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It didn’t stop me from letting him lead me around because he got a kick out of it, though, and his smile was hot enough to make up for the frigid temperatures.
A small street market sold preserved orange peel, which was both bitter and sweet on my tongue and figgy bars that were impossible to chew but tasted damn good.
As we meandered through the labyrinthine streets, it actually hit me that this was the first time I was in a city, somewhere in Europe, without a mission on my mind.
It was fitting, I guessed, that not even today I’d be spared bloodshed.
We picked up pizza from one of the many take-out joints and chowed down on that as we continued Conor’s exploration. I put my foot down about walking around the old town walls, mostly because I didn’t feel like making myself a target—just because I wasn’t on a mission didn’t mean people wouldn’t recognize me and mistake my purpose in being here—and he stopped arguing when I pointed that out.
He blinked at me. Slowly. Then shook his head.
That was his reaction.
It was… visceral.
At first, I thought he was disappointed, but then I saw his tense jaw and mistook it for anger. It wasn’t my job to soothe his temper so I ignored him for a while and carried on eating the slice of pizza in my hand, then it registered.
Conor wasn’t normal.
Just like I wasn’t.
Moving closer to him, I whispered, “Are you turned on?”
His brow puckered. “Of course I am. We’re in the middle of a spy game. How couldn’t I be?”
“There is no game,” I retorted. “Plus, even if Iwereon a mission, we could die.”
His eyes gleamed. “But fuck, we’d have lived.”
“You’ve been stuck in your penthouse for too long,” I grumbled. “If my grandfather’s as all-fired powerful as he claims, then you should talk to him about forcing the NSA to let you travel. Spread your wings. You’ve got cabin fever of the brain.”
A crowd of people shifted toward us, evidently on one of the many tours around the old town, and he pushed up against me to avoid the mass of humanity.
That was when I felt his dick nudging my ass.
Rolling my lips inward to hide my smile, I muttered, “I don’t know what you’re doing with that.”
“Me either.” His free hand slipped around my waist and he pressed down against my stomach. “Do you know what’s hot?”
“What?” I asked, amused.
“That you don’tknowhow hot you are.”
I snorted. “Thanks. I think.”
He tutted. “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll know.”
My brows rose. “When do you think you’ll be done with me?”
“When I’m ninety-nine.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t expected that answer. Hadn’t expected it at all. I cleared my throat. “You can’t say that to people.”
“You’re not people,” he pointed out, snagging my languishing piece of pie before it tumbled to the ground thanks to my lax grip.
“I'm not?”
“Nah. You’re not.”
