Page 6 of The Writer
She opens the door but leans back in. “Where’s the fun in that?” She winks and gives me a sexy-looking grin. “It's the good girls that go to heaven. I'm not one of them.”
The door slams and I watch her walk quickly to the hotel. No glance back to me or my saviour status. God, that woman is a handful.
But one I’d like to know a little better.
Chapter Two
IVY
The second the hotel room door is closed behind me, I slump against it and slide to the floor. My arse hits with a thud, and I half lie down to deal with the overwhelming desire to throw up. I don’t know what I’ve just had to deal with but being rescued by a team of commandos was not on the agenda today. Having said that, they did their job well, and I am, thankfully, alive.
My breathing evens slowly until I’m staring around this room. King-size bed. Luxury to some degree, or as far as Kabul offers. It seems a world away from the stupidity I’ve just put myself through for a story. And, more fucking irritatingly, it’s a story I didn’t get. If I had a way of getting back in Asif’s face, I might slap him for daring to question my ethics. Spy? I’m not a spy. I’m a journalist, one who has zero tolerance for being called a mole, especially considering the arsehole that is General Kalif.
Frankly, I need a drink after this particular foray into journalistic endeavours, but that would mean going to the bar, and I can't be bothered. I should probably be slapping myself, as Blake, the hero, constantly reminded me. Putting myself into that sort of situationwasridiculous, but when the story is there, it’s dog eat dog. If you don’t get there first, someone else will, and I’ve lost too many jobs over the years because fear has got in the way of actual reporting.
I run the bath and wash the grime off my skin, and then sink under the foam to ease the tension out. It’s like I’ve been on high alert for the last however long. How long was it? Just overnight? A day? Two? I don’t know. And now I’m either buzzing or exhausted. I don’t know about that either. Jesus. All those guns. All those shots and dead men. I can’t process it.
In fact, I really do need a drink to deal with everything.
Either that or …
My fingers sink between my thighs, searching for something to get rid of the last shreds of concern continuing to ruin my mood. I’m alive. We made it out. And not only did we make it out, but having a hot guy lead the way out with his masculinity and anger on full display is giving me ideas.
I sigh as my hair tumbles into the hot bubbles, and I start stroking the places I know all too well. It doesn’t take long to wind me up, especially considering the visions of his gun strapped around his back and his long stride over rough ground. That man is all virility and aggression. Moody, deep-furrowed brow, veins in his hands every time he gripped his weapon.
The swirl of my fingers intensifies under the image of that alone, mind wondering what those same hands might feel like on me. Killer’s hands. Hands of a man that works decisively and shoots without thought. Or with it.
Good lord, that’s even hotter.
Groaning at the thought, I let the rush of an orgasm consume me, and hold the sensitive nub tightly to prolong the sensation. It goes on and on, and my body squirms under the torment of it until I let my head sink under the water.
Floating there, lost in a few minutes of calm and quiet, my thoughts flit around. There’s not much quiet or calm in my life. I’m always moving. Always jumping on another flight somewhere to stay in some other nondescript hotel. But that’s what I’ve chosen to do. In fact, it’s what I love doing. No attachments. No commitments. The only thing that makes me check back in—makes me consider London and life there—is family.
My head breaks the water, and I gasp in air, standing straight afterwards to get out. I’m done with bathing. I need a drink before I start thinking about family drama and all that comes with that topic. At least Landon and Seffi are speaking now. I know because she called me to tell me the moment he'd left. Actually, she was secretive about something, now I'm thinking about it. Giggling. Unusual for her. She normally tells me everything. Either way, she was happy, and so was he, apparently. I suppose that's helpful, but this mystery of who the author was needs dealing with. And, as Landon said, what is Father hiding? It’s been on my mind lately as much as it clearly has his.
The shrill sound of the room phone interrupts my musings, and I grab a towel and walk out into the main bedroom. Picking it up, I perch it between my shoulder and ear and start towelling off my hair, attempting to stifle a yawn.
“Hello?”
“Ivy?”
Oooh. Blake, the hero. “Yes.”
“Still safe then.”
“Yes.”
“Right.”
I smile and chuck the towel on the bed, moving to lie on it.
“I was just checking in.”
Was he? How kind. I stay silent and imagine him like me, fresh from a shower with nothing on his body. Dark, wet hair all messed up and rivulets of water dripping down to his …
“I was wondering if you wanted to meet up later.”
“Why?”
