Page 6 of Ravens
Hands slide back up, squeezing my bare breasts before one grabs my throat. Teeth dig into my shoulder and then tug at my jaw, and I can feel his gaze on my face as he thrusts into me. My mouth pops open silently, breath stilling in my chest as he fills me.
“That’s good.” His mouth drags over my cheek, lips catching on my skin as it reaches my ear. “I’ve been picturing spreading you since I walked into this room.”
Half-clothed and fisting the dress about my waist to hold me in place, he thrusts powerfully, wringing little cries out of me between gasps of air. This is exactly what I wanted it to be—impersonal and rough, scratching an itch.
Knives of intense pleasure lash at me with each thrust, and I can’t subdue the shudder building deep down. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of watching me unravel like this so soon, but at the same time, I badly want to finish. It isn’t for him—it’s for me, and I’ve never needed something sodesperately.
My hands slide down the wall as the tension gathers low, and I moan. He grabs the back of my neck and pushes me down, my hands slapping the desk beneath my face before I hit it.
“You like that, don’t you?” He squeezes my nape, and I push into him harder. “Mm, of course you do.” His hand grips the back of my hair, and he slams into me.
I submit to the overwhelming electricity and tension gathering. When it breaks, he pulls my head back as it racks my body, and I moan loudly. He curses, groaning as he finishes with the same intensity he started with.
The strain from his grip on my hair disappears and I let my forehead fall to the desk while I take a few deep but hurried breaths.
It’s funny how you can begin a moment wanting something so badly nothing else matters, but once the moment passes, you wonder what the fuck is wrong with you.
I shouldn’t have done this.
I press up off the desk when he steps away and pull my hem down before sliding the straps back up my arms. There is no salvaging my fucking dignity after that wanton display, but I try anyway, strutting to the bathroom without giving him a second look.
Three
The self-loathing mostly wore off by the time I got out of the shower, but sitting on the bed watching him in just a towel makes me admonish myself again. The light dusting of hair across the top of his defined chest keeps drawing my eyes, so I force myself to focus on his hands.
He goes through his case, precisely organizing things on the desk as he pulls them out and mentally inventories. I know the look; I do that too. From the way he dresses and presents himself to the things he says and how he handles his weapons . . . he’s meticulous.
I pull a pillow across my lap as I sit against the headboard in a nightshirt and wonder what’s next. Essentially, I am at his disposal. My task is to meet the needs of this mission and to follow his lead, picking up whatever crumbs I can in the process, but he’s told me nothing so far.
I start massaging the spot between myeyes.
This guy intimidates me, and while I may appear to be intimidated on a job frequently, I rarely am. So, this makes me a bit paranoid. Usually an operative comes, we meet, we complete a mission, and they leave. When missions are high-stakes or incredibly sensitive, I generally don’t garner too much attention from an agent and fall to the periphery, which is where I prefer to be, honestly. But I had a green light to kill this man, and he is paying me far more attention than I’m accustomed to. I’ve still learned nothing about the mission or what he needs from me, and the unease of that is sinking in.
With everything now laid out on the desk, he picks up the unfinished whiskey from earlier and downs it.
He catches me looking at him and raises an eyebrow in question. The corner of my mouth twitches up in reply, but it’s fake. Beneath the pillow in my lap, I pause wringing my fingers. I wish he would just tell me what he needs me to do, so I can turn my focus back on the mission.
Moving to the bed, he pulls a garment bag from his suitcase and hangs it up. Shit, is something happening tonight? Do I need to get ready again?
It doesn’t seem like he’s in a rush though . . .
This isn’t the first time he’s worked with a partner, and based on what he said over dinner, he’s worked with one of us from Raven before. Maybe when it comes to female counterparts, he always gets involved. Maybe it’s just his way. And maybe I’m just overthinking this too much because from the expression on his face, he hasn’t given me a second thought.
When he moves back to the bar to pour another drink, I note it. That’s four or five drinks in less than two hours. If we get up to something tonight, he’s going to be compromised.
“I think it’s time we had a real conversation,” he says with his back to me.
Four
Pulling out the chair at the desk where his gear is laid out, he sits and lets his knees fall open. It’s tempting to let my eyes drift down to the towel, but I keep them on his face as he sips his drink.
The day is starting to feel heavy. Between the traveling, the anxiety he’s giving me, and the mental beating I’ve been giving myself, I’m about ready to sleep, but this conversation needs to happen, and if I have to go out tonight, I’m going to have to suck it up and find the energy anyway.
“What do you know about the operation?” he asks, loading bullets into a clip.
“Nothing,” I admit, frowning. “All I was told is that you needed someone to pose as your wife.”
“Ah,” he says with some amusement and finishes loading the bullets.
