your mouth.
“Can I?” he asked softly.
You nodded.
He sat up just slightly, hands at your sides, sliding the fabric up, higher and higher until your dress slipped over your hips, your ribs, your chest—then off completely, tossed somewhere behind him.
His eyes raked over your body like he was trying to memorize you.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, almost reverently. “You’re beautiful.”
He leaned back down, pressing a kiss just beneath your jaw, then lower—your collarbone, the curve of your breast, each touch sending heat pooling between your legs. His hands explored your skin like it was something rare, something meant to be savored.
And you let him. Because this was part of it, too. Drawing him in. Letting him believe he was winning you over.
But god, he made it feel like you were the one getting swept under.
He mouthed at your chest again, slower this time, more deliberate, his hand sliding up your thigh, fingers teasing the edge of your panties as he murmured, “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
You didn’t. Not tonight. Not when his body felt this warm, this close. Not when he was already halfway gone for you.
You sucked in a quiet breath as he pressed against your center through the thin fabric of your panties. He swore under his breath, eyes locked on yours as he felt the dampness there.
“So fucking wet,” he murmured, almost in disbelief.
Your hips shifted instinctively, pressing into his touch, your cheeks heating at how badly you wanted it—how easily he was pulling it out of you. But he didn’t rush. His thumb moved in slow circles, the pressure enough to make you whimper softly.
And then he hooked a finger around the lace, sliding your underwear to the side.
The air kissed your skin, but it was his touch that made your breath catch—two fingers sliding through your slick folds, unhurried, deliberate. Exploring.
He watched your face as he dipped one finger inside you.
“Fuck,” he whispered again, like the word belonged only to you.
Your eyes fluttered shut for a second, hips rocking gently toward his hand, and he rewarded you by adding another finger, stretching you just a little more, moving slowly. Carefully.
He curled them just right, drawing the sweetest pressure, building you up slowly.
“Feel good?” he asked quietly, lips brushing your jaw, the shell of your ear.
You nodded, barely able to speak. “Yeah… god, yes.”
He smiled against your skin, deep, pleased smile he rarely gave anyone. And his pace stayed steady, patient.
As if he wanted to learn you. And fuck, it was working.
His fingers slid out of you slowly, glistening with your arousal—and when they left you, a soft, desperate whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.
He smirked at the sound, clearly pleased, and leaned up just enough to meet your eyes. “Patience, sweetheart.”
Then his hands moved to the laces of your bra. He tugged at them gently, voice low and coaxing.
“Let’s take this off,” he murmured, “yeah?”
You nodded, breath catching as he slowly loosened the ties. The fabric slipped from your skin, and his gaze dropped instantly, drinking you in like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“You’re so so perfect,” he whispered, reverent.
He leaned down and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the swell of your breast. Then another, lower. His stubble scraped lightly against your sensitive skin, adding to the heat already burning through you.
You felt his tongue flick over your nipple before he took it into his mouth—warm, wet, teasing—his hand moving to cup your other breast, thumb grazing softly, lazily. He alternated between gentle sucks and soft kisses, his pace unhurried, worshipful.
Your fingers curled in the sheets as your back arched beneath him.
“You make the prettiest sounds,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick. “Could listen to you all night.”
Your fingers found his shoulders, curling there, and your voice came out soft and needy beneath him.
“Please… please, I need you.”
His breath hitched. He pulled back just slightly to look at you—your flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, the desperate gleam in your eyes—and his jaw clenched like he was holding something back.
“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “I know.”
He reached for his belt and undid it in one smooth motion, the soft clink of the buckle sending another spark of heat through you. You helped him tug his shirt off over his head—your palms trailing over the ridges of his chest, his scars, the thick muscle beneath his skin—and then he stepped back just enough to push down his boxers.
And god.
Your lips parted slightly as your gaze dropped. He was big—thick and heavy, already hard for you—and something about the way he stood there, so composed, so ready, had your stomach twisting with heat.
He caught the look in your eyes and smirked, just a little cocky, but mostly hungry. Like he was just as affected as you were.
“Still sure you’re not a one-night-stand kind of girl?” he teased, crawling back over you, taking your panties off and lowering his body slowly, the weight of him pressing against your thigh, thick and hot.
You grinned breathlessly. “Very sure.”
“Good,” he murmured, lining himself up as his lips found yours again. “’Cause I don’t think I could let this be just once.”
And then he pushed in—slow, deliberate—and your whole body arched into his as you gasped. Inch by inch—stretching you open with a careful drag of his hips, and your breath caught hard in your throat.
Holy shit.
Your hands clawed lightly at his back, nails digging into firm muscle as your body struggled to adjust around the size of him, and yet every part of you was already begging for more. He groaned softly when he bottomed out, forehead pressing to yours, one hand sliding up your side until it cradled your cheek.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “You feel—so good, baby. So tight…”
Your legs tightened around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer, and he gave you exactly what you needed: slow, deep thrusts that made your toes curl and your head tip back.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy. It was fucking intentional.
Every grind of his hips hit somewhere deep and perfect, dragging delicious friction over that sweet, sensitive spot inside you until you were breathless, clawing at him with soft moans you couldn’t even bite back.
He was looking at you the whole time—like he was watching your every reaction, memorizing what made your lips part, what made your lashes flutter, what made you whisper his name so softly it made his rhythm falter.
“You like that?” he murmured against your mouth, voice low and ragged. “You like it like this?”
You didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. But the words fell out anyway, unguarded, needy.
“Yes,” you gasped. “Fuck, yes…”
You hated how honest it sounded. Hated that it was true.
This was nothing like you expected. It wasn’t just hot—it was maddening. The way he moved inside you with patience and weight, filling you with every stroke, dragging your pleasure out until it burned slow and deep in your belly—
God, it was the best sex you’ve ever had.
And he fucking knew it.
His lips brushed your jaw, then your throat, as he kept moving—steady and unrelenting—his hand slipping down to your thigh, gripping it tighter as he pushed in deeper.
“Look at you,” he whispered. “Taking me so good…”
He grinned against your skin when you whimpered in response, the sound all breathy and helpless as your hips rolled up to meet every thrust.
“Yeah,” he rasped, voice thick with heat, “just like that, baby.”
His hand slid up between your bodies, fingers grazing your chest, and he brought one to your mouth—thumb brushing your lower lip. You parted them instinctively, and he slipped it in, groaning low when your tongue curled around it.
“Fuck…” His pace stuttered, hips grinding deeper, rougher. “You’re unreal.”
You moaned around his thumb, not even trying to hide it now. Every movement of his body inside you—slow and deliberate and fucking devastating—was unraveling you from the inside out. You could feel your orgasm building already, creeping up your spine with every thrust, every drag of his cock against your walls.
He slipped his thumb from your lips and cupped your jaw, forcing your gaze to meet his. “You close, sweetheart?”
You nodded quickly—too quickly—eyes glassy, breath shaking. “I—I think I’m gonna—”
He dipped down, mouth capturing yours in a bruising kiss just as his hips rolled harder. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling, holding, needing something to anchor you while he fucked you through it—slow and deep and god, so perfect.
“That’s it,” he murmured against your lips. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”
And fuck—you did.
The wave hit hard, blinding and hot, pulsing through your whole body as you came around him with a choked cry. He didn’t let up—just fucked you right through it, groaning when he felt your walls tighten around him like a vice.
“Shit—you feel so fucking good,” he growled, forehead pressing to yours again. “Gonna make me come just like that…”
You were still panting, your body twitching from the aftershocks, but you managed a soft, wrecked smile as you whispered, “Then do it. Come inside me…”
His breath hitched. For a moment, he stilled—like he wasn’t sure if he heard you right.
But when your fingers slipped into his hair again, when you arched just enough to whisper against his jaw, “I want to feel you, James,” something inside him snapped.
“Fuck,” he hissed, the sound sharp and guttural.
He drove into you again, harder now, deeper. The slow burn gave way to something messier—his restraint unraveling as he chased his release. One of his hands gripped the back of your thigh, hitching your leg higher around his waist to angle you just right, and the metal one was planted beside your head.
You watched him above you—his jaw clenched, brows furrowed, chest rising with every ragged breath. His eyes never left yours, even as his rhythm faltered, as the pressure overtook him.
“God, you’re gonna ruin me,” he growled.
And then he was coming.
With a low, broken groan, he buried himself as deep as he could go, hips locked against yours as he spilled inside you. You felt all of it—the heat, the pulsing, the way he clutched you tighter like he couldn’t bear to let go.
His body trembled slightly with the effort, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he exhaled hard. You wrapped your arms around him instinctively, your fingers trailing lightly over his back as his heartbeat pounded against your chest.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. The room was quiet except for your shared breathing, heavy and slow and warm.
Then—very softly, with a little grin in your voice—you murmured, „…Best first date I’ve ever had.”
He let out a soft, breathy laugh against your shoulder, his voice still thick and a little rough from everything he just felt.
“You said you’re not gonna sleep with me,” he murmured, lips brushing over your skin like he didn’t want to pull away yet.
You smiled, fingers threading lazily through his hair. “And you said you’d behave.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, chest still rising and falling. His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners as he smiled—an actual, real smile, not the smirk he gave strangers at the club.
“Guess we’re both liars.”
“Mm, speak for yourself,” you teased, nudging his shoulder playfully. “You were the one who got handsy first.”
“You kissed me,” he countered, raising an eyebrow.
“And you put your hand on my thigh.”
“And you climbed into my lap.”
You laughed softly, cheeks warm. He grinned wider at that, eyes lingering on your face like he wanted to memorize it.
“You’re dangerous, sweetheart,” he said, quieter now.
Your breath caught a little at the way he said it—not flirtatious, not teasing. Almost thoughtful. Like he meant it in a way he couldn’t quite explain yet.
You tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “Only a little.”
He hummed and leaned in, pressing a slower, softer kiss to your lips. No heat this time. Just warmth. Gratitude. Like he didn’t want the night to end.
When he pulled back, he exhaled through his nose and settled beside you, one arm lazily draped over your waist.
“You’re staying the night, right?” he asked, voice already softening with sleep.
You hesitated for half a second—considering If you should, If it was good for the job. But the way he looked at you, the quiet weight of his arm, the way your body still felt warm and relaxed under the sheets…
“Yeah,” you said finally. “I’ll stay.”
He smiled into the pillow. “Good.”
You lay still for god knows how long.
His arm was heavy around your waist, his breathing deep and even, brushing against the nape of your neck. His bed was warm. His body was warmer.
But your mind was cold.
Eyes open, you stared into the shadows of the dark, expensive bedroom—counting the way the city lights bled through the curtains, mapping the corners of the ceiling like a crime scene. You felt every inch of his silk sheets. Memorized how the weight of his body dipped the mattress.
He was asleep. Deeply. You could tell by the way his grip had loosened slightly. The way he’d sighed before drifting off, like he hadn’t been touched in months.
You blinked.
It was working. You were in. Past the bouncer. Past the locked doors and the fake smiles and the bodyguards who followed him like dogs. Past the shields men like him didn’t even realize they wore.
He fucked you. He let you in his bed. He asked you to stay.
You should’ve felt something—satisfaction, victory, adrenaline.
Instead, you just felt… still.
This wasn’t about how good it felt. This wasn’t about you. This was the job. You’d kissed him because you had to. You let him touch you because that was the fastest way forward. Every moan, every breathless “please,” had been measured. Real—but weaponized.
You didn’t need to fake anything. That was the thing. You didn’t have to lie. You just had to want it a little. Just enough. Just the right amount, at the right time.
That’s what made it effective. That’s what made you effective.
You looked at him.
He looked almost gentle like this, mouth slightly parted, lashes casting faint shadows on his cheekbones.
But you knew what he was. Knew what was under all that polish and charm and barely-disguised violence. He was dangerous. Important. He had ties to everything that went wrong in this city. And you were one step closer to proving it.
You were here to destroy him.
And tonight? You had just taken your first real shot.
So you let your eyes fall shut. Let your breathing match his. Let him keep his arm around your waist.
Let him believe.
Because if he trusted you, if he kept opening the door even just a little wider… You’d find what you came for. And when the time came, you’d know exactly where to cut.
Chapter Two 💸
series tags (tysm for all the love and support, If you asked to be tagged and I didn’t tag you it means I couldn’t for some reason 💔): @iamthatonefangirl @muchwita @its-in-the-woods @taqmari @opheliabbarnes
comment to be added to the tag list!
⋆⁺₊✧ SERIES MASTERLIST
⋆⁺₊✧ MAIN MASTERLIST
