Epilogue

Shaw

Root's heels click along the hardwood floor as she approaches me. I'm careful not to appear too interested. She likes to hold those kinds of things over my head. She sits down next to me, sideways on the couch, and folds one leg underneath her, the other stretching over my lap. I consider pushing her off, but I don't really want to.

"Well, today sucked," she declares.

"Something go wrong?" I check surreptitiously for signs of injury.

"No, just had to deal with idiots."

I snort a laugh. "They're all idiots, Root."

"Believe me, I know." She scratches at her head, bunching up her hair. "Morons, the lot of them." Her head falls sideways onto the back of the couch. "I'm just saying, these ones were especially dumb. And it made for a long-ass day."

"Sorry."

She pouts, reaching for me. "I'm so tense, baby. Wanna make it better?"

"No."

She isn't deterred. I have to work very hard to actually deter her, ever. I rarely try to. Her hands travel different directions, one burying in my hair, the other sliding under my shirt. My body reacts to her touch as immediately and intensely as it always does, but I give no outward reaction. Her lips start at my jaw and begin working downward.

"Please. I need you."

"What else is new?" I keep my voice unaffected, but with effort.

Her teeth meet my skin, a small nip, a warning. "Don't you need me, too?"

"No."

We both know I'm lying. I continue to put up the facade that this need isn't mutual, but I wouldn't be here if it wasn't. I still want her as much as I did when this first started. Six years in and it hasn't abated. I thought it would; it had to. Now I think it might not. This craving is as much a part of me as my lack of emotions is. I need Root like I need air, plain and simple.

Whatever it is, this thing, it works. I don't hate her the way I hate most people I meet, nor have I tired of her. And she doesn't care that I don't care, that I can't attach like other people do. We've come to an unspoken agreement that while neither of us is much for attachment, we like this thing. And apparently, we'll continue it, semi-attached and monogamous with each other, until one of us wants something different.

It's easier to not make promises. We don't lie to each other, but we don't talk about our feelings, either. More so, her feelings. We're just riding it out. But I see it in her eyes. Even if she doesn't say it, even if I don't ask her. She's in love with me. It's plain as day, every time she looks at me. And I don't even mind.

She bites down, hard, making me groan. That'll leave a mark. I love when she marks me. Half the time, I push her like this just so she gets a little rougher. She likes to remind me that she owns me, and I like when she gets domineering.

"Stop playing hard to get," she murmurs in my ear. "I wanna fuck you." Her hand starts on the button of my jeans.

"Oh, yeah?" I turn to meet her mouth. "Why didn't you just say so?"

I get away with the cheekiness, Root letting it fly with the entrance of my tongue into her mouth. She moans and shoves her hand down my pants. I learned to stop minding my body's responses to her. Stopped caring how wet I get when she touches me. We both play it cool when it suits us, but the game is up, eventually. Our bodies are too attuned to each other, too ready for that first touch, a connection that defies logic.

Root shoves me down onto the couch cushions, her movements growing a little more harried. Oh, she is feeling needy. She gets like this when someone pisses her off. I'm happy to let her take it out on me.

She strips off my jeans in seconds, forcefully spreading my thighs. I grow wetter at her rough hands, responding to the manhandling with a groan. A groan that becomes a gasp when her tongue enters my folds. Fuck, will this never get old?

She sucks at me hungrily, her hands bruising my thighs. I bite my lip and thrust against her mouth. She has gotten so good with that tongue, with playing my body; I never last long. Sometimes, if I really try, I can hold off a little longer than usual. But it's not like we ever stop at one, so I usually let her do whatever she wants and just enjoy the fall. Sure enough, she has me coming twice in under twenty minutes, both times swearing violently.

Root rises over me with a grin on her face, all traces of annoyance gone. "Mm, that was good." She licks her lips.

"I'm always good," I gasp.

She laughs and kisses me, some of the leftover wetness on her face smearing on mine. "Yeah, you are." She kisses me again. "Gonna shower. Heat up the oven for the lasagna, will ya?"

She's gone before I can respond. I linger there for a moment, half-naked with one foot on the floor, leaving me spread open on the couch and enjoying the afterglow. I consider joining her in the shower, but I have been thinking about that lasagna all day. Maybe if I hurry, I can snag a few minutes with her.

The thought of her naked and wet gets me moving. I hop on one foot into the kitchen, tugging my jeans on. I leave them unbuttoned. I'm so busy thinking about touching Root, gliding my hands over her skin, finding the moisture between her legs that has nothing to do with the shower, that it takes me two tries to get the oven going. I toss the lasagna onto the stove and rush down to the bathroom.

Our current apartment isn't big, unlike the luxury Root usually prefers when we go to a new place, but I still have to traverse a hallway to get to her. The only bathroom is off the main bedroom. Just as my hand reaches for the doorknob, I hear the shower shut off. I curse silently. Why so fast?

I debate for a moment. I could leave, pretend I wasn't coming in here looking for her. She'd like if if I did. But I picture her naked again and don't care. Maybe I can't have her in the shower, but I can still have her. I open the door in time to see her pull a towel into the stall with her. I smirk. Well, she won't be needing that.

I don't even strip my clothes off. I open the door and step in with her, pressing her back into the wall. "Sam." Her eyes twinkle at me. "What a nice surprise."

I tear the towel from her hands and expose her naked body. She drops her hands to either side, unashamed. Her skin is hot from the water, water droplets skimming over her breasts from her wet hair. I lick a line up her neck, gathering tap water on my tongue. She gasps, reaching for me. I kiss her eagerly, buzzing from my sudden arousal. She moans, sending me higher. I press her into the wall with my body, uncaring if my clothes get wet.

My hands, tight on her hips, start to travel up. She moans again, egging me on. We both love the way she gets off on a rough kneading of her breasts while I fuck her. As soon as I reach my destination, she arches into my hands, as eager as I am. I stop playing and squeeze her the way she likes.

"Mm, yes. More, Sam, more."

I swallow her words and pluck at her nipples, bringing them to attention. I drop my head briefly to leave her a few marks of my own, rolling her nipples over my tongue, but then I'm back at her mouth. I love the way she kisses me when I'm inside her. I leave one hand to play at her chest while the other finds it way between her legs. She is quick to spread for me, making sure I have the best access. I can't quite stop a groan from leaving my lips as I slide into her. She always feels so good. And she's soaking wet. She wanted this, too. From the moment she walked in the door, as she ate me out, growing wetter at making me come, she wanted this.

And I was always going to give it to her. We never can keep our hands to ourselves for long.

I slip another finger inside her, fingering her steadily as my free hand plucks harshly at her nipples. She gasps and groans into my mouth, her hips working against me. I pull back only when she's about to come, so I can watch her face. She forces her eyes to stay open, to stay on mine, while the onslaught of pleasure causes her to tense and rise up on her toes.

I finger her right through it, leaning in to kiss her again as she comes down. She moans into my mouth, a moan I know well. It's the sound of a well-satisfied lover, a happy Root. There is nothing like a few orgasms to turn her day around. Even after all this time together, I've never seen her hold a grudge. Against anyone or anything. She gets angry of course, sometimes reaching rages that rival mine. They just don't last. Especially when I work to bring her back down.

"Get dressed," I tell her as I back away. I leave her there, red-faced and breathless, closing the door behind me. In the bedroom, I strip off my wet clothes, keeping only my underwear on.

The oven is ready. I slip the lasagna in and set a timer. I'm reaching for a beer when I feel warm hands on my ass. "Root."

"Don't even say it. How am I supposed to keep my hands to myself when you walk around like this?" She sighs.

"It's called self-control," I snap.

"And I have none," she admits freely.

Not a newsflash. Actually, she's one of the most carefully controlled people I've ever met. She just doesn't try with me. The only limit she places on herself where I am concerned is those words she never speaks aloud.

I step back, right into her warm, clothed body, but don't linger. I only even look at her after I've flicked the top off the beer and taken my first sip. We walk around naked all the time, sometimes for convenience, sometimes to tease each other. In Thailand it was because of the heat. And it didn't even lead to a ton of sex, because that just made us hotter. Not that we were celibate while we were there, by any means.

Root ogles me shamelessly, smirking at me invitingly. I just take another swig. She didn't get dressed either. Not really, anyway. She's wearing only an old, ratty sweatshirt and no more. It's too big on her, but it's her favorite. It reaches mid-thigh, dwarfs her arms, slides off one shoulder, and completely obscures her figure. I want to shoot myself for how hot it makes me. Nothing about the picture in front of me is sexy, but every time she wears it, I want to throw her on the floor and make her scream.

I usually resist.

Her wet hair is up in a bun, tiny tendrils already trying to escape as it dries. If she leaves it up, curls will inevitably fall out, resting against her neck and framing her face. It's all very casual, the way we've become around each other now that we live together. And I still find it sexy.

"Who was the idiot?"

"A client," she replies. "He screwed up a bribe to some political wanna-be, nearly ruined everything, and then tried to blame me. I spent twenty minutes talking his ass down, another hour fixing his mistake, and then three more to set things back on track and wrap up."

"Sounds like you should charge his dumb ass double."

She smiles sweetly. "Oh, he'll pay double. When I take it out of his bank account later."

I smile back. She has a vengeful streak, one that has cost many an idiot before. I do so love seeing it come out. My finger flips the loose corner of the label on my beer back and forth as I observe her. I don't ask about most of her work. I don't care, and she doesn't tell me much. She doesn't ask about mine, either. Except if I come home bleeding. Most of the jobs I take aren't all that dangerous, and even if they are, I usually come out on top. Turns out, I have a dangerous side, too. But private security jobs mostly entail following rich people around while they work and travel, that's all.

We move often. She's still so careful, paranoid even. We both live under false identities, take jobs based on word of mouth only, and when we leave a place, she erases our presence from it. There is no trail to follow, no one to find.

I find living off the grid doesn't bother me. I don't form attachments to places any more than I do people. I still spend my days off wandering whatever city I'm in, going places that tourists usually don't or aren't supposed to. It's not uncommon for her and I to even be in different cities. We're not usually apart for more than a few days, but it happens. And the only thing that changes is the desperation when we're together again. But when we are together, even for long periods, it doesn't grow boring. Or stale. We rarely go a day without having sex and it's yet to be monotonous.

Root pours herself a glass of wine, pretending she isn't eyeing me, too. She checks the oven, grabs a couple of plates and forks. My mouth waters at the smells that follow her. And at the way the muscles in her legs clench as she reaches for dishes. The sweatshirt rides up, making me eye the hem like a horny teenage boy. Sadly, it stops well below the curve of her delicious ass. I'm looking away before she notices.

She shifts her glass on the counter, adding a fresh beer for me that she sets by my plate. She turns to me, stepping forward and planting a searing kiss on my lips. She likes to do that. Kiss me out of nowhere, like she's suddenly dying for it. I wrap one arm around her waist and snake my tongue into her mouth. She tastes of red wine and a lingering hint of me. I groan and hold her tighter. Yeah, haven't tired of this, either.

We fall so into making out that we're still doing it when the timer goes off. She can't keep the smile off her swollen lips anymore than she can help the flush in her cheeks or the shine in her eyes. I continue to enjoy my view of her ass, now bent over as she reaches into the oven. She shakes her head as she straightens. "Sorry, few more minutes."

"Whatever."

She refills her wine while we wait. The minutes pass in silence. The evenings we're home together often go like this. Long periods of silence, broken up with things like kissing, how-was-your-day's almost always in the form of my-level-of-stupid-beats-yours, maybe the news on the TV. Sometimes, when it takes too long, I bend her over the counter and fuck her until dinner is ready. She loves that.

We eat in silence, too. I drain another beer before she's ready to switch from wine to water. Now that her job is over, this is likely our last night in Prague. I'm not sure what's next, but I don't care. We've been all over the world, seen several dozens locations together. She likes tropical locations best; I like busy cities. I let her pick the apartment, despite our wildly different tastes, so long as she lets me pick the furniture. I've even let her talk me into the beach a few times, in exchange for some risky, semi-public sex. Admittedly, that last one isn't as hard to talk her into as the beach is for me. She loves risk in all parts of her life.

While Root is brushing her teeth, I empty my wallet and leave it next to my knife. My eyes always catch on that beautiful blade, shining dimly in the light. Root presented it to me a month after we left Turkey. An early birthday present. I wasn't surprised that she knew my birthday. I was surprised, in the way only she can bring out of me, when I unwrapped the very dagger that enticed me in the market on my first day in Istanbul. To this day, she still won't tell me how she got it. Or how she knew. I mean, she couldn't have. Not really. She wasn't there then, for the conversation with the old man. She wouldn't know how much I wanted to slip that knife into my boot that day.

But either she is the luckiest bitch on the planet, or she figured something out and went from there. I suspect a little of both. She's very good at finding things, almost as good as she is at finding people. It's still my favorite possession and goes with me everywhere, to Root's delight.

When on my second birthday she presented me with a Beretta BU 9 Nano, I spent the entire weekend showing her how much I loved it. I decided then that presents weren't such a bad thing after all. I'd never cared for them much. But I also warned her I would be no good at returning the favor. She just smiled and told me she didn't care. That as long as I was her travel-size fuck buddy, she was cool with being the giver.

I punished her for that one.

Every year, she surprises me. I've come to look forward to birthdays, for the first time in my life. She has yet to disappoint.

My birthday was three weeks ago. This year, she upped the ante.

What I opened that day was a file. It contained a resume, newspaper clippings, printouts of private emails and texts. All to one man.

I was so confused...until I connected the name. It was the psychiatrist who'd fired me. I furiously read through the papers, trying to understand what I was being told. In the last year, the man had been ruined. He'd cheated on his boards and gotten away with it for years, throughout several jobs. Until it suddenly came to light to his employers. What also came to light was his gambling problem, his drinking, his affairs, and last but not least, his regrettable decision to forge his boss' signature for a grant application to the hospital's psych ward.

I had looked up at her and asked simply, "Did you have something to do with all this?" She had nodded. I looked back down at everything in my lap. It was a lot. Evidence even the police probably didn't have. Texts with his now ex-wife, pictures of his cheating, including a brief liaison with one of his patients, bank records, everything. I could have spent days looking through it all, putting pieces together.

I chose to thank her first. Repeatedly. I read everything later, while she slept soundly next to me. It was absolutely fascinating.

The man who took everything I had is now jobless, homeless, penniless, divorced, and spending eight months in jail.

I fucking love this woman.