Page 74 of Jonesing for a Spy

He shrugged. “No clue. Van Morrison though?”

“All. The. Time,” I offered, emphasizing every word. “Day before yesterday in fact.”

“Was it a good Thanksgiving for everybody?”

“I think so. It was drama. It’s always drama. Five boys can’t be anything but. But, yeah, it was good. I hate that you were alone, though.” I pulled him to a stop in front of me and gazed up into his face.

“It wasn’t ideal, but it was just another day. Besides, I was free to listen to the Jones’ play-by-play which was entertaining for sure.”

“That’s one word for it.”

We wandered a bit more and finally found ourselves back out on the street in the brisk fall air. The sun was hiding behind a stray cloud, and the city was cast in silver.

We had a late lunch and walked hand-in-hand, sometimes talking about deep things, sometimes saying nothing at all. His thumb stroked the outside of my hand as if he couldn’t touch me enough.

When we reached the corner near the main hotel entrance, he turned me to face him. “Want to keep going?”

I shook my head. No. I’d had enough of the people and the inability to touch him the way I wanted. His light hand on my back when we had to walk single file. His thumb brushing the apple of my cheek or caressing my hand.

He’d spent the day warming me up, priming me, and now I’m ready to combust.

Pressing up to my toes and wrapping an arm around his neck softly, I whisper gruffly in his ear, “Let’s go inside. I want to taste you.”

When he pulls back to face me, his pupils are blown wide in those ice blue irises. I don’t have to be a medic to recognize the heat of desire, the longing in his gaze. He simply nods and turns us toward the hotel lobby and through it to the elevators.

The energy inside me vibrates but has no way to escape. It sizzles along my skin and dances along my scalp.

By the time the elevator dings on our floor, it’s as if I need to open my mouth to release a swarm of bees. The humming is too much, too loud, too overwhelming. I yank the neck of my collar and shed my coat, hoping to relieve the building tension.

His hand low on my back torments me. His growly word in my ear is torture. “Freckles?”

I rush to the door as if that will offer me relief only to wait as he saunters my way with the key. “Antsy, baby?”

Slicing my eyes at him, I growl. Why in the world am I putty around this man at all times? And why, when he’s gone, am I a dried-up mess? This cannot be good for me.

He pushes the door open and steps aside with a grin. If I’m not mistaken, he even chuckles as he follows me in. Grrr.

Strider

Mirren was cool as a cucumber earlier. Her happy, go-lucky self with big smiles, and even easier laughs displaced the cautious version of her that arrived from Mobile.

She started rubbing her thighs together in the elevator and shifting from foot to foot. But now, that mellow, easy-going woman is history. She drops her coat on the chair and steps out of her shoes on the way to the bathroom.

Maybe I misread the situation. Maybe she has to pee.

Water runs, and out she walks in only that white button-down shirt that covers the swell of her ass. The tails dangle in front of her pussy in a way that should be banned under the Geneva Convention. No doubt this is abuse. No question, she’s torturing me with the almost.

I can almost see her. I can almost touch her. I can almost taste her.

And almost is enough to bring me to my knees. Literally. I drop to them and find her eyes, beckoning her to come to me.

Slowly. Sensually. Seductively. She puts one foot in front of the other, unbuttoning her top buttons as she comes my way.

Fuck me. She’s everything.

The moment she’s within arm’s reach, I slide my hands up the back of her thighs to her ass, finding it bare. I palm it and pull her tight to me, pressing my lips to her belly through her shirt, then kissing lower.

I need her. I want her, yes, but I need her like I need oxygen to breathe. How in a matter of weeks has my life changed so drastically?