The Pleasure of Panic

by JA Huss

  It’s already after four AM, and I’m not sure I could sleep, even if I had the time. My seminar is at noon, but I need to get my shit together before I walk in and try to change the mindset of three hundred women. I can’t go up there and talk to them all freaked out about shit like this.

  “Hey,” I say, walking into his living room and dropping my bag on the floor.

  “What’s up?” he asks, taking his holster off and locking his gun in a safe hidden in the wall.

  “Just answer me this, OK?”

  “Sure, what is it, Issy?” Now he’s walking into his bedroom, taking off his suit coat as he disappears.

  “If that raid last night was real—”

  He pops into the doorway again and my eyes immediately track to his fingers, which are unbuttoning his button-down shirt. “If?” he says. “If it was real?”

  “Fine,” I huff. “It was real. Wouldn’t they have like… crime scene tape and shit all over my place? Am I even allowed to go back in there?”

  “It’s not a murder scene.” He disappears into his bedroom again.

  I wonder what he’s taking off next. But then I hear the jingle of his belt and know.

  “Right, but don’t they have to send in a forensics team or something?”

  He appears in the open doorway again, this time bare-chested and wearing cut-off sweat shorts. I stare a second too long, and when my eyes meet his, he’s smiling. “Someone’s been watching too many police procedurals on TV.” And then he winks. “Just change out of those clothes and try to get some sleep, OK? I’m fuckin’ tired, I gotta be up in like two hours, and I need to just forget about this day.”

  I look down at my bag, thinking about what I have inside it.

  “Now what?” he asks, leaving the bedroom and walking towards me. He goes into the kitchen, grabs a glass from a cupboard, and fills it with water from the fridge door.

  “I’m just gonna sleep in my clothes,” I say, trying to look at anything but his naked torso. He’s very fit. Like very fit. I’m talking six-pack. I’m talking that v-line of muscle that disappears under the waist line of his sweat shorts. I’m talking—

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t bring… anything appropriate.”

  His eyes dart to my pack, then meet mine again.

  He smiles.

  We both go for the bag at the same time. I’m closer, so I get to it first, but his arms are long and he snatches it away. I jump, trying to get it back, but he holds it over his head.

  Have I mentioned he’s a foot taller than me?

  “Give it back,” I say.

  “What’d you pack?”

  “None of your business. Now give it back.”

  He turns his back to me and starts unzipping the bag while I desperately try to reach around his broad shoulders to no avail. “What is…”

  “Give it back,” I say, pulling on the strap, and this time I succeed. Or he lets it go. Or whatever. It doesn’t matter. Because he’s holding up what I did pack.

  “Dayum, woman. You were gonna wear this for me tonight?”

  I close my eyes, rub my fingertips into my temples, and say, “This isn’t happening.”

  “Are you into…”

  “Shut up and give it back.”

  “Issy.” He laughs. “You’re a kinky little bitch, you know that?”

  I snatch the nightie—it really doesn’t qualify as a nightie. People don’t wear open-tit lingerie to bed. People wear open-tit lingerie to sex clubs. Which is where I thought I was going tonight.

  “You gonna put it on?” Finn asks.

  I open my eyes, snatch the… costume… out of his hands, throw it over my shoulder, and say, “Not in your dreams, playboy.”

  But he’s already reaching into the bag again. “Je-sus,” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper. Like he’s found buried treasure. “Holy shit. You’re really into this, aren’t you?”

  He’s looking at my boots now. Black. Thigh-high. Grommets and laces all the way up the back. Made of latex.

  He drops them to the floor. “What’s this?”

  I take a deep, deep breath.

  “OK,” he says, waving the riding crop in the air. “Hold on, sister. We gotta get this out of the way before we go any further.”

  My blood pressure is rising so rapidly, my head begins to pound.

  “Do you like to dish it out?” He whips the crop back and forth in the air so it makes that whoosh sound. “Or do you like to be the one being dished on?”

  I grab the crop, pull it out of his hand, and hide it behind my back. “Are you done?”

  “I don’t think so.” He laughs as he reaches back into the bag and removes nipple clamps. “My God,” he says, looking at them in the palm of his hand, then at my tits, then at them again.

  “OK, all very funny,” I say, trying to be nonchalant. “We’re done here. I’m gonna sleep on the couch in my clothes, you’re going to your room. Good night.”

  “Oh.” He grins. “Oh, no, no, no. I mean… come on, Issy.”

  “Come on what?”

  He walks towards me.

  I back away.

  But his long arms—damn his long arms—reach around behind my back and take the crop.

  I give up and don’t fight him. Fuck it, right? Just let him have his fun. He’ll tire himself out like a child and then he’ll let it go.

  But he whacks me on the ass so hard with the crop, I jump. “What the fuck?”

  “Did it make you wet?”

  “You’re insane.”

  “I’m insane? Woman, you’re the one who went out on a date with me tonight and packed kink!”

  “It wasn’t a date. It was a game.”

  “Oh, excuse me,” he says, closing his eyes and placing a mea culpa hand over his heart. “You’re the one who let me take you out with the intention of putting all this on.”

  He opens his eyes.

  We stare at each other.

  “So,” he says, reaching for my wrists and pulling me towards him. His chest is hot. And bare. And muscular. He smells faintly of aftershave. And sweat. And the city. He smells like sex, I realize. Because I already let him fuck me. We’ve already done this. “This is your fantasy, huh?”

  I look up at him. I have to crane my neck back to see his face because he’s so tall. “So what?”

  “Then let’s do it.”

  “You mean, let’s play the game you were sent to play?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah, if that’s what you need to go forward. Let’s play the game, Issy.”

  Is it a game? Or isn’t it?

  I can’t tell anymore.

  He takes off my coat, just like he did earlier. Takes off my jacket, just like he did earlier. Then unbuttons my blouse, opens it up, except he doesn’t pull off all the buttons this time. His hand grabs my breasts through my bra, squeezing.

  And it’s all very familiar. Should be, because we’ve already been here and back.

  The crop smacks my ass again, only this time I don’t jump.

  I moan.

  “I’m winning at the moment,” he whispers into my neck, biting my ear. “But if you put all this on, you’ll steal the game right out from under me. Because I’ll forfeit and you’ll win the prize.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - FINN

  “So we are playing a game?” she asks.

  “Come on,” I say, still leaning into her neck. “Just forget about that stupid game. We’ve got some chemistry here, right? I mean, you did let me fuck you earlier.” She huffs some air, but I cut her off. “You liked it. You came. Couple times. And even though you’re putting up this fight and holding out hope that this is a game so you don’t have to take responsibility for that, it’s not, Issy. It’s just two strangers who click. That’s all. And when that happens you don’t just throw it away. You let it lead you. You give it a chance. You make a decision to go down a new road. Because clicking with people is a special thing that doesn’t happen every day.”

  “You didn�
�t answer the question.”

  “Jesus. No,” I say. “At least not that game. I have nothing to do with this Jordan Wells shit. At all. I bumped into you the same way you bumped into me. And yeah, I misled you a little to get you to stay with me tonight, and yeah, that was part of my job. But no one told me to fuck you, Issy. Or like you. That was just… me.”

  She thinks about this for a second. “I still have a lot of questions.”

  “Like what?” I ask. “Ask me. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  “Why did the FBI show up at my office?”

  “I don’t really know for sure, but I’m assuming you’re just caught in someone’s web.”

  “Bad luck,” she answers.

  I shrug. “Bad luck.”

  “I don’t buy it.”

  “Me either.” I laugh. “But no one’s after you now and we can’t get any answers until morning, so why dwell on it?”

  I squeeze her breasts again so she won’t forget we have other options. Better ways to pass the time than focusing on what’s probably nothing more than some bizarre random circumstance.

  I lean back a little so I can see her face. Her eyes are darting back and forth, like she’s thinking pretty hard about something. She sighs, meets my gaze, and says, “You just want to see me in the costume.”

  “True.” I smile. “And you want to put it on. Just admit it.”

  She tries not to smile, but fails, so she turns her head to hide it.

  “So let me put it on you.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” I say, reaching around her back to unclasp her bra. I drag it, and her open blouse, down her arms and let them both fall to the floor. She takes yet another deep breath, like she wants to give in to an urge to fold her arms across her chest and cover herself.

  But she doesn’t give in. She looks up at me and holds her position, arms down at her side.

  I unbutton her pants, slide my hands under the fabric of her slacks, and let my fingers slip between her legs.

  “You’re excited,” I say, leaning down once again, this time to smell her. Her scent is not perfume, but something else. Something softer. Sweeter. Shampoo, or hand lotion, or hell, maybe she’s just sweet on the inside and it leaks through her pores to balance out the tough-girl exterior.

  “Mmmm,” she moans.

  “So what do ya say? You up for a wardrobe change?”

  Her back stiffens at the question, but my fingers are ready. I push one inside her and it glides easily through her wetness. “Say yes,” I whisper. “Just say yes, Issy. Accept the challenge and we’ll turn this whole night around. Make it something new. Something special.”

  “Special.” She chuckles. “I don’t even know you. I know nothing about you at all.”

  “Well, how about this?” I say back, one hand sliding her pants over her hips until they fall down her legs, the other still inside her pussy, busy taking away the last of her inhibitions. “I’ll dress you up and for as long as it takes me to do that, you can ask me questions. I’ll answer every single one with the truth. You bare yourself to me, I’ll lay myself open to you. Deal?”

  She bites her lip, but nods her head at the same time. “You’re just gonna lie, so why bother.”

  I hold my hand up, palm towards her like I’m taking an oath, and say, “Promise. The truth, and nothing but the truth.”

  She hesitates. And when she says nothing at all, I take that as a yes. “Excellent,” I say, walking around her to reach for the discarded costume. “Excellent.”

  Her eyes track me, her body turning as I pick up her outfit. Damn, this might be the funnest mistake of my life.

  “OK,” she finally says, biting her lip. “First question. Why did you lie to me earlier?”

  I hold up the lingerie and shake my head a little. This, all of this—that magic bag she’s carrying around—is definitely a sex fantasy come to life.

  “Wait,” I say, looking down at her.

  “What? You said you’d answer anything. Don’t back out on me now, Agent Murphy.”

  “No, I mean, wait a second. You’re accusing me of playing a game with you, but…”

  “But what?” She’s still resisting the urge to cover herself. But she doesn’t bring her arms up. She steps out of her pants and kicks them aside instead.

  “But… what if you’re playing a game with me?” I ask.

  “What? What’s that even mean?”

  “What if… someone bought me a game with Jordan Wells and you’re the player and I’m the unsuspecting victim?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Nice try. I’m not even gonna answer that.”

  “Why?” I ask, walking over to her again, unable to resist the feeling of the soft silky fabric of her costume between my fingers.

  “Because it’s ridiculous. I’m the one who has no clue what’s happening. I’m the one who met with Jordan. I’m the one who got turned down. You said you didn’t even know him. And that’s enough questions from you. Unless you’d like me to play dress-up with you while you ask me questions.” She grabs the lingerie from my hand and holds it up. “Choose.”

  My laugh bellows all the way up to the ceiling. “I don’t think so.” I snatch the costume back, bend down, and reach for her ankle.

  She gasps, pulling away.

  “Cooperate, Issy. It’s better that way.”

  “I’m ticklish,” she says, once again pulling her foot away from my reaching hand. “I’ll handle the foot department.”

  “No way,” I say, serious. “I’m definitely handling the boots.”

  She stifles a grin, bites her lip, and shakes her head all in the same moment. “You have a foot fetish?”

  “No… uh, well, I don’t think so. I just like the thought of slipping your feet into those sexy-as-fuck boots. And,” I say, taking hold of her ankle—she hisses in a breath through her teeth, like this is painful—“I’ll take these ones off, as well.”

  I slip her shoe off before she can think too hard about that. Clearly, her feet need the attention if it makes her that uncomfortable.

  When I look up at her, I’m grinning. So big.

  She counters with, “Why were you demoted? When you left the FBI in DC?”

  Shit. Why’d I have to go admit that to her? “It’s a long story.”

  “Those boots will take a long time to put on. We’ve got time. Now talk.”

  I eye the boots and decide she’s right. There’s no zipper, it’s just laces and grommets for as far as the eye can see.

  Which absolutely delights me. So fuck it.

  “OK,” I say, cupping her foot. It’s tiny, just like her. And soft.

  She grits her teeth, holds onto my shoulder for balance, and mumbles something like, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

  “I’m Irish.”

  “Yes,” she hisses, like she’s trying to distract herself. “Your name doesn’t hide that fact.”

  “Right. It’s like a goddamned stigma. But what can you do?”

  “You could change it, I guess.” She’s calmer now, because I’ve let go of her foot and she’s not balancing on one leg. But she winces and grabs my shoulders again when I reach for the other one and slip that shoe off too.

  “I could, I guess. But doesn’t change who I am.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Finnegan Murphy.”

  “Finnegan.” She laughs. “It’s silly and sexy at the same time.”

  “So I’ve been told before. Back east the Irish have a certain… reputation.”

  “Oh,” she says.

  “Is that an, Oh, that’s interesting, kind of oh? Or an, Oh, that’s too bad, kind of oh?”

  “Bad, dummy.”

  I swipe a finger up the underside of her foot until she tries to hop backwards. I have her by the ankle with the other hand, so she gets… maybe two inches of space.

  “Stop it!” she squeals.

  “Then be fair. You want to know things about me? I’m telling you them. But
you can’t judge me until I’m done.”

  “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “Well, it is now. Because that’s playing fair. And we’re playing fair.”

  “Then don’t tickle me.”

  “Deal.”

  I smile up at her, but she’s scowling. “Go on.”

  “OK, so I’m from a big extended Irish family. And my father was FBI, and his father was FBI, and his father before that was FBI too.”

  “Got it. You’ve got no ambition of your own.”

  “Fuck. You.” But I follow that up immediately with, “I’m sorry. Forget I said that. It’s not fair.”

  “Jesus. Fuckin’ men. You’re all the same.”

  “I’m gonna do you a favor now, and forget you said that. Because it’s not fair either. You don’t know me. I don’t know you, and hopefully, once we tell our stories, we’ll see eye to eye. Maybe you’ll change your mind about me.”

  “I’m not telling my story, you’re telling yours because we made a deal. So one more time, Agent Murphy. Why did you get demoted?” This time it comes out with a little more venom. But she’s also eyeing the boot I’m holding with apprehension.

  I place my hand on the back of her upper thigh and say, “Relax. It’s not torture. It’s fun.”

  She forces a smile, but shakes her head.

  I start unlacing the back of the boot. I swear, there’s like forty-seven eyelets to deal with. But I’m not complaining. That’s forty-seven chances to drive her wild as I lace them back up.

  “OK, back to the fuckin’ question. The demotion in DC. What was that about? You disappoint your dad or something?”

  “You’re a goddamned mind-reader, Ms. Grey.”

  “So you did.”

  I nod.

  “What did you do?”

  “I did… a whole lot of nothing for a very long time. And then one day… I had enough, you know?” I look up at her as I lace her boot.

  “He was a good witch? Or a bad witch?”

  I think about this and want to say good, because there’s good in everybody. And it’s easy to see the good over the bad when it comes to family. But I can’t lie. I promised her the truth. So I don’t bother trying and answer with, “Bad witch.”

  “Oh.”