Page 172 of Whisper
Or maybe head out for the night. Mike wouldn’t be up for tagging along. He was playing house and settling in with Tom.Finally, Mike had found a good man, and if Tom knew what was good for him, he’d keep Mike happy. The trial of the century was over and done with, Tom had come out on his own, and his best friend, Mike, was happy. Things were looking up, for some, at least.
His skin prickled, a heavy weight, like someone was staring at him. People often stared. Being the CIA’s pariah came with that side effect.
But this was something different.
Kris caught the gaze of one the younger Marines. All baby-blue eyes, fresh buzz cut, and an earnest little vibe. He flushed when he saw Kris had caught him, but didn’t look away. His gaze slid down Kris’s body.
Maybe he’d soothe that itch right here, right now.
Kris winked at the Marine and settled back, pretending to sleep. The pilot gave his preflight announcement, calling out the twelve-hour flight time back to DC. Cheers rose from the freed CIA officers. The rest of the team, US Marines and SAD officers, started drifting to sleep soon after the plane lifted off.
He waited, until most everyone was snoring and only a handful were reading by the dim light of the plane’s overheads. Standing, Kris caught the gaze of the young Marine again. He smirked. Dipped his head to the back of the plane.
Kris stepped into the jet’s bathroom—a significant step up from commercial airliners, with enough room to actually move—and waited, door propped open with his boot.
Thirty seconds later, the Marine appeared. He hesitated.
Kris reached for his fly. “You know what to do,” he purred. “Get in here.”
The Marine rushed in, dropping to his knees. As Kris slid the lock closed, a warm pair of lips closed around him. He tipped his head back. Groaned. “Harder.”
Andrews Air Force Base
Maryland
September 7
1100 hours
Kris downed a double vodka and dropped off into a long, post-orgasm nap for the rest of the flight. He didn’t wake until they were already on the ground, already taxiing to the CIA’s hangar.
Kris waited while the rest of the team deplaned, stretching and grabbing their gear and shuffling toward the ramp. The returning CIA officers were welcomed like heroes, their families rushing to meet them. Director Edwards was there, even. He shook the hands of every Marine, every SAD officer.
Except for Kris.
Kris threw his duffel over his shoulder and walked in the opposite direction, toward the hangar and his parked SUV. The director liked to pretend Kris didn’t exist, and Kris felt exactly the same.
“Hey! Uh, wait up a sec.” Footsteps pounded the pavement behind Kris. He stopped, sighing. He didn’t turn around.
“Uhh, hey man.” The Marine came around his side, a flush on his plump cheeks and a bashful grin stretching his lips. “I was wonderin’... could I hit you up sometime? Maybe we could hook up?”
Kris slid his sunglasses on and smirked. “Sorry, kid. Forget you ever met me.”
He left the kid to pick his jaw up off the ground while his unit hollered for him to come back and catch up. A moment later, the Marine raced away.
Kris climbed into his SUV. Watched as the rest of the officers laughed and smiled, welcomed home their colleagues from Moscow. Stood in the sun and were friendly. Happy.
Exhaling, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes.Push it all away.
A minute later, he started the engine and drove away, heading for Langley. The drive was simple, the traffic light for a change. He badged in at the gate, ignoring the glare from the gate guard as he stared him down with his aviators low on his nose.
In the political hierarchy of the CIA’s parking lots, he’d been relegated to the farthest one. Whatever. He took his time walking in, sauntering with his duffel over his shoulder, slowly smoking a cigarette as he passed by George and Ryan and Dan’s parking spots before he stomped it out in front of Director Edwards’s space.
He dropped his gear in his cube—the farthest in the SAD cubicle farm—and typed up his short after-action report. The rest of the guys were bullshitting over coffee in the break room and planning a beer run at the local bar.
He, of course, wasn’t invited.
He checked his email—reminders about security procedures, range-time information, and a monthly CIA picnic next week—before shutting down his computer. Time to head out. Kris gave the rest of his team a princess wave as he passed by. They glared at him, their conversation going silent.
