Page 39 of Jonesing for a Spy

Waking to sun on my eyelids, I jolt on a start. A warm arm rests heavy on my waist, audible breathing ruffles the hair on my neck, and at my ass, there’s a hot, steel rod. That arm pulls me deep into a wall of chest.

“Good morning.” The raspy words dance along my neck and make my hair everywhere stand on end.

“Morning.” I wiggle in deeper, only to be met with a groan.

I’ve never been a snuggler. I don’t need to be held. I don’t generally want to be contained. Yet, this place is the safest I’ve ever felt. Not awake and strapped with a gun. Not alone. But right here, right now, in Strider’s arms on a sunny fall morning in Alabama.

“Did you sleep well?” I ask.

His low, melodic voice hits me as his nose caresses my ear lobe. “If I say I’ve never slept better, will I scare you away?”

Maybe. Normally yes. “No.” I whisper my next words, “And that scares me.”

“How did you sleep?” His words rumble along my skin.

“I don’t think I moved, and that’s not like me. I’m a more… active sleeper.”

He hums Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting quietly, and I shake with laughter, pushing my ass into his cock.

“You keep that up…” he starts. A quick nip to my earlobe is followed by a flick of his tongue.

“You think I make threats I can’t back up, Anderson? I thought you’d figured me out. Maybe I should show you⁠—”

I never finish. A palm wraps around my throat, his thumb resting on my bruised pulse point, stroking. “Do you always wake up feisty?”

“I can if this is what I get out of it.” I lift a hand to hold his wrist but make no attempt to pull him away.

“What do you want, Freckles? You want it slow and long until you beg me to come? Or do you want it fast and rough?”

“You choose. But I won’t beg, no matter how good it is or how long it takes.”

“If I didn’t know better”—light pressure hits my jugular—“I’d say you just dared me to make you see stars.”

“I mean, if you’re up to the challenge. It’s not like you got to eat your Wheaties this morning.”

A growl meets my ears as my top knee is butterflied open by his. The hair on his leg is abrasive and scratchy. I’m open, exposed, and trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey.

“I know what I want to eat.” The head of his cock slides through my folds, bumping my clit with just enough pressure to make me moan.

“Strider.”

“Keep saying my name like that, baby. Tell me… Are you wet for me?”

Why must I always be the vulnerable one? And no, not after two strokes. That would be… awkward. Removing one hand from his at my throat, I reach between my legs and finger my clit, taking time to stroke him as he slides through my wetness.

I position him at my entrance, and he notches his cock inside me, finding me, stretching me…

… And withholding from me.

17

potato sack

Mirren

Holding my tongue isn’t my strength. Hell, I don’t even want it to be. But with all the discipline I have, I say nothing.

I wait.