I stand and, reaching behind my head, tug off my shirt. I walk forward to stand before her. She’s trembling, lust glazing her eyes.
I palm the arms of the chair and lean over her. “Everything I do, every single day, is a risk for you.” Then I kneel, cupping the back of her knee. With a forceful tug, I haul her farther down, her ass positioned at the edge of the seat.
Her sharp inhale sends a thrill right to my groin as I place atender kiss to her inner thigh. I travel up her skin, tongue dragging across the rising aesthetic chill, kissing and scraping my teeth, gentle touches.
“Is this a new form of torture?” she says, chest rising against her blouse.
I smile against her leg, reaching up to start working the bottom button of her top. I guide my hand beneath her skirt, settling at the apex between her thighs, as I drop a heated kiss to her exposed belly.
“I can be romantic,” I say, hooking a finger beneath the seat of her panties. She’s hot, aroused, drenching them. “I can make love to Lydia and fuck London at the same time.” I tug the thin material down to her knees, causing her to quake with a hard shiver.
Her hands go to my hair, fingers curling. Then I’m undoing each button, reverently opening her up to me as I kiss a heated path toward her chest. Her light pink satin bra is trimmed in black lace. That does something to me—the sight so innocent and sexy all at once.
A rough groan tears free. I’m straining against the zipper of my pants. Every roll of her hips and arch of her back drives me wild. Lydia doesn’t stand a goddamn chance. I sink both hands under her ass and prop her pelvis up, getting unfettered access as I bury my face between her thighs.
I suck her soft lips into my mouth, eliciting the sweetest moan as a tremor riots through her body.
Pulling back just enough, I say, “Whenever Lydia fights for control, think of me touching you just like this.”
“God, if we start, we’ll never stop. You have to let me go, Grayson.”
“Never,” I say, a near growl. “I got you right where I want you.”
A chime from the office. London’s phone. Her eyes open, the spell broken. “It’s him.”
12
DUET
LONDON
The chime crashes into our sacred space, and I tense, reality bleeding in through the cracks. I let the call go to voicemail, but the ringing starts again.
“Ignore it,” Grayson says, his tone dark, gravel. He’s doing everything in his power to persuade me as he licks the seam of my lips, fondles my clit, deepening the needy ache in my core.
“I can’t. I know it’s him.” I don’t have to say his name. The tension coiling Grayson’s shoulders makes it clear he knows it’s Agent Nelson. “If I don’t answer, he’ll send agents to my apartment and here, or he’ll come himself.”
With a rough grunt, Grayson releases me and pushes back.
This is difficult for him. Grayson doesn’t yield to intimidation, but he’s intelligent; he knows when to rein in his defiant nature.
I stand and hurriedly situate my clothes before I pad to the office. My bag is on the desk where I left it, and I dig out my phone. Nelson’s contact flashes on the screen.
I brace myself. “Agent Nelson,” I address him formally.
“London, how are you?” His voice is a little edgy, strained.
“I’m fine.” I’m as tempered as shatterproof glass, unbreakable—until I feel the charged current of Grayson drawing near. “Has there been a development?”
“What? No. Nothing like that,” he says. “I just haven’t heard from you since you got back to Bangor.” An expectant pause hangs between us, what he’s leaving unsaid. “I wanted to make sure that you’re all right. I had to pull Silks and Mahoney from your detail due to funding at the crime scenes in Rockland.”
“That’s all right, I understand. I really am okay. There’s no need to waste agency resources on me.” Grayson’s chest presses against my back, his hands tentatively settle on my hips. His deliberate eavesdropping is distracting.
“You’ve not a waste of resources. I want you to know that I’m dedicated to your safety—that it doesn’t come second to the agency, despite the politics.” When I don’t immediately respond, he adds, “Are you at home?”
“No,” Grayson whispers as his hand travels to the clasp of my skirt.
“I’m not,” I say, talking over the sound of Grayson lowering the zipper. The rough pads of his fingers trail in its cool wake, nearly stealing my voice. “I’ve stayed late at the office. I have a lot of things to catch up on.”
