by Jo Davis
Ryan’s eyes glittered with lust. “That’s it, pet. Suck him. Take him deep while I fuck you hard.” He removed the plug, laid it aside, and positioned his cock between her cheeks.
Blaze nearly exploded as he watched his friend’s thick erection disappear, muscles standing out in relief as he took possession of her body. It was difficult, but he managed to stave off his orgasm as he thrust faster. Fucked her mouth vigorously, but not hard enough to cause her injury.
They found a rhythm, moved smoothly together, groans and the slap of slick flesh proving a decadent sound track. Pressure built in his balls and desire spiraled higher, his need to come almost unbearable.
Ryan drove into her without mercy, fingers digging into her hips. “Shit, I’m close! Not gonna last!”
“Me, either,” Blaze gasped. “Almost there.”
“Fuck, yes!” Ryan thrust twice more, burying himself deep on the second stroke, throwing his head back.
Blaze quickly disengaged from the sub’s mouth and took himself in hand, just in time to keep from coming in her mouth. He wanted to see her bathed in his juices. She tilted her chin up as his cock erupted, shooting ropes of creamy cum all over her face. She lapped eagerly between cries of ecstasy, catching what she could with her tongue as though he was gifting her with the best possible treat.
Blaze cupped one cheek, emptying his balls to the last drop. “God, yes. So good, darlin’. So pretty.”
Ryan slumped, breath sawing in and out of his lungs as he trailed a hand down her spine. “I’m one lucky bastard, huh?”
“Oh, my God.”
The unexpected new voice drew his gaze to the doorway.
The shattered expression on Emma’s face, the hurt in her blue eyes blasted a hole in his heart.
Emma recovered first, her generous mouth twisting into a snarl. Pure hatred burned into his soul. “You motherfucking bastard.”
“Emma, this is—”
“And to think I came here absolutely sure you missed me as much as I missed you,” she hissed, rage barely contained. “I was ready to at least try to be the woman you wanted. I was willing to make an effort to understand and fit into your world. Well, I can see now just how overcome with grief you really are.”
Bile rose in his throat. “Baby, please—”
“Save it, asshole.” Barking a bitter laugh, she tunneled her fingers through her short white-blond hair, and then pointed at his chest, punctuating each word with a jab. “You. Go. To. Hell.”
With that, she spun and left him.
This time for good.
Two
Seven months later
“Why do I have to be a homeless woman? Why not a guy? All this crap is hot, too.”
“Shut up, Ozzie.” Emma Foster raised her subject’s chin, peering into his face as she applied his makeup, adding contours to the wrinkles she’d sculpted around his mouth. “Your whining is making my ears bleed.”
Agent Dean Osborne scowled, which would’ve been an adorable expression on her friend’s handsome mug if he hadn’t been tricked out like a sixty-year-old bag lady. Hard to say what irritated him more: his current situation or the unwanted nickname his friends had given him that called to mind an aging rock star.
“Dammit, Emma, you’re doing this just to spite me. Do you have to be such a bitch?”
“That’s Agent Bitch to you. Stop squirming.”
“This sucks.”
“You’re getting paid. Deal with it.”
More foundation? More color in the cheeks? No, a bag lady would appear more washed out, not glowing with health.
“Not nearly enough,” he grumbled. Soulful brown eyes glared at her in reproach. “I’m asking Michael for a raise.”
“Good luck with that.”
Michael Ross, fearless leader of the Secret Homeland Defense Organization, or SHADO, was generous to a fault. But he’d only recently returned to the helm after being in seclusion, grieving for his dead wife, Maggie. For the past few days, he’d been dealing with something big. Whispers of a traitor in their midst were spreading like wildfire, but only a select few agents knew exactly what was going on. One of those agents being her ex-lover, Blaze Kelly. The bastard.
The sexy, slightly crazy, unrepentant glorious bastard.
Emma backed up and surveyed Ozzie’s scraggly wig with a critical eye, determined to put Blaze out of her thoughts. She had too much work to do to spend precious time thinking about that horny, self-centered jerk. Yeah, her heart had been broken into about a zillion pieces, and guess what, folks? The earth hadn’t fallen off its axis as a result. She still had to get up and face each day. One more day without Blaze in her life.
Her work was all that gave her joy anymore.
“Am I set?”
She smiled at the note of hope in his voice. “Almost. I’m going to fix you up with a cool new toy.”
His eyebrows rose and he gave her a suggestive grin, apparently forgetting about his fake rotten teeth. “Oh, goody.”
“Not that kind of toy, Romeo.”
“Drat.”
“Something even better.” Digging around on her table, she found the item she was searching for and held it up with a flourish. “You’re going to wear this!”
He looked less than enthused. “A cheap stickpin with a fake daisy glued to it? And this trinket of granny bling is exciting . . . why?”
“Because, moron, in the black center of the flower, undetectable to the naked eye, is one of our new pinhole cameras.” The agent’s bored resignation morphed to real awe, and she felt a surge of pride.
“No shit? Let me see!”
She handed over the device, grinning as he examined it from every angle like a little kid. If anything could get a jaded agent pumped, it was a new gadget.
“Cool, huh?”
“Sweet.” He squinted into the flower’s center as though it held an intriguing secret—which it did. “You can hide these cameras just about anywhere, right?”
“Yep. In clothing or almost any object you can think of. These puppies have a broad scope, so they’ll see whatever you do if placed correctly. I’m not an expert on the technical aspects of the devices, though,” she reminded him, “so I’ll send you down the hall to those guys if you have any questions.”
“Right. You’re the Master of Illusion,” he intoned, wiggling his fingers as though casting a spell. “Sort of like our personal Criss Angel. Mindfreak! ”
Emma rolled her eyes. “Get outta here, slacker. Go catch a criminal.”
Secretly, she was pleased by his praise. She was an artist first and foremost, one who spent hours on each agent to create the perfect illusion. To turn her subjects into someone completely different and unexpected, yet blend them seamlessly into their surroundings. Which also required hours of prep and research. If Michael said, “Agent Jones is being sent to Afghanistan in twelve hours. Make him blend into the fucking sand,” that agent’s survival began, literally, in her hands. Lives often depended on the believability of her disguise as much as the agent’s ability to carry off his cover. Ozzie was one of the few agents who remembered to appreciate that fact.
Ozzie pushed up from his chair, sticking out his pendulous bosom. “I believe I will. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a small matter of espionage to attend to.”
“Pull down your dress. Your hairy legs are showing.”
“James Bond never has to put up with this kind of shit.”
“Move to the U.K. and buy an Aston Martin.”
“You’d miss me.”
“I’ll front your plane ticket.”
“Bull. You’d be crying in your beer the minute I left.”
With that, he flipped the stringy hair over his shoulder and sailed from the room. She snickered and turned to put away the discarded clothing, makeup, sponges, and brushes. But her amusement fled as she contemplated Ozzie’s parting words.
Okay, so it wasn’t just the job but the people she worked with that made her happy. Or as close to content
as she could be lately. Without friends like Ozzie, she’d be lost and floundering.
A sudden commotion in the hallway snared her attention. Urgent voices and running footsteps shattered the normally quiet atmosphere. SHADO’s compound, while not entirely peaceful, usually thrummed with vibrant energy as agents hurried about to this assignment or that meeting. This new disruption was something different. Ominous.
Crossing to the door, she stuck her head out just in time to see a gurney wheeled around the corner at the far end of the corridor, closely followed by Michael Ross, Dr. Taylor McKay, and a handful of agents dressed in fatigues and carrying M16s.
Emma grabbed an agent’s arm. “What’s going on?”
“Rescue op gone bad,” he said curtly. “Got two agents down who might not make it.”
“Who are—”
“Sorry, gotta go.”
A shiver of apprehension went down her spine as she watched the man jog to catch up with the others, the group likely heading for the elevator that would take them to the fourth-floor on-site hospital. An agent down. Everyone’s worst fear, but not uncommon. Not in this business.
SHADO employed several hundred men and women, and many of those were in the field. Could be anyone.
Anyone except Blaze, because that SOB possessed either nine lives or the devil’s own luck. Probably both, since he did everything one way—balls out.
Now there was an image she didn’t need. Why the hell couldn’t she stop thinking about him? About that woman’s lips wrapped around his cock, his sexy face a study in bliss as the three of them writhed together?
And why, even now, did the memory stir something besides anger and hurt? Something very much like . . .
No. No way.
The warmth between her thighs and the hardening of her nipples were nothing more than a visceral reaction. After all, she wasn’t frigid. Contrary to popular speculation.
She enjoyed sex as much as the next person. She just didn’t understand Blaze’s world or what made those people tick. What was it about dominating someone else or being dominated that satisfied a person’s needs? And how could those partners engage in sexual acts with a third person? Why would they?
For the life of her, she wished she got it. These questions were at the heart of her break from the man she loved, and they’d tormented her relentlessly in the past few months. But it wasn’t easy to shove aside a rigid upbringing by strict parents who viewed things as black or white, right or wrong, with no shades of gray in between. The good are rewarded and the bad get punished. The good certainly don’t have masters and look forward to getting punished.
Am I using my parents’ views as a way to take the easy road? So I can stay on my high horse and not have to deal with these confusing feelings?
The truth was, the recollections of what went on in that club made her pussy wet, made her breath catch in anticipation. Made her palms sweat. And whatever might have been, she’d thrown away the opportunity to find out.
She’d thrown away the man she loved, and a fresh wave of pain doused the smoldering heat of arousal. Who was she trying to fool with this distance she’d forced between them? She missed him so badly she ached inside, and his loss hit her all over again, as strong as any physical blow.
She missed his laughter, the way his smile lit his tanned face. His gregarious, fun-loving personality. The way he interacted with the other agents, always extending himself, always joking around. The man never met a stranger, radiated sultry appeal, and as a result was a magnet that drew everyone around him into his circle before they quite realized it.
She should know.
And how long had she been leaning in the doorway of her studio, staring at the empty corridor? Mulling over visions of a giant group sex sandwich with Blaze starring as the meat?
“Pathetic,” she muttered, annoyed with herself.
Her stomach rumbled a complaint, and a glance at the clock on the wall confirmed that it was well past lunch. If she hurried she’d have enough time to grab something from the cafeteria before she taught the afternoon surveillance class to a group of wide-eyed baby agents.
She retrieved her purse from her office and walked to the cafeteria at a brisk pace, not wanting to waste more time on the uncharacteristic woolgathering she’d been doing lately. Economy of movement and purpose and a sensitive bullshit meter. As far as she was concerned, those qualities were the key to survival. They’d saved her life so far, hadn’t they?
In the cafeteria line, she studied a bowl of wilted salad with disgust. How did people eat that crap and take in enough fuel to keep going? Instead, she grabbed a paper plate loaded with a cheeseburger and fries from under the warmer and slid it onto her tray. Hell, she wasn’t built like a flea and had never apologized for it. On the contrary, her body image was just fine, and despite the occasional burger, she typically ate well. Her daily trip to the gym would work off excess calories and maintain her muscle tone.
After fishing a carton of juice from the cooler, she paid for her meal and found a seat at an unoccupied table. She wasn’t antisocial—she did have a couple of friends like Ozzie, after all—but neither was she one for idle chitchat. Especially when she had work to get back to.
She’d taken only a few bites of her burger when the conversation from the table behind her began to filter gradually into her awareness.
“. . . say what happened?”
“Don’t know, man. Some sort of rescue op involving St. Laurent. The whole deal went FUBAR is what I heard.”
Emma chewed slowly, forced herself not to react. Jude St. Laurent? According to Robert Dietz, Michael’s right hand, that agent was killed months ago in a car accident.
The first man snorted. “Yeah, whatever went down is some fucked-up shit, for sure. One agent risen from the dead, only to maybe bite it for real this time, the other one not far behind. And rumors about Dietz flyin’ all over the fucking place.”
“Dietz,” the second one spat. “If that bastard is responsible for taking out two of our own? I hope to God Ross tosses him below and throws away the goddamned key.”
“If Michael needs a volunteer to torture information out of the prick, I’m his man. Never liked that fucktard.”
“Second that.” A pause. “Wonder if Ross will call a meeting?”
“Probably. He won’t keep us in the dark any longer than necessary.”
A third voice, out of breath, joined the first two. “Did you hear about our guys? Dietz turned traitor and tried to off them both! Kelly took a couple of bullets trying to protect St. Laurent, and they’re both critical. Then Agent Vale shot Dietz. Jesus.”
Emma’s burger turned to ash in her mouth, and the rest of their exclamations were lost in the roar of blood rushing in her ears. She swallowed and pushed from her seat, giving up any pretense of not listening. Whirling, she grabbed the third man by his collar, the one standing by the table who’d just spoken, and shook the little gerbil like a rag doll.
“Agent Blaze Kelly? Is that who you’re talking about?”
He jerked in surprise. “Y-yes! I didn’t realize—”
Emma released the man and turned to her tray, scooped it up, and strode for the exit. On the way out, she dumped the remains of her lunch, and in seconds she was jogging for the elevator.
Heart in her throat, she punched the button for the fourth floor and was close to hyperventilating by the time the doors slid open.
Blaze had been shot. Was critical. Might even be dead.
Oh, God, no.
She shoved through the double doors and hurried to the front desk, startling a passing doctor when she grabbed his arm.
“Agent Blaze Kelly,” she demanded. “I want information about his condition, yesterday.”
The man rallied, drew himself up. “Mr. Ross hasn’t authorized any disclosure of—”
“Then fucking find him so he can authorize it!”
“Mr. Ross gave specific orders that he’s not to be disturbed,” the doctor said in a st
eely tone. “If you’d care to take a seat, I’m sure he’ll be around shortly.”
“I don’t want to take a goddamned seat! I want to know—”
“Foster!”
She whirled to see Michael bearing down on her, expression grim, eyes flashing with anger. Whether any of his ire was directed at her, she didn’t care at the moment. She grabbed his arm as he stopped in front of her.
“How is Blaze? Tell me.”
The reprimand she half expected didn’t come, though his jaw clenched and his body vibrated with tension as if he were fighting the urge to vent his frustrations at her.
“Not here.” Those two words, husky and low, frightened her more than if he’d yelled them.
She fell into step with him as he led her to a private room off the waiting area and shut the door, sealing them off from prying eyes and alert ears.
Emma’s respect for Michael won out over panic, just barely. Crossing her arms over her bosom, she worked hard to restrain herself from barraging her boss with questions she knew he’d answer in good time, his way.
Emma hadn’t seen the man since before his wife’s death, and the changes wrought by grief and stress were subtle but telling. Gone was the calm, controlled, urbane man with the ready, winning smile that belied his cunning. In his place was a stranger. His expensive tailored black suit was a bit too big now and looked like he’d slept in it, and his tie was missing, his blue shirt partly unbuttoned.
Though still incredibly handsome, he could no longer pass for twentysomething among those who might venture a guess. Every one of his thirty-eight years was stamped on his angular face, carved in the lines around his full mouth.
Instead of taking a seat, he paced the small space like a caged leopard, his expression a study of anguish. He pushed a hand through his short sable hair, causing the spiky strands to poke every which way, gold and red highlights gleaming under the fluorescent bulbs. His temples were touched by a hint of silver that she’d swear hadn’t been there three months before.
“Where was he hit, Michael?”
