Page 103 of Until the End

At fifty years old, he maintained the strong, wiry physique of a man half his age. Every morning began with a hundred push-ups, pull-ups, and hanging ab curls. Most days, he ran five miles, and twice a week, he squeezed in a mixed martial arts workout, keeping his combat skills sharp.

The appreciation gleaming in her eyes made his blood race, his head buzz. But he controlled himself, always. Showed her the utmost tenderness.

He swept her up into his arms, carried her to his bedroom, and laid her down gently.

“I’m not made of porcelain.” She jerked him down on top of her with rough zeal, and he settled between her spread thighs, pelvis to pelvis. “I won’t shatter, promise.”

She was far from fragile, but he also knew how easy it was to break something you loved with one careless touch.

* * *

While his mouth moved over hers, she ran her hand up his back and along his arms, enjoying the feel of his taut muscles rippling against her hands. His fingers traced her jaw, titillated lower across her stomach, playing over her hipbones. He cupped her in his hands. Massaged her bottom and thighs until he found the spot at her core aching for him.

“So wet.” He groaned the words into her neck. “I love how ready you always are for me.”

Her ex-husband had loved it too. And if she hadn’t been, he punished her. A slap. A fist to her gut. Sometimes, with his hand clenched in her hair, he had forced her to her knees, making her pleasure him with her mouth.

She’d learned to excuse herself to the bathroom, slip a finger slick with a water-based lubricant inside at least fifteen minutes beforehand. The best ones were meant to aid fertility and had a similar pH and consistency as cervical fluid, although the idea of conceiving repulsed her.

Men couldn’t tell it wasn’t natural excitement. The little step made everything easier.

With Sanborn, she didn’t need it, but habits born of self-preservation died hard. Once he let her stay at his place, she’d silently sworn that she would stop using the lubricant, let him feel how he aroused her.

Next time, she told herself, she’d forego her harmless secret. Next time.

She moaned as he slipped hot and hard into her. Rolling on top, straddling his hips, she kept him inside. The friction was delicious, his gentle affection and the endearments he muttered were better, and through it, she found a letting-go. A sweet surrender. She’d never been so at ease, the absence of fear a startling comfort as she rode him, rocking them both to the brink. On the heels of his release, she allowed her own.

She snuggled in his arms and a heavy sleep took her fast.

Later, Emily woke, a gradual stirring. Her eyes sought the red illuminated numbers on the clock in the darkness. 2:05.

Reaching out for Sanborn, she found cool sheets next to her instead of him. She sat up. The attached bathroom was empty. Was he a man or a cyborg that didn’t need rest?

Yawning, she climbed out of the bed. She threw on his shirt without bothering to button it, opened the bedroom door, and padded through the living room.

His condo was quiet, DC lights winking outside the window. Evidence he’d smoked a cigar after she’d fallen asleep was in the ashtray.

He loved that she didn’t mind the habit, unlike Penny. Rather than dredge up her ugly past, divulging why the smell didn’t bother her, Emily smiled and took the compliment that set her apart from his former wife. One day, she’d share all her secrets. Even the tragic ones.

His voice came from the other side of his closed office door, low, firm. Indecipherable.

She tiptoed closer. Who was he talking to at this hour?

Then again, there were always active missions. Black ops were working around the clock right now hunting a terrorist. Someone named Khan, who they suspected was linked with Z-1984.

The job came first, always. Ahead of sleep, candlelit dinners, sex. Her.

A partner had to yield. Or at least his did.

“Let me be clear,” Sanborn said. “I need you, Ashley.”

Emily’s heart tripped. Ashley?

Was he whispering to another woman on the phone in the middle of the night?

No, not Sanborn. There were men named Ashley, right? In the bygone days of Gone with the Wind. Rare for a man in the twenty-first century.

Her gut tightened, but her feet kept moving forward. Straining to listen, to catch each hushed syllable, she inched closer to the door. Closer still.