He didn’t mind getting his hands dirty—especially when it came to the Konni Group.

They’d been slipping through Task Force 141’s fingers for too long, moving in shadows, leaving just enough chaos behind to stay relevant and untouchable. But Soap wasn’t the kind to let things lie. He got answers—one way or another.

And you? You knew something. Enough to make him suspicious. Enough to make him come find you in the middle of the night, his jaw tight, eyes narrowed with that look you knew all too well.

You were stubborn, though. Slick with secrets and a sharp tongue to match. But Soap had a way of loosening both.

You lay across his lap, your back against his chest, one of his arms banded around your waist to keep you still while the other worked its way between your legs. His fingers moved slow at first—testing, teasing—until he found the spot that made your breath catch and hips twitch.

“Not so quiet now, are you?” he murmured against your ear, voice low and rough with intent.

Each movement of his fingers pulled a sound from you, breathy and unwilling, and you hated how easily he read your body, how easy it was to give in when you should’ve held your ground. He angled his hand just right, curling his fingers with deadly precision—trained hands, after all—and your thighs clenched around his wrist.

His grip on your waist tightened.

“Konni,” he said, voice a rasp. “Tell me what they’re plannin’. Don’t make me drag it outta you.”

Your lips parted in a stifled sound, head lolling against his shoulder, brain fogged with heat and conflict. He turned your face toward him, fingers curling under your chin to hold your gaze steady.

“Spill it,” he growled, eyes dark with demand, his fingers never missing a beat. “Now.”