Page 32 of Jonesing for a Spy

It may be the sight of her, the smell of her pussy, her proud chin, or the provocation in her eyes, but I’m hard instantly, throbbing and desperate.

I flick her clit with the head of my cock, watching her face and hearing her hiss. “Sensitive, Freckles?”

“No.”

That makes me laugh. Out loud. It’s unavoidable. “Liar,” I whisper against her lips, not stressing at all at her untruth.

“Fuck me.” She holds my eyes as I take my cock in hand, nudging against her entrance. Slick heat meets me as I start to sink but⁠—

“Hello?” a male voice echoes through the house.

What. The. Hell?

Mirren freezes. “Shit.” She scrambles, rolling me to my back and disengaging what little connection we have. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I can’t explain how sorry. Shit.”

I don’t know if it’s all one word because she’s speaking so fast or if panic has overtaken her tongue. She stares at the floor, twisting in circles, and grabs my shirt.

“Who is it?” I ask her retreating back. More importantly, why now?

“My brother,” she throws over her shoulder as she flies out of the room.

Lying prone on the bed, I stare at the ceiling trying to think about my sisters. It’s the fastest way I know of to deflate my dick.

Sam’s a watercolor artist who, to the best of my knowledge, lives in a commune in the Florida Keys. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been invited to her place. She’s flaky but kind, incredibly talented, but so reserved I barely know her. Less than two years apart, she left home at eighteen and never looked back. She got married on my birthday and didn’t even invite me or Lorien. Did I mention we were all in the same town? That’s another story for another day.

I don’t even have to get to Lorien. My dick is normal, albeit annoyed, so I roll off the bed, clean up from earlier and toss on my jeans. I find a lemon-yellow tee in my suitcase and pull it over my head before venturing out to find what fresh hell awaits me.

14

date food

Strider

“You do not come into my house like this.” Mirren’s hands plant firmly on her hips.

“You weren’t at home, and the lights were on. The code on the back door was available so how could I know I wasn’t welcome?”

“You call”—Mirren mimes a phone with her hand—“and wait for a response.”

“I did.” He mimics her gestures. “And there was no answer or reply. And I worried. You missed family game night. So I checked in like any good brother would.”

I slide around Mirren to the island, find my glasses, and put them on. The man is huge, has coloring like Charlie with the darker hair that’s bleached by the sun and skin that shows he spends lots of time outside. His bulk would be intimidating until I see how Mirren goes toe-to-toe with him.

“Who are you?” he barks.

“Strider Anderson.” I extend a hand. When he doesn’t take it, I add, “Is there a reason you’re lording over Mirren physically?”

The man yanks his head back and looks between Freckles and me. “Who is he?” he asks her.

“He’s already told you. Anything further is none of your business.”

He walks around the island as if she hasn’t put him in his place. “You cooked?”

“Strider did.” Throwing out a hand, she lays the sarcasm on thick as she watches him grab a dish, “But help yourself.”

He shoves a bowl in the microwave. “Thanks.” That won’t enhance the flavor, but I keep my mouth shut, watching the back-and-forth.

“Strider, this is Mikey, my brother. Everyone calls him Zipper.” To him she adds, “Zip, this is Strider, but you already know that.”