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My palm glides along rippling, toned muscle. His hot mouth sucks and nips. The potency of his touch ratchets up a need so intense my pulse roars. My sex clenches. I paw at his clothes, losing any bit of calm. But thank god, I seem to have the same effect on him.
He tugs my sweater off my head. Palms my breasts. I strain for his belt buckle as he sucks and nips. My pants fall to my ankles. My panties join them.
“Please, hurry.” It’s both demand and prayer. I’m half on the bed, half off, his feet planted on the floor when he thrusts inside. A sigh of relief pours out. His forehead falls, and he stills.
“God, you feel good.” I cradle his jaw in my hands, and his gaze meets mine.
Slowly, he begins to move, alternating between slow, tender movements and hard, pounding, possessive thrusts. Little foreplay. We went from zero to eighty in the blink of an eye. He’s a master. Doing exactly what I need.
But it’s those deep blue eyes, the care washing over me, that tenderizes my heart through the searing heat. Logically, there’s a physical explanation for the emotional build-up. Endorphins and a release of hormones that accompany sex. But this emotional build-up, it’s new to me, and that’s where the terror comes in. Because I’m feeling all these things. I care for him, but we’re not real.
This is what I tell myself as he pulses inside me, skin flushed and damp, biceps bulging. I tighten my thighs and arms around him, holding on as he crashes down over me. I bury my face into the curve of his neck, breathing in his addictive musky scent. His hard chest crushes my breasts. As our breathing slows, his heartbeat thuds against mine.
The sex is real. But it’s temporary. I can’t hold on to this or become attached. Fisher doesn’t make plans, not because he’s emotionally stunted, but because he can’t. He chose a career that doesn’t easily allow a personal life. And I chose the same career.
The CIA would frown on this. On relationships. Fraternization. In fact, there’s a form we have to complete for approval for any relationship. Whether the person is in the CIA or outside of it, the relationship must be approved, in theory, before it begins. I’m breaking rules.
From our employer’s perspective, what we are doing is wrong, yet nothing has ever felt so right. Just as I honed my marksmanship skills, I must learn how to manage the tangle of emotions sex with Fisher delivers.
Fisher’s quiet, slow perusal is unnerving. Am I transparent? But his lips fall to mine, and he gives me the sweetest, most tender kiss. He’s still inside me, and my body clenches around him. My fervent wish is that I could hold on, just like this, forever. And there it is, the terror. The double-edged knife blade Fisher presents.
A subdued whirring noise sounds. Fisher rolls to his side. I sit up and bound to the bathroom. Fisher’s deep timbre drifts through the closed door.
“Yep…. She’s not with me right now…. Gym… Ten minutes?… Copy that.”
I pull a towel off the roll bar and wrap it around me before exiting the bathroom. Fisher’s jeans are back on, as is a fresh long sleeve heathered navy t-shirt. He holds a black baseball cap in his hand, and he’s bending the brim.
“Who was that?” The Toros should’ve already left. If they didn’t get away earlier as planned, they’re not getting out of here for at least twenty-four hours, judging from the limited visibility out the window.
“Aunt Rita.” His penetrating gaze travels to my towel. “Told her you went to the gym. You ah, might want to change.”
“We’re doing a video call?”
“Yep. They have confirmation the Toros are no longer in Canada. I imagine she wants to recap this op and review next steps.”
Fisher leaves me in the bedroom, and I get dressed quickly, putting on a gym outfit of leggings, a jog bra and sweatshirt. I gather my hair into a ponytail, combing out the frazzled knots on the back of my scalp.
In the den, Fisher has his laptop set up on the small dining table. Two resort water bottles sit beside it.
“Ready?” The position of his shoulders, the straight lips, and his upright posture are all indicative of work-mode. It’s good he easily falls into work mode, because I feed off his energy, and by the time I’m in the chair he’s pulled out for me, my focus has returned.
Since it’s his government issued laptop, he handles going through the CIA portal and setting up our video meeting. Rita appears on screen. I’ve never met her in person before, and she’s not at all what I expected. Her black, coiffed hair looks like she took it out of rollers, teased it, and hair sprayed it in place. Narrow spectacles hang down her neck, and square glasses with rounded edges in a blue plastic frame perch on her nose. The skin below her chin dangles, and she puckers her lips as she presses buttons. When the camera opens on her end, we can tell instantly because those puckered lips relax into a grandmotherly smile.
“Hi, you two. Having a good vacation?”
I slide my hands beneath my thighs and smile back at her. One thing they teach us is to lead every conversation with care, and I wonder if that’s why she’s kicking off our session like this. But we called her from the privacy of our suite. It’s not like we’d call her if housekeeping was in the room with us.
“All good,” Fisher answers.
“How’s the storm there?”
“It’s picking up.” Snowflakes blow both vertically and horizontally out the window, and thick, hazy clouds obliterate the mountain peaks.
“Here too.” Rita’s comment leaves me wondering where she is, but that’s not my business. “So, here’s the plan. When you can get back out, catch a flight to Los Angeles. Then head home to Santa Barbara. I might even come out to visit you both.”
“Will we be on a tight schedule?” Fisher’s frown lines deepen. An uneasy feeling surfaces.
“My plans are up in the air,” Rita answers. “Might be a week or two, maybe more.”
