The rain hammered down on the London streets like bullets, turning the pavement into a slick mirror that reflected the amber glow of streetlights and the neon blur of late-night storefronts. My lungs burned as I vaulted over a wrought-iron fence, my dress shoes finding purchase on the wet metal for just a fraction of a second before I launched myself into the narrow alley beyond. Behind me, I could hear them—three, maybe four sets of heavy boots pounding the cobblestones, accompanied by the sharp bark of Russian curses cutting through the downpour.
The USB drive felt like it weighed a thousand pounds in my inside jacket pocket, though it was no bigger than my thumb. Such a small thing to contain so much damage—bank records, shell companies, enough evidence to bring down Dmitri Volkov's entire operation and some corrupt politicians in Westminster along with it. The oligarch's security team knew what I'd taken, and they were willing to paint these historic streets red to get it back.
I pressed myself against the wet brick wall of a Victorian building, chest heaving, and listened. The footsteps were getting closer, spreading out to cover more ground. Professional. Volkov didn't hire amateurs. My hand instinctively went to the Walther PPK holstered at the small of my back, but I couldn't risk the noise. Not here, not with civilians still stumbling out of pubs just two streets over. MI6 had strict rules about collateral damage, and I'd already bent enough of them tonight.
A shadow moved at the mouth of the alley. I didn't wait to see who it belonged to.
I ran.
My fingers found the rusted fire escape ladder and I hauled myself up, ignoring the screaming protest in my shoulders. Three years of training at Fort Monckton, five years in the field, and my body still complained when I pushed it like this. But complaining wasn't the same as failing. I scaled the ladder with practiced efficiency, my expensive Tom Ford suit getting thoroughly ruined in the process.
The rooftop was slick with rain, treacherous. I didn't slow down. Behind me, I heard the clang of boots on metal—they were following me up. Of course they were. I sprinted across the flat roof, my eyes already calculating angles and distances. The next building was maybe twelve feet away, across a gap that dropped four stories to the street below. The smart play would be to find another way down, to disappear into the maze of London's back streets.
I'd never been very good at making the smart play.
I hit the edge at full speed and launched myself into empty space. For one perfect, terrifying moment, there was nothing beneath me but rain and darkness and the distant glow of the city. The wind tore at my jacket. My stomach lurched. Then my hands caught the opposite ledge and I was hauling myself up and over, rolling across wet gravel and coming up in a crouch.
A gunshot cracked through the night. The bullet sparked off the metal vent housing two feet to my left. Silenced, but not silent enough. They were getting desperate, willing to risk the attention. That meant I was running out of time.
I zigzagged across the rooftop, using the various vents and satellite dishes as cover. Another shot, then another. These guys had decent aim even in the rain, which meant Volkov had spent serious money on them. I filed that information away—it might be useful later, assuming I survived the next five minutes.
The edge of the building came up fast. I looked down and saw exactly what I needed: a balcony one floor below, wrought iron and probably decorative, but it would have to do. I swung myself over the edge, hung for a heartbeat, then dropped. My feet hit the balcony railing and I let my momentum carry me forward, crashing through the French doors in an explosion of glass and splintered wood.
I rolled through someone's very expensive living room—all white furniture and modern art—and was out the front door before the startled couple on the couch could do more than scream. The hallway was carpeted, muffling my footsteps as I ran for the stairwell. Behind me, I could hear shouting, more boots, the chaos spreading. But I had the advantage now. I knew London's streets like I knew the contours of my own body, every shortcut and bolt-hole memorized during years of operations.
I burst out of the building's service entrance into a different alley, this one running parallel to the Strand. The rain was letting up slightly, though my suit was already destroyed beyond salvation. I allowed myself thirty seconds to catch my breath, pressed against the wall in the shadows, listening for pursuit.
Nothing. Just the ambient noise of the city, the distant wail of sirens that might or might not be related to me.
I'd lost them.
The walk back to my hotel was deliberately casual, just another well-dressed man heading home after a late night out, albeit one who looked like he'd gone swimming in his clothes. I kept my hand near my weapon anyway, eyes scanning every shadow, every parked car, every late-night pedestrian. Paranoia wasn't a flaw in my line of work—it was a survival skill.
The Langham Hotel rose before me like a beacon of civilization, all Portland stone and Victorian grandeur. The night doorman recognized me and didn't even blink at my bedraggled appearance. I'd stayed here often enough over the years that the staff had learned not to ask questions. I slipped him a fifty-pound note anyway, insurance against curiosity, and headed for the lifts.
My suite was on the seventh floor, corner position with views over Regent Street. I'd requested it specifically—multiple exits, good sightlines, far enough up that casual entry was difficult. The lock clicked open under my keycard and I stepped inside, finally allowing some of the tension to bleed out of my shoulders.
The suite was exactly as I'd left it: tastefully appointed in creams and golds, with that particular brand of understated luxury that cost a fortune but never looked ostentatious. I crossed to the mahogany desk by the window and carefully removed the USB drive from my jacket pocket, setting it down like the precious cargo it was. Mission accomplished. Volkov's secrets were now MI6's secrets, and by morning they'd be in the hands of people who knew exactly how to weaponize them.
I should have felt triumphant. Instead, I felt exhausted and wired at the same time, adrenaline still singing through my veins with nowhere to go. I shrugged out of my ruined jacket and was reaching for my shoulder holster when I heard it.
Water. Running water, coming from the bathroom.
Every muscle in my body went rigid. I'd cleared the suite before I left—standard protocol. There shouldn't be anyone here. My hand found the Walther, drawing it in one smooth motion as I moved toward the bathroom door. The weight of the weapon was familiar, comforting. I'd killed men with this gun. I'd killed men with my bare hands. Whatever was waiting behind that door, I could handle it.
I approached from the side, keeping my body out of the potential line of fire. The door was slightly ajar, warm light spilling out along with tendrils of steam. I could smell something—expensive soap, maybe bath oils. My mind raced through possibilities. An assassin wouldn't announce themselves like this. A trap? Possibly. But what kind of trap involved running a bath?
I kicked the door open hard, the wood slamming against the interior wall as I swept into the bathroom with my weapon raised, finger on the trigger, ready to put two rounds center mass into whoever—
I froze.
The bathroom was a study in marble and chrome, dominated by a massive clawfoot tub that probably cost more than most people's cars. The tub was full of water and bubbles, steam rising in lazy curls toward the ceiling. And in that tub, completely naked and utterly unconcerned by my dramatic entrance, was quite possibly the most beautiful boy I'd ever seen.
He couldn't have been more than twenty, with the kind of face that belonged on Renaissance paintings—delicate features, high cheekbones, full lips that looked obscenely soft and pink. His hair was wet and slicked back, wavy golden strands that fell past his shoulders, darkened by water to the color of honey. His eyes were an impossible shade of blue-green, like tropical water, and they were looking at me with an expression of amused interest rather than fear.
"Agent Wolfe," he said, his voice carrying just a trace of a Russian accent, smooth and cultured. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't make it back."
My weapon didn't waver, but my brain was struggling to process what I was seeing. The boy shifted in the tub, and I caught glimpses of his body through the bubbles—smooth, toned muscle, the kind of physique that came from youth and good genetics rather than hours in the gym. A swimmer's build, lean and defined. My eyes traced the line of his shoulders, the curve of his chest, the flat plane of his stomach disappearing into the bubbles.
"Who the fuck are you?" I managed, though my voice came out rougher than I intended.
The boy smiled, and it was like watching the sun come out. "My name is Misha," he said, as casually as if we were meeting at a cocktail party. "Misha Volkov. I believe you've just stolen something from my father."
Christ. The oligarch's son. I should have shot him right then, or at minimum zip-tied him and called for extraction. Instead, I found myself staring as Misha rose slightly from the water, bubbles sliding down his chest in ways that my hindbrain registered as intensely erotic despite every professional instinct screaming at me to focus.
"How did you get in here?" I demanded, though I was already lowering my weapon slightly. He clearly wasn't armed—there was nowhere to hide a weapon on that body—and he didn't seem remotely threatening.
"I have my ways," Misha said with a little shrug that made water lap against the sides of the tub. "The real question, Agent Wolfe, is what you're going to do now that I'm here." He leaned forward, resting his arms on the edge of the tub, and the movement gave me a perfect view of his back, the elegant line of his spine, the curve of his—
I forced my eyes back to his face. "I'm going to call this in and have you detained for questioning."
"Are you?" Misha's smile widened. "Or are you going to put that gun down and join me? The water's perfect, and you look like you could use a bath. You're soaking wet."
"From the rain," I said automatically, which was possibly the stupidest response I could have given.
"Mmm." Misha's eyes traveled down my body with obvious appreciation, lingering on my chest, my arms, lower. "You're even more impressive in person than in your file photos. My father's intelligence dossier didn't do you justice."
That should have alarmed me—the fact that Volkov had a dossier on me, that his son had read it. Instead, I found myself acutely aware of how my wet shirt was clinging to my body, outlining every muscle. I'd always been vain about my physique. Three hours in the gym every day, strict diet, the kind of discipline that turned a body into a weapon. And the way Misha was looking at me suggested he appreciated the results.
"This is a bad idea," I said, but I was already holstering my weapon.
"The best ideas usually are." Misha shifted again, and this time he rose up onto his knees in the tub, water and bubbles streaming down his body. My breath caught.
He was fucking perfect. That was the only word for it. His chest was smooth and defined, with small pink nipples that were hard from the water. His stomach was a taut plane of muscle, leading down to a narrow waist and—as he turned slightly, reaching for something on the edge of the tub—the most spectacular ass I'd seen in my entire life. Round and firm and perfectly shaped, the kind of bubble butt that made my mouth go dry and my cock immediately take interest.
Misha looked back over his shoulder at me, and the smile on his face told me he knew exactly what effect he was having. "Are you just going to stand there, Agent Wolfe? Or are you going to join me?"
"This is a mistake," I said, even as I pulled the tie free and started on my shirt buttons.
"Probably," Misha agreed, settling back into the water but keeping those incredible eyes fixed on me. "But you're going to make it anyway, aren't you?"
I took my time with the buttons, partly because my fingers were still cold from the rain, partly because I could see the hunger growing in Misha's eyes as more of my body was revealed. The shirt came off and I heard his sharp intake of breath. Yeah, I knew what I looked like—six-foot-two of solid muscle, broad shoulders and a chest that I'd worked years to build. My pecs were heavy and defined, dusted with dark hair that trailed down over my abs. I'd been blessed with good genetics and I'd maximized them with brutal discipline.
"Fuck," Misha breathed, and the raw want in his voice sent a bolt of heat straight to my groin.
I kicked off my shoes, peeled off my socks, then went for my belt. My cock was already responding to the situation, thickening in my boxer briefs, and I saw Misha's eyes drop to track the movement. I popped the button on my trousers, lowered the zip, and pushed the wet fabric down my legs.
Now I was standing in just my boxer briefs, and they were doing absolutely nothing to hide my arousal. My cock was swelling rapidly, pushing against the fabric, and I could see the dark spot where precum was already leaking from the tip. I was big—I'd always been big—and the way Misha was staring at my crotch with parted lips and wide eyes suggested he was very aware of that fact.
"Jesus Christ," he whispered. "The rumors are true."
I raised an eyebrow. "Rumors?"
"About your... proportions." Misha licked his lips. "They say you're hung like a fucking horse."
I hooked my thumbs in the waistband of my boxer briefs. "Want to find out?"
I pushed the fabric down and my cock sprang free, already more than half-hard and growing harder by the second. Eleven inches when fully erect, thick as a beer can, with heavy balls that hung low. It was a weapon in its own right, and I'd used it to extract information from targets more times than I could count. Men and women both—I didn't discriminate when it came to getting what I needed.
Misha made a sound that was almost a whimper, his eyes locked on my cock as it continued to swell, rising up toward my stomach. The head was already flushed dark, precum dripping in thick strands from the slit. I wrapped one hand around the shaft and gave it a slow stroke, watching Misha's reaction.
"You like what you see?" I asked, my voice dropping into a lower register, the one I used when I was seducing a target.
"Yes," Misha breathed. "God, yes. Come here. Please."
I stepped toward the tub, my cock bobbing with each movement, fully hard now and leaking steadily. The bathroom was warm and steamy, and I could feel sweat starting to mix with the rain water still clinging to my skin. When I reached the edge of the tub, I didn't get in. Instead, I stood there, towering over Misha's kneeling form, and let him look his fill.
He was staring up at me with something like worship in his eyes, his gaze traveling from my face down over my chest and abs to where my cock jutted out, thick and heavy and dripping. I reached down and gripped the base, angling it toward his face.
"This what you wanted?" I asked.
Misha nodded, transfixed. Slowly, deliberately, I lowered my hips until the head of my cock was resting against his cheek. The contact sent electricity through me—his skin was so soft, still damp from the bath, and the contrast between that delicate face and my thick, veiny cock was obscene in the best possible way.
Misha turned his head slightly and his tongue darted out, licking at the precum that was smearing across his cheek. The sensation made my cock jerk, and more precum leaked out, this time directly onto his lips. He licked it up eagerly, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he tasted me.
"Fuck," I groaned. "You're a pretty thing, aren't you?"
"Mmm." Misha nuzzled against my shaft, his lips trailing along the length of it, planting soft kisses on the heated skin. When he reached the head, he opened his mouth and took just the tip inside, his tongue swirling around it, lapping up the steady stream of precum.
I let him explore for a moment, enjoying the sight of those plump lips stretched around my cockhead, but when he tried to take more into his mouth, I pulled back. His eyes opened, confused and wanting.
"Not yet," I said. "First, you're going to tell me what you're really doing here. Are you working for your father?"
Misha smiled around my cock, and instead of answering, he leaned forward and took me deeper into his mouth. The wet heat was incredible, his tongue working along the underside of my shaft as he slowly, deliberately swallowed more of my length. Three inches, four, five—his throat was opening up for me, and the sight of my thick cock disappearing between those pretty lips was almost enough to make me forget the question.
Almost.
I tangled my fingers in his wet hair and held him in place. "Answer me."
He pulled back until just the head was in his mouth, then looked up at me with those innocent eyes. "Does it matter?" he asked, his voice muffled around my cock. Then he dove back down, taking me even deeper this time, and I felt the head of my cock hit the back of his throat.
He gagged slightly, his throat convulsing around me, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he relaxed and pushed forward, and I watched in amazement as inch after inch of my cock disappeared into his mouth and throat. Six inches, seven, eight—his nose was getting closer to my pelvis, his lips stretched obscenely wide, drool already starting to leak from the corners of his mouth.
"Holy fuck," I breathed. "You can really take it."
Misha made a sound of agreement, and the vibration traveled through my cock straight to my balls. He pulled back, gasping for air, strings of saliva connecting his lips to my cock. His eyes were watering but he was smiling, looking absolutely debauched and loving every second of it.
"I've been practicing," he said, his voice rough. "Hoping I'd get the chance to meet you."
Then he went back down, and this time he didn't stop until his nose was pressed against my pelvis and my entire eleven inches was buried in his throat. I could see the bulge of my cock in his neck, could feel his throat working around me, trying to swallow. It was the most erotic thing I'd ever seen.
"Jesus Christ," I groaned, my hips jerking involuntarily. "You're going to make me cum if you keep that up."
Misha pulled back slowly, letting my cock slide out of his throat inch by inch, and when he finally released me with a wet pop, he was grinning. "That's the idea, isn't it?"
"Not yet." I reached down and gripped his chin, tilting his face up. "I want to feel that tight little ass of yours first."
His grin widened. "Then get in here."
I climbed into the tub, the water sloshing over the sides as I settled my bulk into it. The tub was big, but with my size it was still a tight fit. Misha immediately moved toward me, straddling my lap, and I got my first real look at his cock—a respectable six inches, hard and flushed and leaking against his stomach. Pretty, just like the rest of him.
But it was his ass that had my attention. As he positioned himself over me, I reached around and grabbed both cheeks, feeling the firm muscle and perfect roundness. My fingers slid between them, finding his hole, and I was surprised to discover he was already slick.
"Prepared, were you?" I asked, circling his entrance with one finger.
"I told you," Misha gasped as I pushed the finger inside, "I was hoping to meet you."
He was tight but not virgin-tight, his hole gripping my finger as I worked it deeper. I added a second finger, scissoring them, stretching him open. He moaned and rocked back against my hand, clearly eager for more.
I should have pressed for more information. Should have recognized the danger in his words. Instead, I pulled my fingers out and positioned my cock at his entrance, the thick head pressing against his slick hole.
"You sure you can take this?" I asked. "I'm not exactly small."
"I can take it," Misha said confidently. Then he sank down.
The head of my cock popped through his ring of muscle and we both groaned. He was incredibly tight, his hole gripping me like a vice, and I had to fight the urge to just thrust up and bury myself completely. Instead, I held his hips and let him control the pace, watching as he slowly, gradually worked himself down onto my cock.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chanted, his hands braced on my shoulders, his whole body trembling with the effort. "You're so fucking big."
"That's it," I encouraged, my thumbs rubbing circles on his hipbones. "Take your time. Let that tight little hole stretch around my cock."
He sank down another inch, then another, his breath coming in short gasps. I could see the strain on his face, the way his muscles were tensing, but he didn't stop. He wanted this, wanted to be filled by me, and watching him struggle to take my size was incredibly hot.
When he was about halfway down, he paused, panting. "I need... give me a second."
"Take all the time you need," I said, though my cock was throbbing with the need to thrust. "You're doing so good, taking my cock like this."
He smiled at the praise and started moving again, rising up slightly before sinking back down, working himself open with shallow movements. Water and bubbles sloshed around us, and I could feel his hole gradually relaxing, accepting more of my length.
"That's it," I groaned. "Fuck, you feel amazing. So tight and hot around my cock."
"More," Misha gasped. "I want more."
I gripped his hips tighter and pulled him down as I thrust up, and suddenly I was buried to the hilt, my cock fully sheathed in his incredible ass. Misha cried out, his back arching, his hole clenching around me so tight it almost hurt.
"Oh god," he whimpered. "So full. You're so deep."
I gave him a moment to adjust, then started to move, lifting him up and pulling him back down, using my strength to control the pace. His ass was gripping me perfectly, the tight heat almost overwhelming, and the sight of him bouncing on my cock—his wet hair flying, his face flushed, his lips parted in pleasure—was better than any fantasy I'd ever had.
"You like that?" I growled, picking up the pace. "Like having Agent Wolfe's big cock stretching your tight little hole?"
"Yes!" Misha moaned, his own cock bouncing against his stomach with each thrust. "Fuck, yes! Harder!"
I obliged, slamming him down onto my cock with enough force to make water splash over the sides of the tub. The wet slapping sounds of our bodies meeting filled the bathroom, mixing with our moans and the splash of water. His ass was jiggling with each impact, those perfect round cheeks rippling, and I couldn't resist reaching around to grab them, squeezing the firm muscle.
"Such a perfect ass," I groaned. "Made for taking cock."
"Your cock," Misha gasped. "Made for taking your cock."
The possessiveness in his voice should have been a warning, but I was too far gone to care. I stood up, water streaming off our bodies, and Misha wrapped his legs around my waist, his arms around my neck. I held him easily—he couldn't have weighed more than 150 pounds—and started bouncing him on my cock, using gravity to drive him down onto my length with brutal force.
"Fuck!" he screamed, his hole clenching around me. "Oh fuck, oh god, you're so deep!"
I carried him out of the bathroom, still impaled on my cock, and threw him down onto the king-sized bed. He landed on his back, legs spread, and I followed him down, covering his smaller body with mine. My cock never left his ass, and when I started thrusting again, it was with the full force of my hips, driving into him hard enough to make the bed shake.
"This what you wanted?" I growled, pinning his wrists above his head with one hand. "Wanted me to fuck you like this? Use you?"
"Yes!" Misha arched up against me, his hole fluttering around my cock. "Use me! Fuck me! I'm yours!"
I kissed him then, hard and demanding, my tongue invading his mouth the same way my cock was invading his ass. He kissed back just as desperately, moaning into my mouth, his legs wrapping around my waist to pull me deeper.
I pounded into him with steady, brutal thrusts, and he took every inch, his hole stretched wide around my girth, his body shaking with pleasure. When I finally pulled out, he whimpered at the loss.
"Turn over," I commanded. "On your hands and knees."
He scrambled to obey, presenting his ass to me, and I nearly came at the sight. His hole was red and swollen, gaping slightly from the pounding I'd given it. I lined up my cock and slammed back in, making him cry out.
"Fuck, your ass is incredible," I groaned, gripping his hips hard enough to leave bruises. "So tight, even after I've been stretching it. You were made for this, weren't you? Made to take cock."
"Your cock," Misha gasped, pushing back to meet my thrusts. "Only yours."
I fucked him hard and fast, watching my cock disappear into his hole over and over, watching his ass ripple with each impact. The sounds were obscene—wet slapping, his moans, my grunts, the creak of the bed. I reached around and grabbed his cock, stroking it in time with my thrusts, and he nearly sobbed with pleasure.
"I'm close," he whimpered. "Fuck, I'm so close."
"Not yet," I growled, releasing his cock. "You don't come until I say you can."
He made a sound of frustration but didn't argue. I pulled out and flipped him onto his back again, wanting to see his face when he came. I pushed his legs up toward his chest, folding him nearly in half, and drove back into his ass. This angle was even deeper, and I could see my cock bulging his stomach slightly with each thrust.
"Look at that," I said, pressing my hand against the bulge. "Look at how deep I am inside you. You can see my cock moving in your belly."
Misha looked down and moaned, his hole clenching around me. "So deep," he whimpered. "You're ruining me."
"Good," I growled, fucking him harder. "Want you to feel me for days. Want you to remember who fucked you like this."
"I will," he promised, his eyes locked on mine. "I'll never forget."
I could feel my orgasm building, my balls drawing up tight, but I wanted to make him come first. I reached between us and wrapped my hand around his cock, stroking it firmly. "Cum for me," I commanded. "Cum on my cock."
It only took a few strokes before he was crying out, his back arching off the bed, his hole clamping down on my cock like a vice. His cum shot out in thick ropes, painting his chest and stomach, some of it even reaching his face. The sight and sensation of his orgasm triggered mine.
"Fuck, I'm cumming," I groaned, slamming deep one last time. My cock pulsed and I felt the first massive spurt of cum flood his ass. Then another, and another, my balls emptying themselves deep inside him. It felt like I came for a full minute, pumping what felt like a gallon of cum into his tight hole.
When I finally pulled out, my cock was still hard enough to fuck, still leaking cum. I watched as my seed started to leak out of his gaping hole, and something primal in me demanded I mark him further. I stroked my cock a few times and the last four spurts of cum shot out, painting his ass and the backs of his thighs with thick white ropes.
"Fuck," I breathed, admiring my work. "You look good covered in my cum."
Misha smiled up at me, looking thoroughly debauched—his hair a mess, his face flushed, his body covered in sweat and cum. "You look good too," he said. "All powerful and dominant. Like a conquering hero."
I collapsed beside him on the bed, my heart still racing, my body covered in sweat. He immediately curled into my side, his head on my chest, and I found myself wrapping an arm around him. It was more intimate than the fucking had been, somehow, and alarm bells should have been ringing in my head.
They weren't. I was too sated, too relaxed, the post-orgasm endorphins flooding my system.
"That was incredible," Misha murmured, tracing patterns on my chest with one finger. "You're incredible."
"You're not so bad yourself," I admitted. "Where did you learn to take cock like that?"
He laughed softly. "I've had practice. But none of them were like you." He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at me. "You must be thirsty. Let me get you some water."
He slipped out of bed before I could respond, and I watched him walk to the mini-bar, admiring the view of his ass—still red from my attention, still leaking my cum. He was beautiful, there was no denying that. Dangerous, probably, but beautiful.
He returned with a glass of water and I took it gratefully, draining half of it in one go. The cool liquid felt good on my throat, which was dry from exertion and heavy breathing.
"Better?" Misha asked, settling back beside me.
"Much," I said, finishing the rest of the water. "Though I should probably—"
The words died in my throat as a wave of dizziness hit me. The room tilted slightly, and I blinked, trying to clear my vision. What the fuck?
"Should probably what?" Misha asked, and there was something different in his voice now. Something colder.
I tried to sit up but my limbs felt heavy, unresponsive. The glass slipped from my fingers and fell to the carpet with a dull thud. "What did you..." I couldn't finish the sentence. My tongue felt thick in my mouth.
Misha stood up and walked to the chair where someone—he, presumably—had left a silk robe. He wrapped it around his body with casual grace, then crossed to the desk where I'd left the USB drive. He picked it up, examining it in the light, then slipped it into the pocket of his robe.
"I'm sorry, Agent Wolfe," he said, and he actually did sound sorry. "You're very good at what you do. But so am I."
I tried to speak, to move, to do anything, but my body wasn't responding. The drug—whatever he'd put in the water—was working fast. My vision was starting to blur at the edges, darkness creeping in.
Misha walked back to the bed and looked down at me, and the expression on his face was almost fond. "For what it's worth, that really was incredible. Best fuck of my life." He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. "Sweet dreams, Agent Wolfe."
The last thing I saw before the darkness took me was his smile—beautiful and deadly and triumphant.