THE PROFESSOR'S DIRTY CLAIM
Claim.
When he breaks away, he’s breathing rough.
“Safehouse has a bedroom. Back corner. Shower. Bed. We have three hours before the secondary team moves on the HiAce. Use them.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re shot.”
“I’m alive.” His good hand slides down my back, cups my ass. Squeezes. “And I need to feel you. Need to know you’re still mine.”
I don’t argue.
The bedroom is spartan, cot, thin mattress, single bulb, small attached bathroom. No windows. No cameras, I check.