I snatch up my phone and set a reminder. “I’ll gather any data uploaded to social media sites for evaluation after we’ve returned from our sting.” I don’t need to be solely cautious of extra hormones and blood flow making me more daring than usual. I also have to watch out for the dangerous fog of baby brain.
Grayson murmurs his thanks before he seeks an opening in the sea of traffic in front of us. The gridlock is dense, but Grayson’s friendliness with the gas pedal and apparent racetrack driving skills enable us to arrive at the class with almost a minute to spare.
“Thank you,” I murmur when Grayson helps me out of the car like it’s a low-riding sports car instead of a standard sedan. My heart stutters with more than adrenaline when he doesn’t immediately remove his hand from mine. He keeps our fingers interlocked as we pace toward the building where the class is being held.
As we enter the warehouse-like building, I spot a face I know all too well. Samuel is standing by a vending machine. While buying a drink, his eyes dart around, as if he’s the spotter I mentioned earlier. His shoulders are rigid and square, and his gaze is calculating.
If he’s not on the job, my hands are solely sweaty because of the above-average temperatures for this time of the year.
Without a word leaving his lips, Grayson pulls me into a hallway and then crowds me against the scratchy brickwork that borders almost every solid wall of this building. “He can’t see us here.”
I nod, adrenaline surging as I survey the area. I can’t see much. Grayson’s face is an inch from mine, his lips even closer. A tremble shakes my thighs. Grayson’s eyes are fierce and protective, though they’re not solely to blame for the odd response of my body. I’ve lived for this type of rush for the past ten years. The fear, the anticipation, and the thrill I can only get from my job until my sister is home safe are addictive, and they make me feel alive.
Though it hasnothingon what happens next.
After a brief swallow, Grayson’s eyes snap to me, and then he presses his mouth against mine. I’m shocked for barely a second before a wave of euphoria parts my lips. My body acts like the lashes of his tongue are authentic, like he can’t wait a second longer to discover how I taste.
A moan rolls up my chest when his tongue pierces between my lips barely a second later, and he drags it along the roof of my mouth. He tastes minty and fresh, and he doesn’t have an excessive amount of saliva like almost every man I’ve dated. It is a scrumptious palate that has me forgetting that I’m undercover.
For a minute, I get carried away. I dance my tongue with Grayson’s while clinging to the rigid planes of his body and savoring his warmth. I kiss the living hell out of him, giving itmy all as if I know this could be my only opportunity—because it very well could be.
It is an urgent and desperate embrace, full of both silent promises and equally panicked warnings. It makes my knees wobble while flooding my heart with so much blood that it skips more than one beat.
I relish every nip, lick, and moan until the fantasy is cruelly stripped away from me.
Grayson’s sudden wish to lock lips dawns on me a second later when a gruff voice breaks through the rapid pounding of my heart echoing in my ears. Samuel still hasn’t learned to take personal calls in private. He’s in the hallway Grayson dragged me down only minutes ago, talking on a cell phone. How do I know this? His conversation is one-sided, and it supports our theory that Agents Perez and Donatello were targeted during their commute to this assignment.
“No one’s here. I told him I’d taken care of it. Traffic is still backed up for miles, so even if they wanted to send other agents to this location, they’d never make it in time.”
My eyes pop open when the shuffling of a man fifty pounds heavier than Grayson can bench bounces down the hallway. Samuel is mere feet from us, but since Grayson’s large frame swamps mine, and his hands are as explorative as his tongue, we appear more like a walking billboard on teen pregnancies than two thirty-something-year-old agents seeking a perp.
Either something Samuel’s caller says pisses him off, or our hot-and-heavy make-out session amuses him. He grunts before his boots click against the tiles separating the hallway from the entrance. “I’m heading out.” His voice becomes distant during his next sentence. “If she has an issue with my decision, she can tell me so herself.”
It takes three seconds for Grayson’s tongue to stop lashing mine, then another three seconds for him to remove it frommy mouth. I’d question his implied reluctance if every word he speaks next weren’t gospel. “We’re at the right location.”
21
GRAYSON
Although part of me wants to tail Samuel, I instead guide Macy toward the room where the Lamaze class is being held. Something tells me the answers we’re seeking will be more prevalent here. Samuel is a paid goon, nothing more. At best, we could turn him into an informant. But for now, that will gobble up time we don’t have.
We need answers, and I’m not leaving this building until I get them.
As we enter a room that smells like massage oil and old yoga mats, the memory of Macy’s lips on mine and the moans she released play through my head like an X-rated movie. Our kiss was supposed to be another part of our undercover sting, a mandatory act to maintain our cover when Brandon warned we were seconds from having it blown, but the instant our lips locked, nothing else mattered.
I can still smell the freshness of her breath and recall the softness of her lips when our lips brushed. How she melted into me and made me hard enough for my zipper to leave an indent in my cock. It was an intoxicating kiss, and the rush of emotions it brought forward overwhelmed me.
I was caught off guard, all my objectives forgotten. All I could think about was Macy and the way she tasted, and how I’d give anything for a second helping.
We hadn’t even finished kissing, yet I was already planning ways to do it again.
It felt so surreal that I wonder if there was more to it. I’d give it more thought if there weren’t over two dozen pairs of eyes gawking at us. The Lamaze class is full of expectant couples who are more interested in our late arrival than the instructor’s words at the front.
“Sorry we’re late.”
The instructor, a woman with an impassive demeanor and a soothing voice, accepts my apology with a brief chin dip before she gestures for us to gather a rolled-up mat from a stack by the wall and join the group.
As we do as asked, Macy and I exchange a glance, our eyes communicating the unspoken tension. We’re not here to learn how to breathe through labor, although I highly recommend that Macy consider a class like this down the track. We’re here to find a perp she’s been tracking for months.
