Lust Sync: Every Woman Wants Me Now-Chapter 46: Rain and Sweat

The room smelled like rain and sweat.

Charles leaned back on the leather couch in the penthouse suite, still shirtless, the marks from Olivia’s nails raked across his chest like battle scars earned in a war of passion. The city lights outside flickered through the tall glass windows, casting shadows that danced across the tangled sheets and discarded clothes scattered like evidence of their reckless abandon. Twenty-three floors below, New York pulsed with its usual midnight rhythm—sirens, car horns, the distant thrum of life that never slept.

Across from him, Olivia sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, wearing nothing but one of his white shirts. The cotton fell just below her thighs, exposing the smooth curve of her calves. Her auburn hair was a mess, wild and tangled from their hours together, her cheeks flushed pink from exertion and desire. But her eyes—they weren’t just lust-filled anymore. They were calculating. Distant. Like she was solving a puzzle he couldn’t see.

"You’ve been quiet," Charles said, watching her from beneath lowered lids. His voice carried the lazy satisfaction of a man who’d gotten exactly what he wanted, but underneath ran a current of wariness. In his line of work, silence after intimacy usually meant trouble.

She didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she got up and walked to the minibar, her bare feet silent on the marble. Each step was deliberate, controlled—the walk of someone who’d been trained to move without making a sound. She poured herself a drink—vodka, straight, no ice—and downed it in one long gulp that would have burned the throat of anyone not accustomed to drowning their nerves.

Charles tilted his head, studying her profile. The way she held herself, the tension in her shoulders, the slight tremor in her hands as she set down the glass. "Trouble in paradise?"

She turned, eyes locking with his. In the dim light, her green irises looked almost black. "Do you trust me, Charles?"

That caught him off guard. Trust was a luxury he couldn’t afford, a weakness that got people killed. "Depends. Are you about to stab me or kiss me?"

She didn’t smile. The joke fell flat in the space between them. "What if I told you I used to work for someone dangerous? Someone who still wants you dead?"

The room tensed like a pulled wire ready to snap.

Charles’s body remained relaxed—years of training had taught him to never show his hand—but inside, every instinct sharpened to a razor’s edge. His mind immediately catalogued escape routes, weapons within reach, the distance between them.

"Who?"

Olivia stepped closer, barefoot steps deliberate, seductive—but there was fear behind her stride now, a barely contained panic that made her movements jerky. "His name is Mikhail Volkov. Eastern syndicate. Russian mob with connections that reach into every major city from Moscow to Miami. I was embedded in their operations for three years. Deep cover. I was supposed to get close to you. Seduce you. Learn your routines, your weaknesses."

Charles’s jaw tightened. "You did."

She gave a bitter smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "It worked too well."

He stood up now, the casual post-coital atmosphere evaporating like morning mist. The tension wrapped around him like armor, his body shifting into the predatory stance that had kept him alive through a dozen close calls. "Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because they know I’ve gone dark. That I stopped reporting in. Mikhail’s sending someone—tonight." Her voice cracked on the last word. "He doesn’t forgive betrayal. Ever."

That’s when the lights flickered.

Just for a second, but Charles caught it. His hand moved instinctively toward the couch cushions.

Charles grabbed her wrist and yanked her behind him. In one fluid motion, he pulled the handgun from beneath the couch cushions—a Glock 19, loaded, safety off. "You sure it’s not you I should be worried about?"

"If I wanted you dead, you’d be bleeding by now," she shot back, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Heavy boots, military precision, at least three sets. They weren’t trying to be quiet anymore.

Then—silence.

The kind of silence that meant professionals were getting into position.

Charles’s phone buzzed against the coffee table. A single text from Lila, his handler, his lifeline to the organization that had made him what he was.

> You’ve been compromised. They’re inside already. Kill switch activated. Get out now.

The blood in his veins turned to ice.

Then the power died completely.

Emergency lighting kicked in, bathing everything in hellish red. Charles cursed under his breath, eyes adjusting to the darkness. He dragged Olivia behind the kitchen island just as glass shattered from the balcony—the sound of reinforced windows giving way to shaped charges.

A black-clad figure rolled into the room, silenced pistol drawn, night vision goggles reflecting the emergency lights like demon eyes. Professional. Military trained. Spetsnaz, maybe, or one of Mikhail’s private contractors.

Charles didn’t hesitate.

He fired twice.

The figure dodged the first shot with inhuman speed, but the second clipped their arm, sending them stumbling behind the dining table. Blood smeared the marble in a dark arc, but they didn’t cry out. Didn’t even grunt.

More were coming. Charles could hear them—the soft whisper of rappelling gear, the barely audible hiss of gas canisters being deployed.

"Safe room," Olivia said, her voice tight with panic. "Behind the bookshelf in the study."

"Go."

They ran.

Behind the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf in the study, Charles found the panel and slammed his hand down on the biometric scanner. The shelf slid aside with a mechanical whisper, revealing a narrow passage lined with steel. CIA standard, military grade, designed to withstand anything short of a direct missile strike.

Just as they slipped inside, another shot rang out—grazing Charles’s shoulder, tearing through muscle and sending fire down his arm.

He bit back a curse, tasting blood on his tongue.

The door sealed behind them with a pneumatic hiss.

Inside, blue emergency lights lit the steel-walled panic room. A terminal sat at the center, connected to the building’s security system and a direct line to Langley. Monitors showed feeds from cameras throughout the penthouse—or what was left of them.

Olivia looked pale, shaken, her auburn hair falling across her face like a curtain. "I didn’t know they’d move this fast. Mikhail usually takes his time, makes it personal."

Charles grunted, pulling off his shirt and pressing it to the bleeding wound. The cotton turned red almost immediately. "Welcome to my life, sweetheart."

He sat on the bench, staring at her with eyes that had seen too much death to be surprised by betrayal.

"So what now, spy-girl? You play double agent until I’m dead? Or was this all part of the plan?"

"No," she said, voice trembling with something that might have been genuine regret. "I want to flip them. Use what I know to destroy them. Mikhail, his operation, everything."

Charles laughed—dry, bitter, the sound of a man who’d heard too many lies. "You think I’m running an orphanage? This isn’t a redemption tour. This is survival."

"I have files. Names. Bank accounts. Security codes. You want leverage? I have enough to cripple half the syndicate’s European network. Their money laundering operations in Switzerland, their arms deals in Prague, their human trafficking routes through the Balkans."

That caught his attention.

He leaned forward, ignoring the fire in his shoulder. "You’re serious."

She nodded, her green eyes bright with desperation. "But they’ll kill me if they find me. Slow. Painful. Mikhail has a reputation for creativity when it comes to punishment."

"That makes two of us."

He looked at her for a long beat, weighing options, calculating odds. Then—

"Strip."

"What?"

Charles stood, eyes burning with cold fire. "They might’ve tagged you. Mic’d you. If you’re serious about this, you prove it. Strip."

Her breath caught, but she obeyed.

Slowly.

One button at a time, the white shirt slid down her arms like silk. She stepped out of it, naked in the cold steel room. Vulnerable, but defiant—chin raised, eyes challenging him even as she exposed herself completely.

Charles circled her, checking her ears, collarbone, beneath her hair. Professional. Clinical. His fingers traced along her spine, searching for the telltale bump of a subcutaneous transmitter. Then he knelt, brushing fingers along her inner thighs, checking for anything that didn’t belong.

"No wires," he murmured, voice low and rough. "No trackers."

"But damn..."

Olivia’s breath hitched as his lips brushed her stomach, his hands settling on her hips. "You’re still trying to distract me," she said.

He grinned up at her, the expression predatory and hungry. "Always."

And just like that, the tension shifted.

She sank onto his lap, her legs straddling his waist.

Their mouths met—urgent, hot, messy. Teeth and tongues and desperate need that had nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with the adrenaline of survival. His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh as she rocked against him, moaning softly, nails digging into his back as he pinned her against the wall.

For a moment, they forgot everything—forgot Mikhail, the hit squad, the lies between them. Forgot that they were trapped in a steel box while killers prowled outside.

There was only heat. Skin. Breaths that melted into each other.

And then—

The wall panel behind them buzzed.

A screen lit up with a security feed: the penthouse in flames. Furniture overturned, walls scorched black, smoke pouring from the wreckage. A distorted voice came through the speakers, electronically altered but unmistakably Russian.

> "You betrayed me, Olivia. Now watch him burn."

Her face went white as bone.

Charles stood, eyes narrowing to slits. "That voice. Mikhail?"

She nodded, heart pounding so hard he could see her pulse in her throat. "He traced the safe room. He’s inside the building’s security system."

He slammed a fist against the console, the impact echoing through the small space. "Then it’s not safe anymore."

A loud BOOM echoed above them, followed by the groan of stressed metal.

Dust fell from the ceiling in a fine shower.

The whole building trembled like a living thing in pain.

"We need to move. Now."

Charles accessed the emergency tunnel routes on the console. Most showed red—blocked or compromised. One still showed clear, a narrow green line leading to the basement garage.

"Down the maintenance chute. It leads to the basement garage. There’s a car waiting—armored, fueled, weapons in the trunk."

They dressed in a rush—Charles tossing her a spare hoodie from the emergency supplies, pulling on black jeans, and strapping on the pistol holster. Two extra magazines, a knife, and a small explosive device that would turn the safe room into a crater if things went completely south.

She paused before the hatch, her hand trembling on the wheel lock.

"What if we don’t make it?"

He grabbed her chin, kissed her hard—a claiming, a promise, a goodbye all wrapped into one desperate moment.

"Then we take as many of them with us as we can."

She smiled, fierce and beautiful even in the hellish red light. "Now that’s romantic."

They dropped into the darkness.

Down the ladder, through the tight maintenance shaft that reeked of oil and copper pipes. The space was barely wide enough for Charles’s shoulders, and he could hear Olivia’s breathing behind him, quick and shallow with claustrophobia.

Just as they reached the final hatch—

It opened from the outside.

And a figure stood waiting.

Gun aimed. Face familiar.

"Lila," Charles whispered.

But she didn’t lower the weapon. Her usually perfect blonde hair was disheveled, her agency-issued suit torn and bloody. Her blue eyes, normally cold and professional, now blazed with something that looked like madness.

"You were compromised, Charles. HQ gave the kill order. Both of you."

Olivia’s breath caught. "Wait—"

"Shut up!" Lila snapped, her voice cracking with emotion. "She led them here. She played you. And you fell for it like some rookie fresh out of training."

"She warned me," Charles growled, his hand moving slowly toward his weapon.

Lila’s eyes were glassy with rage and something else—betrayal, jealousy, the poison of unrequited feelings. "You slept with her, didn’t you? I can smell her on you."

"This isn’t about that," he said, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were a lie.

The silence between them said otherwise.

Lila’s lips trembled, her professional mask finally cracking. "I was loyal to you. I killed for you. I lied to my own agency, covered for you when you went off mission. And you throw it all away for her?"

Charles took a slow step forward, his voice gentle despite the gun pointed at his chest. "Lila, put the gun down. We can work this out."

But her hand was shaking.

Her finger tightened on the trigger.

And just before the shot rang out—

The floor exploded beneath them.

Charles felt the world tilt, felt the concrete and steel give way like paper. Heat washed over him, searing and bright, and he heard Olivia scream his name as debris rained down like hail.

He reached for her, fingers barely brushing hers before the explosion tore them apart.

And everything went white.

When the ringing in his ears faded, Charles found himself buried under rubble, tasting blood and concrete dust. He could hear voices—Russian accents, Mikhail’s men picking through the wreckage.

"Find them," a voice commanded. "Bring me the woman alive. The man... optional."

Charles tried to move, felt something sharp pierce his side. His vision blurred, consciousness slipping away like sand through his fingers.

But just before the darkness took him, he heard something that made his blood freeze.

Lila’s voice, clear and strong: "Package secured. Target eliminated. Awaiting extraction."

She was working with them. Had been all along.

And somewhere in the rubble, Olivia was screaming.