And now all I can think about is fucking her. Finishing what I started. Taking her clothes off, laying her down, fucking her against the wall, putting her on her knees, fucking her from behind, watching her beg for me as she takes my cock in her mouth. The way she responds to my commands and melts under my authority—it’s like crack, and I can’t stop thinking about her.
My hand drops to adjust my pants again. Harder than before now, and she notices. Those eyes track the movement before darting away, color flooding her cheeks.
Interesting.
Most women would comment, make jokes, or press the advantage. Dr. Wren sits quietly, fingers twisted in her lap.
She’s shy about sex. Academic types usually are—they’re all intellectual theory and minimal practical application. Probably spent all of her time in college with her nose buried in a book rather than out at clubs getting fucked in bar bathrooms.
She probably thinks that kiss meant something more than it did, but it was a tactical necessity, even if I ladled on a side of male stupidity.
None of which changes the fact that I’m driving through downtown D.C. with a raging hard-on and a client who smells like vanilla and submission, yet all I can think about is fucking her. Bending her over the hood of this car. Making her scream my name while I pound into her from behind. Watching her come apart under my hands until she can’t think, can’t speak, can’t do anything but take what I give her.
I shake my head hard, forcing my mind back on the mission.
Focus. Professional distance.
Client safety.
Fuckingbullshit.
My attention shifts to the rearview mirror—clear. Quick check of the passenger side mirror—clear. Driver’s side mirror reveals a black SUV two cars back, government plates visible even at this distance. The same vehicle from campus surveillance yesterday?
Impossible to determine from here, but the way it’s maintaining position suggests active pursuit rather than coincidental traffic patterns.
“Who did you see back there? When you kissed me, I mean. Was it the people trying to kill me?”
“Phoenix operatives. Two of them.”
“Did they recognize me?”
“No.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Because you’re still breathing.”
She shifts in the passenger seat, and I catch another whiff of that vanilla scent. My cock pulses against my zipper in response, blood flow redirecting from brain to groin when I need tactical clarity most.
Focus. Professional distance. Client safety over personal satisfaction.
“Why did you kiss me?”
The question hangs in the air like cordite after an explosion. Direct. No academic dancing around the subject. She wants answers, but I’m not prepared to give them.
“Tactical camouflage.”
“Both times?”
Smart woman. Too fucking smart.
“Situation required?—”
My encrypted phone buzzes. Perfect timing. I tap the earpiece, cutting off her question before she can dig deeper into territory that compromises mission parameters.
“Ghost.”
“Package secure?” Mason’s voice crackles through the connection, steady and professional.
