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“Yeah.”
No.
And it was her damn fault. Filling his imagination. Consuming his every other thought. Engorging him, every second, from his screaming blue balls to the throbbing head leaking against his zipper…
“You don’t look all right.”
Steaming glare. “Yeah? And there’s leftover makeup on your neck, honey.”
Z spat a laugh as Archer actually checked his jaw. The big guy finished with a “Zsycho brow” in Franz’s direction. “So what’s the plan, at least for now?”
The last part of his statement earned Archer’s refreshed attention. They’d both logged enough hours under his leadership to know mission ops were often switched up by the second, especially ones like this. Off the books? Hell, this one was off the damn reservation. No wonder they both looked as somber as characters in a GI Joe movie, but as eager as two kids clutching the Target-exclusive action figures.
Franz leaned over, planting both elbows on the counter. Regarded the bottle of Perrier between his knuckled hands. Shit. He should’ve flung some crack at Z about the joys of domesticated life—water, with bubbles, from France?—but he was the pussy drinking said water, and Z would always be one of the finest soldiers and Doms he’d ever known. He was more than willing to give the guy a bye on the foo-foo water.
After taking a swig of the stuff—which wasn’t half-bad—he started with what felt like the obvious. “The plan is, we do this as by-the-book as we possibly can. So right now—”
“We need intel.” Runway supplied the obvious. “I’m all over it from the tech side.”
“And I can supply eyes and ears on the ground,” Z stated.
“Well, neither of you will be going at it alone.” Franz hit them both with the surety of his gaze. “Sam Mackenna, one of the guys who helped get us all out of Vegas undetected, put in for emergency leave with his RAF commander. He’s able to stay on here in Seattle for about fourteen days. Runway, you’re going to find him damn helpful to you on systems, as well as eyes from the air. And Zsycho—”
Zeke straightened, cutting him short. “If you tell me Hawk is coming home early from Thailand, I’ll kiss you on the lips.”
He grimaced as if the bastard had farted instead. “Nice try, Z, but you’re still not my type.”
Archer tossed a confused smirk. “You have a type?”
Z snorted. “Hell to the yes, he has a type.”
Franz pulled out the visual version of a broadsword, killing the subject there. Wasn’t because Z was wrong. The bastard was scarily right—and had been Franz’s wingman at enough playrooms and kink clubs, from here to Bangkok and back, to know those definitions. It didn’t boil down to physical requirements. Fuck, if it were only that easy—but he was a male with a reverence for the female form in all its magnificent expressions, from curvy and petite to willowy and sleek. His personal demands were more specific…much deeper. Things he required from a woman’s spirit. Surrender he needed. Trust he demanded. Passion he longed to stoke.
Like all the things you were offered by a stunning brunette bathed in midnight moonlight?
The things you turned down—like the royal idiot you are?
All because it felt too easy with her? Too right?
Too vanilla.
A flavor he hadn’t tasted in a very, very long time.
A sexual restraint he couldn’t promise to heed with this woman—that he’d been craving to toss away every half hour throughout the morning, every time he peeked in on her in the next room over with her girlfriends, her son, and the Hemingway girl. They’d enjoyed a movie before the kids discovered Z’s video game arsenal; now the women chatted in the corner while the kids faced off against each other. Her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail; he longed to grab it and yank her head back, opening her lips for his hard kiss. Rayna had lent her soft sweats and a loose sweater; he fantasized about peeling them away, then burying his nose in her naked pussy.
Eating her until she gasped.
Taunting her until she screamed.
Pinning her and fucking her…until she came.
And came.
And came.
Shit, shit, shit.
But what the hell was wrong with any of that? Last time he checked, wearing a woman out with orgasms still qualified as pure vanilla fun. Nothing hardcore there. Not even a soft spank in the scenario…
