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I can’t help it—I grin. There’s so much fire in her. And she responds, a reluctant smile tugging her lips.
Kicking my boots off, I wait for Betty to follow suit, then pinch the hem of her tank top. She nods, and I drag it up over her head, ponytail dancing as it slips free. We undress silently, trading breaths, hopping in the uneven sand, until we’re both bare in the balmy night air. Her nipples pebble, and I swallow hard.
“I’m sorry I dragged you into this, sweetheart.” Taking her hand, I lead Betty to the water, and it’s warm as it laps at our ankles, our calves, our knees. Maybe it’s not a hot shower and a bar of soap, but right now wading into the sea and letting the waves wash us clean feels like heaven.
“Make it up to me,” Betty teases when the water reaches my chest. She floats past on her back, the soaked strands of her hair drifting on top of the waves.
Oh, I will. I’ll make it up to her. Once we’re safe, once the agency is out of the picture, I’ll make this woman wail loud enough to shake the trees.
But for now, we both rinse off and I let her float for a while, weightless and resting. My own eyes are glued in the direction of base camp, but no one comes. No one yells out or comes crashing through the undergrowth, and as we finally stride back up the sand, Betty squeezing out her ponytail, I let my eyes drift to her instead.
Toned. Tall and tatted and lithe.
Beautiful.
You know… my hearing is excellent. My instincts were honed over decades. If anyone comes near, I’ll know.
And meanwhile Betty looks like a goddess, her skin glistening with sea water. Her tattoos are more vivid than ever, and it turns out they’re not just on her arms. They’re on her ribs, her thighs, her hips. Her whole perfect body is inked, and after living my whole life in grayscale, she brings so much color.
“Ew,” she says when we reach our clothes, nudging the sad little pile of her tank top with her toe. “How badly do I want to set fire to this thing and never wear it again?”
“Soon,” I promise, moving to stand behind her. A tremor runs through her body as my lips find her neck, and I pause but Betty pinches my hip.
“Oh my god, keep going. You are such a freaking tease, Agent Dawes.”
My mouth curves against her throat. She wants me to keep going? I thought I was done with taking orders, but that’s a command I’ll gladly follow.
Winding an arm around her waist, I drag her back against me. Betty melts against my chest with a sigh.
Five
Betty
Okay, I’m on an unknown tropical island in the middle of the ocean, and my life is in danger. Sure. But now the secret agent I’ve been having x-rated dreams about for months is here too, and he’s holding me. Kissing me.
Naked.
Isthis a dream? My subconscious brain doesn’t usually bother with plots, not even the ‘Did anyone call for a plumber?’kind. Whenever I’ve dreamed about Agent River Dawes—which was, oh I don’t know, every night since we met—there’s been no crazy plot line. No wild setting or supporting cast of villains. Just the two of us getting sweaty together in my apartment, the coffee shop, or one time, my aunt Janet’s condo. Okay,thatone was weird.
“Is this real?” I ask quietly. Somehow, it’s hard to ask the question out loud—like it’s more vulnerable than stripping naked. But I need to know.
River pauses, his breath hot against my neck. His arm is strong around my middle, his grip possessive, and wherever our bodies meet, we’re already getting sweaty again, slip and sliding together. It’s so freaking sticky here. “Is what real? Do you mean this situation we’re in? Or the way I’m kissing you right now?”
Swallowing against the sudden lump in my throat, I shrug. “Both, I guess.”
There’s a long pause, then River kisses my temple. “They’re both real, Betty. But I’m going to keep you safe, I promise.”
My chest aches, and the stars pulse overhead. Palm trees whisper in the breeze, and I hear myself say: “And after we escape? What then?”
Because this man is a master of the ol’ disappearing act. He’s my own personal Houdini. One moment he was a regular at the coffee shop, coming in every few days to stand across the counter, gazing like I was the center of his whole damn world. Then he finally kissed me, andpoof.
Who says he won’t disappear again? Trying to keep this man around is like trying to cup smoke in your hands.
“One step at a time,” is all River says, and though it’s not what I want to hear, I can’t really argue. We don’t even know yet how we’ll get out of this alive, and I want a second date in the planner? So lame.
Maybe River isn’t like that. Maybe he doesn’t want domestic things—he chose this crazy life, after all.
Maybe I’m barking up the wrong palm tree.
