He started moving inside her and she bucked against his shaft. The friction had him hurling toward an orgasm, but he wanted to delay as long as he could.
“Fuuuuuck, Brit,” he groaned. “You feel so damn good.”
Again, she craned around. The intensity in her eyes had him pumping her harder while she urged him on. “Yes, like that. All the way to my end. Fuck me good.”
She was matching him thrust for thrust until she cried out, “Coming so hard.”
Her orgasm triggered his. The ecstasy stole his breath, the intensity of the release sent spasm after spasm of pure pleasure shooting through him.
When he finished, he stilled, still firmly rooted deep inside her.
“I gotta kiss you,” he said and slowly withdrew. He sat, his shaft still at full attention, and she sat in his lap, facing him.
He wrapped her in his arms, kissed her. “You rocked me good, mama.” He kissed her again. “How was the condom?”
“I don’t even know my own name,” she murmured. “Hell, you fuck good. The condom was great.”
Music floated down from the ceiling speakers.
“My GM’s here,” he said.
Mischief danced in her eyes. “Oooo, we’re about to get caught.”
His GM entered the room, stopped short. “Oh, boss, I’m sorry.” Kenneth did a one-eighty and bolted out.
Brit snickered while Rebel bit back a smile.
“Is that bad?” Brit asked.
“Bad? No. But it is a first,” he replied. “Did you like getting caught?”
She leaned close, gently moved his hair away from his ear, and pressed her mouth against his skin. “I loved it.”
After extracting herself from him, she pulled on her thong and slipped into her bra. With her pants in hand, she asked, “Are we done?”
“Hell, no.” He stood, tugged on his pants, grabbed everything else. “What time is your flight?”
“Six in the morning.”
“We’re just gettin’ started.”
3
THE KILL MISSION
Two months later, January
Britain
In the dead of night, Brit stopped at the back entrance of the building, her go-bag draped across her chest like a shield. A one-woman SWAT team in full gear, she’d dressed in black, her long hair hidden under a black knit cap, her face partially concealed by her hoodie. Protected by body armor, she wore black gloves and black combat boots. In her hand, she gripped her Glock.
She replaced her hoodie with a helmet, lowered its night goggles. The fire door was unlocked. She entered, her weapon at the ready.
One quick sweep of her surroundings confirmed she was alone.
Up the stairs she flew until she reached the rooftop. As she expected, the door leading outside was locked. After attaching her silencer, she shot out the lock—POP!—before hoofing it up that final flight. On the roof, she cleared the area.
Alone.
