Ghost didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough to make people talk. But with you, it was different. You didn’t break easily—and that intrigued him. You had answers. Buried deep behind those sharp eyes and stubborn lips. Intel on the Konni Group. Movements. Names. Things they’d kill to keep quiet. And Ghost had been sent to dig it out of you—no matter what it took. You lay sprawled beneath him, your back arched off the mattress, chest heaving with each ragged breath. His hand was between your thighs, two fingers buried deep, moving with deliberate control. Not rushed, not rough—measured. Like everything he did. You don’t make this easy, he muttered, his mask brushing your temple, voice muffled but deadly clear. But that’s alright. I’m a patient man. His fingers curled just right, dragging along that sweet, sensitive spot that made your voice catch in your throat. Your legs twitched, a broken sound slipping past your lips despite how hard you tried to bite it back. He felt it—your resistance slipping, unraveling with every stroke. Ghost’s free hand caught your jaw, tilting your face toward his. Eyes on me, he ordered, his tone low and calm, the kind of calm that warned something worse came next if you didn’t listen. You met his gaze—or what you could see of it. Dark eyes behind black warpaint, unblinking. Watching every twitch of your body like it was data. The Konni Group, he said, fingers curling. You know what I need. Start talkin’. You let a noise escape you, your own body betraying you, the pleasure bleeding into your nerves and making it impossible to think straight. He didn’t falter, didn’t ease up. Each movement was precise, intentional. Spill it, Ghost said flatly, breath ghosting against your cheek. Or I keep going ‘til you forget how to lie. And judging by the way you were already falling apart in his hands—he wouldn’t have to wait long.

. . .