**CAITLIN**
I woke up to the sound of breathing that wasn't mine.
For a second, I forgot where I was. Then it hit me. Dominic. The bar. The best sex of my life.
I turned my head slowly. He was still asleep beside me, one arm thrown over his head, the sheet barely covering his waist. Even in sleep, he looked like trouble. The kind you walked straight into with your eyes wide open.
My body ached in all the right places. A satisfied ache. The kind that jolted me awake, a vivid reminder that I'd made a damn great choice last night.
I slipped out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake him yet. My legs were steadier than they were last night, thank goodness. I padded to the bathroom, caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair was a mess, my lips were swollen, and a faint hickey was forming on my collarbone where he'd sucked too hard.
I looked fucking fantastic.
Back in the bedroom, I grabbed my robe and headed to the kitchen. Coffee. I needed a strong coffee to recover from the absolute wildfire that was last night.
The coffee maker sputtered to life, filling my tiny apartment with the smell of cheap beans. I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, replaying last night in my head. The way he'd commanded me. The way I'd let him. The gun moment.
My gun was still in the drawer next to his.
I should probably move that before he wakes up. Or maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I wanted to see what he'd do when he realized we were both armed and standing in my kitchen in broad daylight.
"Morning."
I spun around. Dominic stood in the doorway of my bedroom, shirtless, his pants unbuttoned but on. His hair was messed up from sleep and sex, and he looked even better in the morning light than he had in the dim bar.
Fuck.
"Morning," I said, keeping my voice casual. "Coffee?"
"Please." He walked toward me, his movements unhurried, like he owned the space. He didn't. But he moved like he did.
I poured two cups of black coffee and handed him one. Our fingers brushed. Neither of us pulled away immediately.
"Sleep well?" I asked, taking a sip.
"Better than I have in weeks." He leaned against the counter opposite me, mirroring my posture.
"You?"
"Can't complain." I met his gaze over the rim of my cup. "Though I might need a day to recover."
His mouth curved into a slow, satisfied smirk. "Good."
We stood there in silence for a moment, drinking our coffee, sizing each other up in the morning light. It should have been awkward. It wasn't.
"So," I said, setting my cup down. "Are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?"
His expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his features. "Which one?"
"The fact that we both sleep with guns within arm's reach."
He went still. Not tense. Just still. Like a predator deciding whether to pounce or retreat.
Then he laughed. A real laugh, not the dark chuckle from last night. "You noticed."
"Hard not to when you're carrying enough firepower to start a small war."
"And you've got your own arsenal in that nightstand."
"A girl's got to protect herself."
His gaze sharpened with something that looked a lot like respect. "Smart."
"I try." I picked up my coffee again. "So. Are you going to tell me why a man with an expensive suit and a Russian accent needs to carry that much hardware to a bar on a Friday night?"
"Are you going to tell me why a woman who lives alone in this neighborhood keeps a loaded gun next to her bed?"
Touché.
"Protection," I said simply.
"Same."
We stared at each other. The air between us was charged, but not with sexual tension this time. This was something else. A mutual recognition. An understanding.
"You're not scared," he said finally. It wasn't a question.
"Should I be?"
"Most people would be."
"I'm not most people."
"No." His gaze traveled over me slowly, deliberately. "You're really not."
His phone rang, shattering the moment.
The shift in him was instant and absolute. The moment the sound hit, his body went still. Not startled, but reconfigured. The relaxed man drinking coffee in my kitchen vanished, replaced by something cold and lethal. He pulled the phone from his pocket, and his entire posture changed. Shoulders back. Jaw tight. Every muscle coiled.
He glanced at the screen and his expression went flat.
He answered in Russian, his voice sharp and clipped. "Да?" (Yes?)
I sipped my coffee and watched. I didn't understand the words, but I understood the tone. This wasn't a casual call. This was business. The dangerous kind.
"Сколько?" (How many?) His free hand curled into a fist. "Держите его там. Я буду через двадцать минут." (Keep him there. I'll be there in twenty minutes.)
He hung up and was already moving toward the bedroom before the phone left his ear. I followed, leaning against the doorframe as he grabbed his shirt.
He dressed fast. Efficient. A man used to getting ready in a hurry. No wasted movements.
He moved to the nightstand, opened the drawer, and his hand went straight to his gun. The shift in his focus was complete. Whatever warmth had been in his expression two minutes ago was gone. He was all business now, and that business looked deadly.
He tucked the weapon into his waistband and turned to me.
"I have to go," he said.
"I figured." I crossed my arms, keeping my tone light. "Sounded urgent."
"It is."
He finished buttoning his shirt, shrugged into his jacket. For a second, he just stood there, studying me like he was memorizing my face.
"Last night..." he started.
"Was exactly what it needed to be," I finished for him, giving him an easy out if he wanted it.
But he didn't take it.
"This doesn't feel finished," he said, his voice low.
I raised an eyebrow, a slow smile pulling at my lips. "It felt plenty finished to me. Twice."
His lips twisted into a shadowed, seductive grin, hinting at secrets and sins yet to unfold. He closed the distance between us in two strides, his hand sliding to the back of my neck. The kiss was hard, possessive, and way too short.
When he pulled back, I was breathless.
"I'll be seeing you, angel," he said. Not a question. A promise.
"You don't have my number."
"I don't need it." His thumb brushed my jaw. "I'll find you."
And then he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him, and I was alone in my apartment with cold coffee and a dozen unanswered questions.
I walked back to my bedroom and stood in the doorway, staring at the nightstand. My gun was still in the drawer, right where I'd left it.
I opened it, picked up the Glock, and checked it out of habit. Loaded. Safe.
I set it back down and smiled.
Last night wasn't a mistake. It was the beginning of something way more interesting than I'd planned.
And I was definitely going to see him again.
Whether I wanted to or not.