Page 42 of Jonesing for a Spy

“Fine, I guess. But make it quick. I need my oatmeal.”

She snorts and lifts her pelvis, disengaging me. We both groan.

I stare at where I leak from her. When my eyes reach hers, my face serious, I say, “Sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my whole damn life.”

Whether I mean my cum in her pussy or her, I don’t know. And I’m not looking to figure it out. “Now come ride my cock. Tonight, you can ride my face.”

She does as I say.

18

meat in my mouth

Strider

If a day could be more perfect, I don’t know how.

Mirren and I grabbed coffee, drove to the coast, and walked the beach hand-in-hand. The sun burned through the early clouds hanging heavy over the Gulf and warmed what would’ve been a cool breeze.

She told me stories about growing up here, sneaking out in high school to drink at the beach, and what the growth has meant for the whole area. She told me less about basic training, even less about the Middle East, and only one line about being a Ranger. “It was hell in; it was hell out.”

While I wanted to press for more, I was good with her telling me about herself, in her own way, with her own timing.

I wanted to tell her about me, about growing up with Autoimmune Hemolytic Anemia, about my parents hiding it from me so I wouldn’t worry. Instead, I chose to tell her about my parents, how boring Peoria can be, how my dad formed a company I was sort of expected to take over, and how I never really questioned it.

I tell her about Sam and her art and Lorien and her research.

I tell her she misplaces her trust in my, as she calls them, slutty little glasses. Failing to see well for twenty-five years being sexy is one point in my favor.

Her limp is slightly pronounced walking in the sand. I wouldn’t have noticed—and I notice everything about this woman—if she hadn’t rubbed it like that was the answer to it feeling better. When she mentions it, I rub my zipper. “Well, it was worth a shot.”

“You’re insatiable,” she offers, slapping my chest.

I trap her hands where they land and offer her the truth. “Only with you.” My eyes bounce between her pale green ones. “I may never have enough.” Ever so slowly, I drop my lips to hers. My hands leave hers where they rest and dive into her hair, pulling her to me, controlling the kiss.

She opens for me, and our tongues duel like it’s life or death who wins. Maybe it’s just life no matter who wins; death is the feeling of not having my mouth on hers.

“I could fall for you, you know?” I say when I pull back and drop a kiss to her forehead. “Don’t freak out. I know I shouldn’t say it. I know it’s too soon. I’m not making it a thing. I’m shooting you straight. You, Mirren Jones, are the ultimate temptress and the ultimate temptation.”

She stares at me but says nothing. She simply tugs me back to her mouth with a hand behind my head and tries to win the latest battle.

After lunch, she plops my butt in the sand and sits between my knees, using me as a lounge chair. Her back is to my chest, and her arms drape across my knees like arm rests. The rise and fall of my chest is timed with the ebb and flow of the waves, and we sit in companionable silence drinking it all in. The shipping vessels on the far horizon, the gray storm clouds above them, sun rays bursting through the silver ones above us. Warm air, cool breezes, and the sound of stress being sucked under and out to sea.

I can’t imagine how it could be better.

Mirren

Shoving off of work isn’t my thing. Not with my work ethic, my training, and sure as hell not with the shadow of June Jones looming large.

But today was worth it.

I flip my phone upside down on my island, ignoring the message from Brody. There will be hell to pay for that later. Make no mistake, I’ll pay for it, but a month from now, a year from now, a decade from now, I won’t regret my day with Strider at Orange Beach. It’s far enough away no one would see us. The water is perfect this time of year, and the snowbirds are just beginning their descent. As far as timing goes, it couldn’t be better.

And Strider has a pink nose, red forehead, and arms that are stained by the sun. It’s cute.

I get the distinct impression he doesn’t like that word. He’s hot in the glasses and fucking gorgeous undressed. But there’s a boyish charm with a sunburned nose and little white lines where the arms and bridge of his glasses blocked the rays.

“Do you want leftovers or something new?” he asks as he turns to me from the open fridge.