Page 16 of Jonesing for a Spy

all the deadly sins

Mirren

It’s just sex. It’s a physical release, a physiological act. It’s the same as running or rowing or swimming.

All thoughts of exercise leave me as my hair is swept off my shoulder and Strider’s mouth comes to my neck. He wraps one arm around my waist, his hand splays from panties to my sternum, and he pulls my back into his chest. His lips and tongue trail from below my ear toward my shoulder, brushing aside the fabric that hangs there.

“You’re fucking stunning, Mirren. Can you feel how much I want you?”

I’m tempted to slide a hand between us, even at this angle, in answer, but instead, I loop my hand behind me and around his neck, tugging him back to me. The move thrusts my breasts out, and my already-hard nipples lift.

“You’re trying to kill me, right? I’m tempted. Trust me. I’m tempted in every way.” His hand at my belly lifts to cup my breast, pinching my nipple and rolling it between his fingers.

The keening sound that comes from me is surprising. I’m mostly silent in the throes. It’s the hazard of rooming with so many people for so long. The silence of a one-woman operation never stopped me from getting there.

“You like that?” He twists where his fingers pinch before sliding a hand down my belly, stretching his pinky toward my panties.

“Yes.” I arch, trying to find his mouth while also grinding into his cock. My height isn’t helping.

His pinky slides back and forth under the lace and is eventually met one by one with the rest. But it’s when his middle finger slides down that he freezes. “You’re bare?” he growls near my ear.

“Look and see,” I dare.

He spins me around, capturing my mouth, and backing me up until my knees hit the bed. Before I can topple, his hands whip my shirt over my head and drop it behind me.

His eyes take me in. They’re not lazy. His gaze isn’t slow. It’s devouring. His pupils are dilated, his hands roam the air as if he can compel my body to move by sheer will, and he licks his lips.

“You are fucking perfect.” The words rasp from his lips as if pulled over gravel. “Now, baby, I’d like to taste you—no, feast on you—until you come, screaming my name.”

He gives me a playful shove, and I topple backward, dragging him with me. When he cages me between his elbows, looking down on me, his face goes serious. His lips hover over mine but deny me when I stretch for him.

Instead, he kisses my chin, his lips and tongue trace my neck to my collar bone and down between my breasts. One chaste kiss is placed at my heart before he slides down my body, his hands following where his mouth forged the path.

His warm mouth hits my center over my panties, the lace adding friction I desperately need. He gazes at me from the juncture of my thighs, and heat floods my core.

“Up.” It’s a command this time, and I obey, lifting my hips, pressing my center close to his face. If he’s going to demand, two can play at that game.

Rough fingers drag the lace too fucking slowly over my hipbones, down my thighs, and past my knees. But instead of them being tossed aside as I expect, he keeps them at my feet and ducks under, using them to hook my ankles around his neck.

With a wicked grin, he takes a long, slow deliberate lick from my entrance to my clit, and wastes no time teasing me.

He flicks.

He hums.

He sucks.

Fuck. “Oh. My. God.” I melt and incinerate at the same time. Every nerve ending stands at attention, waiting for more. “I— More.” The word is dragged from me like it was pulled from my toes.

The rumble of his chuckle vibrates through me as his breath blows on my center—hot and cold, push and pull, teasing and sating.

“Strider.” His name is a prayer on my lips. Yet he’s the one on his knees… and I’m the altar where he worships.

“Fuck, baby. Say my name like that again.”

Two fingers enter me as he lifts with— I don’t know. Does he have four arms? All I know is he’s everywhere. Lifting me to his mouth, sucking deep on my clit, teasing that spot deep inside me.

Writhing, I press my center closer to him, fighting for more, all the while not knowing what I can handle, if I can handle anything more. My fingers spear his hair and hold him to me.