I let out a breath, in the hopes it would release some tension, and did what I had to do to survive. Survive this moment. Survive this fucked up situation. Survive the Department.
"We're trained to utilise tactical psychological operations whilst in the field," I admitted.
"Eric said as much."
We both fell silent, neither willing to go where this conversation was taking us. But I am no coward. Never have been. Maybe I was never given the chance to be. Maybe Eric was right.
"I'm not aware of it being used on our people," I said, my words nothing more than a whisper. Correction: I hadn’t been aware of it until now.
"Caleb still remembers most of his upbringing. Ava more so. Both say the same thing."
I didn't want to hear this. I didn't want to face it. I held Adam's gaze and nodded my head for him to go on.
"Your training began as soon as you entered the foster care system.” The words felt likes knives in my stomach. “Neither can recall details, just fleeting memories.” Acid burned. Bile surged. “Some clearer than others. But one thing is certain, the Department moulded you from the start."
It took a moment, but I eventually swallowed the visceral reaction I was having and breathed. Simply breathed.
I’d trusted them. They’d been my only family. My parents had died when I was young; too young. I barely remember them now. Just words in a dossier I opened once a year to remind me. Activists. Socialists. One “ist” away from terrorists.
Why would the Department want me?
“The Director once told me,” I started, leaning my head back against the wall, closing my eyes to futilely stop the throbbing, “that common belief has got it all wrong. Blood is not thicker than water.” I let a huff of a breath out in a poor imitation of a laugh. “He’d been referring to the fact that the Department was a family. The Director our father and provider. The Handlers our caring uncles. Our fellow spies brothers and sisters. He could see, I think, that I didn’t fit the mould. Never had. A lone wolf, amongst a pack of wolves. I played the part, but he could see through it. I’d admired him,” I growled. “Fucking admired his observation skills, his ability to read a person. To get their number. And all the while he was trying to control me, mould me into something that didn’t fit.”
I opened my eyes and met deep blue. Adam hadn’t moved, but somehow he felt closer. Leaning forward in his chair, avidly listening. Elbows to knees, steady gaze on my face and nothing else.
“Why?” I asked. “Why did he go to such lengths to prove to me that I belonged? Why?” He didn’t do it with anyone else. Just me. His imperfect perfect protégé.
“I don’t know why,” Adam said softly. “But now you know.”
“Know?”
“Now you know that he lied.” That all of it was lies.
A soft sound of distress left me. Embarrassing and liberating all at once. Maybe the Director had always planned to use me as a scapegoat. My parents had been trouble makers. Outspoken and dedicated to many a controversial cause. I fit the role of rogue spy on paper. All the Director had to do was trigger it.
“Charlie?” Adam asked softly, worry and concern edging into his gentle tones.
I shook my head, dismissed the sudden fear that had engulfed me, and said, “My name is Charisse.”
Silence; a mix of heavy reality and the lightness of truth. Who would have guessed? Honesty feels good.
“Charisse Catherine Bryce,” I added, and watched as Adam slowly stood from his chair and walked to the edge of the bed, looking down at me with dark, emotion-filled blue.
“Hello, Charisse Catherine Bryce,” he said, a smile playing on the edge of his lips. “Thank you,” he whispered in a rough voice. Then, “It suits you.”
“No it doesn’t,” I scoffed. Maybe my parents had thought I’d become a lady. A ballerina or the wife of a businessman. “I’ve been Charlie for so long that I can’t be anyone else.”
“I like Charisse,” he insisted. “And there’s time to become whomever you like.”
“Is there?” I didn’t think we had long. The Director was on his way, or God forbid one of my “brothers” or “sisters.” Sooner, rather than later, time would run out.
Adam started to slowly and purposefully remove his jacket, and that one move alone made my heart rate triple. My mouth grew dry by the time he’d laid it carefully on the nearby set of drawers. My skin flushed with anticipation once he’d finally turned back around.
Talking of triggers…
“Life is not meant to be easy,” he said, interrupting my erratic and swiftly devolving thoughts. “It’s a challenge you have to rise to every single day. We’ve all got demons inside us. We’ve all got secrets that could drag us down into an abyss. But that’s what’s so exciting about it. The chance to beat back our pasts, to shape our futures, to be who we should be, not who we can be.”
“It’s not always that simple,” I argued, watching him reach up to behind his neck and pull his t-shirt off over his head in one swift, muscle rippling move.
“No. It’s not,” he agreed. “But a wise man once told me, life offers us as many chances as we need. You just have to get off your arse and take one.”
“And who exactly was this paragon of wisdom?”
His top button came undone on his leathers. I had to work hard not to show how eager I was for the next. Of course, I knew what he was doing. Well, other than the obvious. He was making me forget. He was offering me a chance to be someone else. Even if just for a moment, in this room, right here. Once we walked back out through those doors, life - and death - would invade once again. Steal our resolve. Infiltrate our conscience.
I had no idea what would happen. How I would act. Who I would be.
But in here, right now, I could choose to be Charisse. Turn my back on Charlie. Be the person I should be, not the person I can be.
It was tempting. I licked my lips as a second button came undone. Fucking tempting.
“Who else gives such sound advice?” Adam quipped, bringing me back to the topic in question.
What was it? Oh, yes. Chances. And taking one.
I knew I’d take this one, because walking away from Adam had never been easy.
“Nick,” he said, just as well-worn bike leathers were peeled down superbly toned legs.
My mind stalled on Anscombe’s name for a second, and then Adam stepped out of his boxers.
OK. Who gives a fuck who said what.
I watched him crawl up the bed towards me, feeling entirely too overdressed. I started undoing my own leathers, fingers fumbling with my need, only to be stopped by one of Adam’s large hands.
“Uh-uh,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You’re not Charlie here. Out there,” he whispered, starting to slowly undo my buttons for me, “you better fucking be her. You better fucking pull on every single thing you’ve ever been taught.”
He knew. He knew this wasn’t real. Or, maybe, that it was just a moment in time we’d never get to repeat.
And for once in my too rapid life, I wanted the clock to stop. Right here.
“But in here,” Adam murmured, following the leathers down my legs with his hot breath and soft lips, “you’re Charisse Catherine Bryce. No secrets.” Another kiss against my thigh. “No hiding.” A soft stroke behind my knee. “Just one man and one woman.” A kiss to my ankle, the arch of my foot, each toe. “And you’re mine.”
The leathers were gone, my singlet followed, leaving me in only my bra and panties.
“Beautiful,” Adam rasped, kneeling above me, eyes darting from breast to stomach, to hips, to thighs, and back up to my eyes. “Absolutely perfect,” he whispered, and then collapsed down on top of me as though his legs couldn’t hold him aloft any longer.
His weight pressed me into the mattress, his lips ran a hot path up my throat to my mouth. His erection rubbed in exactly the right spot, in exactly the right way; hard, persistent, fierce.
But he didn’t devour me, it was more of a savour. Soft
licks, delicate nips, firm but careful strokes of his fingers. I wanted more. I was used to more. This was a kind of torture I hadn’t been taught how to combat. His hands came up and framed my face, one on each cheek. He held my eyes, ensuring I could see him, that I understood what he was about to do.
And then he kissed me. Body undulating as our tongues delved and danced and heat unfurled from the tip of my head to the bottom of my toes. A full body kiss, one that stole all thought and reason. One that consumed as if by fire. One that lifted me off that mattress and sent me flying.
I’d never been kissed like that before. So completely. So reverently. So… beautifully. I’d never had such wonders as this in my life.
My legs wrapped around his thighs, my back arched bringing us closer together, shifting my wet centre against his hard cock. I made a sound, and then another, and then as if a flood gate had been opened, moans and whimpers and pleas for more fell out. Tumbling off my lips in between his ardent kisses. Floating on the air as though they too were lifting us higher.
How could he get me so involved in so little time with so little effort? If it was a distraction technique designed to disarm then it succeeded. I writhed beneath him without thought of my surroundings. Without attempting to plan my next move or counter attack my opponent. I met him lips to lips, tongue to tongue, body to body. He met me moan for moan, rock of hips for rock of hips, feverish hands grasping.
His tongue found my nipple, soaking the fabric of my bra in seconds. He softly bit the tip, then sucked hard enough to make the world spark in a flash of colours. His free hand wrapped around my neglected breast, kneading, moulding, tweaking.
“Adam,” I begged, well aware it was a beg.
“Who are you?” he demanded, working to free my breasts from their constraint, and then stealing my breath of speech to answer when his lips melded, skin to skin, against my nipple.
The bra was tossed dismissively to the floor, as his hand wrapped around my waist and hip, lifting me hard against his erection.
“Who are you?” he repeated when all I did was groan.
I couldn’t answer, I needed friction. My hips started rolling, demanding he finish this, or start it, I couldn’t decide what came first.
He let out a hiss; his breaths stalled as he succumbed to my movements. His head tipped down, hot breath panting against the damp skin of my neck, his hips rocking in tandem with mine; a dance we’d done before, but somehow this was different.
Adam growled, then reared back, his deep blue eyes turbulent like a storm at sea, then he reached down and tore the edge of my panties, ripping the other side in a move that, frankly, damn well impressed.
This was more like the Adam who had fucked me up against a wall in the interview room. This was more like the Adam that had taken a midnight bike ride with me and let me suck his cock under the moon on a deserted wharf. This was what I was used to, and I welcomed it, like an old friend. Like a familiar and well worn blanket.
And then he stopped. Staring down at the sight of my naked body and breathing heavily through an open mouth, as though shocked. His body swayed, his fingers clenched, he swallowed thickly; I could tell all he wanted was to fuck.
And yet he’d stopped. Then reaching out a purposeful hand, he ran a slightly trembling finger over one of my scars.
A slow breath of air escaped me as the tip of his finger left a blazing trail of heat wherever it went.
The knife wound I received in Iran.
The bullet wound from Hamburg.
The whip mark from Haiti.
The compound fracture that broke skin in Guangzhou.
The several minor scrapes and punctures that time did not allow me to forget. Berlin. Lyon. Singapore. Moscow. Paris. Vienna. Kiev. Minsk. Leipzig. Zurich. Prague. Taipei. Hong Kong.
“See?” I said, my voice cracking. “My name is Charlie.”
His eyes met mine, a wealth of pain and sorrow flashed inside brilliant sapphire. And then, still holding my gaze, he began to unwind the leather strips he always wore at his wrist. One after the other, after the other, after the other, until all that was left was bare skin.
And a scar that spoke a thousand words and felt like agony.
“I wasn’t always Adam either,” he whispered, staring down at the mark that would never let him forget too.
I moved forward, sitting up as he remained statue still on his knees above me, and reached out a hand to cup his cheek. Then lifted the other, framing him as he had framed me only moments before.
Hear me. Know this.
“I’ll make you a promise,” I said, the words forming before I could vet them. I licked my lips, held his tortured gaze… and fell. “In here I’ll be your Charisse. If you’ll be my Adam.”
And watched as his eyes slowly closed, and his shoulders slowly relaxed, and Adam Savill reached out and caught me.
Chapter 31
Already Aware That I’d, Well And Truly, Been Fucking Caught
Adam
The touch of her hands along my jaw felt surreal. The fact that she was here with me, in bed, naked, felt like a fucking fantasy. This woman who could kill as easily as she breathed. This woman who had done things, gone places, seen horrors, I could never imagine. This woman who had been raised to be a spy and knew nothing but that reality.
Touching me. Staring into me. Being with me.
I wrapped my arms around her shoulders and devoured her.
Her skin, so marked by her experiences, felt hot against mine. My fingers found her hair, wrapping strands around my hand, covering my wrist from sight with a glorious golden ribbon. I tipped her head back with a small tug on her locks, and gently bit the edge of her jaw, smoothing my lips hungrily down her long neck, then finding her pulse point.
It only seemed fitting that I mark her where she had marked me the very first day we’d met.
Unlike her scars, she’d wear this on the outside only briefly. But I had every intention that she’d wear it on the inside for-fucking-ever.
Charlie was mine. I knew it the moment she reached out and touched me. I knew it the second she looked deep in my eyes and made that promise. I’d known it, somewhere within me, from the very first day she’d stalked into my life.
But she hadn’t made it easy. She’d set a challenge that had called to me, that had spoken to me on a subliminal level. She’d made me hunt her. The spy who could track as well as me. She’d made me work for it.
And part of me, a small part nowhere near the vicinity of my eager erection, thought maybe she hadn’t been completed snared yet. Maybe there was more of a challenge ahead.
But here. Now. She was Charisse. With a hard edge of Charlie thrown in for good measure.
Her hands gripped my hips and pulled me flush against her body, pressing her beautiful breasts hard against my chest. Her nails dug into my skin, marking me as I marked her. I pulled harder on her hair, tipped her head back farther, then moved my lips to her nipples and made her fucking feel.
“Oh, fuck!” she managed, her hands grappling for purchase, her chest rising and falling with panted breaths. Her hips rocking against mine in time to the steady rhythm of suction at her tit.
She had fantastic tits.
I slipped my free hand down over her stomach, her body arched back for my desire, my pleasure. I moved my lips to her other breast, while I kept careful pressure on her hair, then ran a finger between her thighs.
She was soaked. Charlie the spy getting off on a little dominance. Who would have thought?
But then, to catch Charlie, I’d realised you needed to prove your worth. I only prayed to God that I’d fucking managed to convince her.
“You’re mine,” I growled against her taut nipple as my finger thrust deep inside. She didn’t reply. I didn’t expect her to. Charlie would never succumb to such tactics. I needed to up my game.
I rolled over onto my back, taking her with me, giving her the illusion of superiority. She smiled. It was calculated; a smile I’d seen on her face se
veral times before. Her hips rocked, her thighs pressed in tightly against mine, her body undulated like a fucking belly dancer; swivelling and rolling above my straining cock.
I let her have her moment; I was enjoying it too bloody much to stop. Then I reached up, cupped her cheeks with both hands, and gently pulled her down until her lips met mine.
And then I kissed her. Not hard. But soft. I let my tongue feather over her bottom lip, let my hips rock up to meet her heated centre, my chest brush enticingly against her sensitive breasts.
She moaned. Fucking yes! Then tried to deepen the kiss; demand more. Take what she wanted and leave nothing behind in her wake.
I could have let her. Fuck, I would have loved to have let her. But I wasn’t in this for the quick win. I wanted more. Not just this moment. Not just this battle. But to claim victory over the war.
Claiming Charlie was pure combat. A battle that raged inside her that she couldn’t see. They’d hidden it well; her emotions, her wants, her needs. They’d emptied her out and filled her up with lies and betrayals and useless mechanical efficiency.
Oh, it got the job done, but what did it leave?
No. This woman was mine and I’d fucking well win her.
Our tongues tangled; slow, sweet, pure ecstasy. She fisted my hair, urged me on with little nips and licks, her pussy sliding against my dick in a blatant invitation to enter. But I moved my hands down her body, stroking sweat dampened flesh with a caress aimed to soothe, and then gripped her very fine arse and squeezed.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
“Horny!” she growled.
I felt my lips tip up in a smile and I moved them to suck on her earlobe, then whispered, hot breath across the shell, “Not what, firecracker. Who?”
She made a frustrated sound and reached between us to grip my cock tightly. A single stroke and I forgot every single thought.
“Are you going to fuck me? Or are you just a tease?” Her words broke through the bliss of friction and I blinked.
Nah-uh. You don’t get to win in here.
Sweet Seduction Secrets (Sweet Seduction, Book 8): A Love At First Sight Romantic Suspense Series Page 27
