“Shit, sorry,” I said, adjusting to straddle him.
Our kisses grew ever more passionate as our hands brushed and roamed bodies we knew better than any landscape. Every curve, every muscle, every tiny hair—I knew them all.
I lovedthem all.
Thomas moaned as I squirmed to position his cock so it would slip into place.
“I need you, Thomas. God, I need you so bad.”
Thomas’s teeth had just bit into the tender skin of my neck when a flash of light shot through a gap in the curtains. It was faint, but unmistakable.
Headlights, sweeping across the window as a car turned into the drive.
“Thomas—”
He was already moving, rolling out from under me and reaching for the pistol on the nightstand in one fluid motion. The pain in his shoulder didn’t slow him down. Nothing slowed Thomas down when his instincts kicked in.
I sat up, reaching for my own weapon. “Damn it. Will we ever get a moment’s peace?”
Thomas ignored me. He was on his feet already, naked, his gun raised and every line of his body coiled for violence despite his erection that lingered. It might’ve been the hottest scene ever had I not been worried about armed intruders.
“I’ll screw your brains out when we survive this mess,” he said quietly. “Right now, we’ve got company, and I don’t remember inviting anyone.”
We pulled on trousers and moved, still shirtless, into the hallway.
Bisch was already there, a shotgun in his hands, his face carved from granite in the dim light.
“Expecting guests?” he asked.
“No,” Thomas said.
The headlights swept across the front windows as the car came to a stop. The clock struck midnight. It was far too late for a social call—and too early for good news.
“Positions,” Thomas breathed.
We moved without discussion, years of training guiding us into a defensive formation. Bisch took the front door, positioning himself behind the heavy oak frame. Thomas slipped into the sitting room, finding an angle on the windows. I moved to the kitchen where I could cover the back door and provide crossfire if needed.
The engine cut.
Silence and darkness cloaked the farmhouse once more.
I pressed myself against the wall, pistol raised, watching shadows shift outside. One door opened. Then another. I counted footsteps in the snow—four people, spreading out as they approached.
My finger found the trigger guard.
Three sharp knocks at the front door rang out.
No one moved.
Then a voice, a female with an American accent, carrying a hint of amusement: “If you’re planning to shoot us, at least let us get warm first. It’s freezing out here.”
I exhaled and lowered my weapon.
“That’s her,” I called out. “The CIA woman.”
Bisch glanced at me, then at Thomas, who had emerged from the sitting room. After a moment, Bisch lowered the shotgun and reached for the door.
The woman stepped inside first, brushing snow from her dark hair like some model posing for a movie reel. I felt my breath catch the same way it had in the café. She wore a heavy wool coat over dark trousers, practical clothes for a midnight drive, but she wore them like evening wear.
