Page 109 of Jonesing for a Spy

“Why didn’t you kiss me?”

This is one of the places where I wished I were a liar, a good one, and could make things less like reality. I scrunch my nose. “Mona’s chicken fried steak was delicious going down, but…” I leave the sentence hanging and lift my brows for her to infer the rest.

Her face turns sour, but her smile becomes a cackle. “Hambone is a horse of a different color.”

That’s one way to put it. “If he heads straight home, he’ll be at the eighteen-mile mark.”

“Don’t mention it to him. He would be the guy who did a turkey trot on Thanksgiving morning. We’re donuts-that-morning people. He doesn’t need any encouragement.”

“We could be donuts and turkey trot people.”

“Shut your mouth, Strider Anderson. If you need to burn some calories in the morning, we can be morning-sex people, but never, never turkey trot people.”

“God, I love you.” I squeeze her hand. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m not questioning it either.”

“Don’t say sweet things like that with a pukey mouth. I want to kiss you, but, ew.”

“Trust me. I know.” I turn us into her driveway and am rolling up the windows when she drops the hammer.

“Do you want to move into my apartment with me, or should we move into the big house together?”

46

soaking in the warmth

Mirren

I hold my breath as his fingers threaded in mine squeeze reflexively. He turns to me in slow motion, or maybe that’s my heart racing out of my chest, and his eyes roam my face. After too many excruciatingly silent moments, I break the tension.

“Or do you plan to get a place of your own while we test the waters?”

He opens the door, ripping the keys from the ignition, and rounds the hood. My door flies open, and he picks me up, tossing me over his shoulder, and stalks up the stairs to my apartment, pressing me against his damp shirt. He pushes the door open with his runners and kicks it closed behind himself, making his way down the hall, through my bedroom and into my small bathroom.

Shower on, he slides me down his body, ever so slowly, letting me feel his firm pecs, the ridges of his abs, his thickening cock. Without a word, he strips my clothes from me quickly and efficiently and shoves me into the shower.

Alone.

What the hell?

Rummaging through my drawers, he finds one of those plastic toothbrushes the dentist sent home with me and scrubs his teeth and tongue within an inch of their lives before peeling off his clothes, toeing off his shoes and socks, and stepping into the shower.

He falls on my mouth like a starving man who’s been offered a sip of water and would rather drown than make it last. Hands at my jaws are rough and firm, even a bit harsh. His groans slip past my lips as he presses his long, hot cock to my belly, searing me with its heat.

I moan and open for him… my lips and my legs, silently inviting his caress—or perhaps shamelessly begging for it—as I thread my fingers through his hair and hold him to me.

He breaks the kiss long enough to utter one word. “Up.” Fingers under my ass lift me, and I wrap my legs around his slim hips, lock my ankles above his ass, and use my core to find what I want most.

The last two things I’ve asked have been met with painful, agonizing silence. Cartoon me wants to retract the words and go back to playful Strider and Mirren. Real me simply wants the awkwardness to end.

And to get laid.

“Need you, Strider.” I wiggle, finding him close to my entrance. But he still withholds himself from me.

Maybe I read this all wrong. Maybe I missed a cue that normal people would get. Maybe I need to stop overthinking and just grab his cock and fuck myself on it like I’m so desperate to do.

Overwhelmed, desperate, and emotionally swirling, I drop my head to rest on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I whisper through the steam.

He pulls his head back. “For what?”