Desperate Deeds

by Dee Davis

  His thumb flicked against her, and she threw back her head and moaned, the sound guttural, coming from deep inside her. Then his tongue replaced his thumb, the hot, moist pressure making her buck against him, then struggle to escape the finely drawn pain he was creating.

  But his hands circled her hips, cupping her bottom, effectively holding her in place, his tongue moving faster and faster, heat streaking through her with each and every touch. She wanted more and yet she wasn’t certain that she could stand the exquisite torture.

  He sucked then, pulling her tight, and she climaxed, sensation sending her over the precipice, spiraling out of control, her contractions so powerful she fought to breathe. As her body spasmed, he moved to pull her close, the two of them lying together, body to body. And she reached up to press her lips against his, the kiss softer and deeper than before, but no less wanting. This time she explored the hot crevices of his mouth and the smooth surface of his teeth, feeling the heat rising inside her again.

  With a slow smile, she pushed him back, rolling over so that she was on top of him. He reached for her breasts, the feel of his fingers against her skin like kindling on a fire. He rubbed her nipples until they were hard and throbbing. And she tightened her thighs, holding his penis tight between her legs, the tiniest wriggle sending pleasure rippling through her.

  “Take me,” he urged, his eyes hooded with passion, his voice so low it was almost a growl. “I want you. Now.”

  Her lips quirked, and she enjoyed the moment of control, knowing full well that if he chose, he could change their positions in an instant. Still smiling, she lifted up, and with the help of his guiding hands, impaled herself upon him. He filled her completely, her slick passageway stretched tight.

  She closed her eyes and slowly began to move. Up. Down. Up. Down. Caressing him, her internal muscles tightening and releasing as she moved, pleasure building with each slow thrust. In and out, deeper and harder. The tension inside her building as she concentrated on the rhythm, the only reality now the sensation between her thighs.

  His hands tightened on her hips, and their eyes locked as they moved faster and faster, the connection beyond physical. Then there was nothing but the feel of him moving inside her and the pounding need for release.

  She reached for it, twining her fingers with his, sensation blotting out every other thought, until the heat inside her exploded into tangible joy, shudders shaking her body as she banished all the darkness and let herself fly free.

  Later—much later—she sat on the bed watching as Owen bent to peer into the minibar.

  “It seems you’ve drunk all the bourbon,” Owen said, still looking into the little refrigerator.

  “There were only two,” she protested. “And I needed them both. Medicinal purposes.” It was hard to believe that the two of them were having such casual conversation, in the nude, no less. She was far from a prude, but she’d known the man less than twenty-four hours, and yet, somehow, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. “We could order something from downstairs.”

  Owen glanced over at the clock. “I think it’s too late for that. So, I guess we’ll just have to make do.” He turned around holding two bottles of Bailey’s Irish Cream.

  “Seems a bit, I don’t know, tame—all things considered? I wouldn’t have picked you for a liqueur kind of guy.”

  He grinned, walking over to drop down beside her on the bed. “Let’s see, first you accuse me of being repressed.”

  “No, no…” she said, waving her hands. “I think you’ve successfully proved me wrong on that count. Which is all the more reason why I’m surprised at your choice of beverage.”

  “It’s not my fault you polished off all the bourbon,” he reminded her, twisting the lid off the first Bailey’s bottle. “And besides, it’s not what you drink, so much as how you drink it.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, his heated gaze skimming over her naked body.

  “Surely you’re not,” she protested, scooting back on the bed, “I mean…”

  “Now who’s repressed?” he asked, moving closer.

  “I wasn’t… I didn’t…” Tyler’s heart was beating so fast she thought it might jump right out of her chest. “I just…”

  Owen covered her lips with a finger, then straddled her, tilting his head to one side. “I’m just looking for a little dessert. Surely you wouldn’t deny a man something so sweet.” He lifted the bottle and drizzled the liquid between her breasts. She shivered, more from anticipation than cold, as it ran across her skin, pooling in her belly button.

  He lowered his head, his tongue caressing the scar between her breasts before tracing the sticky liquid’s path downward, moving across her stomach to the soft indentation in her belly. Sucking lightly, he sipped the contents, then drove his tongue inside, the contact making her writhe against him, wanting more. Needing more.

  He continued to probe, driving in and out and then letting his mouth trail lower, flicking against the soft skin between her legs.

  “Wait,” she whispered, struggling to maintain control. “You’re not the only one who’s hungry.”

  His smile was slow, his eyes echoing her desire as he rolled over, his penis springing turgid against his stomach. With shaking hands, she opened the second bottle and trailed the sweet chocolaty liqueur along the line of hair that grazed his abdomen.

  After licking the sweet liquid off his stomach, she closed her mouth around his penis, the wet heat getting an instant response. Circling her hand just below her mouth, she gently squeezed and sucked, using her tongue to tease him as he grew harder.

  She felt his fingers in her hair, as his groans of pleasure urged her on. She started to move faster, to take him deeper, but he pulled back. “I want to be inside you,” he said, his voice hoarse with passion.

  “Now?” She smiled up at him, licking the last of the Bailey’s off her lips.

  He nodded, still struggling for words. “If you do that one moment longer it will be too late.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want that,” she said, containing a smile.

  “No, we wouldn’t.” He stared at her a moment, and then with a growl of pure passion, flipped her over, his big body covering hers as he took control, sliding his fingers deep inside her, his thumb flicking against her clitoris. Desire surged and her laughter faded, her thoughts centering on the delicious sensation coursing through her.

  She pushed upward, taking him deeper, and then bit at his lips, forcing her tongue inside his mouth, finding the same rhythm as his fingers, her action reversing their roles yet again, the tortured becoming the temptress.

  He moved his hand and lifted his body, sliding into her with one smooth motion. She arched her back, spreading to accept him, her mind screaming now for release. He drove deep, and she tightened around him in welcome.

  Then he held so still, she could feel their hearts beating together as she reveled in the simple pleasure of connection, the binding of his body to hers. Then, as if unable to stand it any longer, he began to move, first withdrawing, and then driving deep and then deeper still.

  She rose to meet him, thrust for thrust, their bodies moving in mirror image, up and down, thrusting, parrying. A dance that drove her to the brink. Her body tightened in anticipation, tension stretching as she strained against him, wanting to be closer and then again closer still.

  Tyler arched against him one last time, thrusting upward, pulling him deeper. And then the world exploded into a symphony of sound and light, the release beyond pleasure, beyond pain. For one perfect moment, there was no future and no past. No expectations. No responsibilities. Just the two of them. Man and woman. Explosive and elemental.

  It was a fantasy and she knew it. But that didn’t change the power of the act, or the magic of the man.

  Morning light streamed through the window and across the bed. Tyler buried her head underneath a pillow, craving more sleep. It had been a long night. The thought brought memory to the surface, and, blushing, she sat up, pushing
the hair out of her eyes.

  The room was empty. Which, although not unexpected, was surprisingly disappointing, the only signs that she hadn’t spent the night alone the two empty bottles of Bailey’s and the used condoms in the trash.

  She smiled, remembering. And then frowned, wondering when she’d become so desperate. Picking up men in bars wasn’t exactly her usual mode of operation. But then winding up on the losing end of an operation wasn’t the norm either. So maybe the one thing had led to the other. And it wasn’t as if she’d ever see the man again.

  The thought wasn’t as comforting as she’d have expected, and she swung out of bed, heading for the shower, her body stiff and sore in places she’d forgotten all about. Which brought on another smile. She’d say one thing for Owen Wakefield. He was a hell of a lover. In one night he’d single-handedly managed to debunk the idea of the stuffy Englishman.

  James Bond would be proud.

  Still laughing at her own ridiculous musings, Tyler stepped into the shower, letting the hot water pound away her aches and pains. The bruises had intensified overnight, the coloring more vivid than before. Her body’s way of healing. She’d had worse. And survived. In the end she’d been lucky.

  Or maybe Owen was right. Maybe there wasn’t such a thing as luck. Maybe things happened the way they did for a reason. Either way, it was time to face reality. No more flights into fantasy, bourbon-induced or otherwise. She tipped her head back, letting the water wash away the last vestiges of her night with Owen.

  It had been wonderful. But like all good things—it wasn’t meant to last.

  CHAPTER 3

  Owen walked into the restaurant, automatically assessing the place for danger. He wasn’t expecting anything out of the ordinary, but it was always best to stay on the alert. The place had been chosen for its obscurity—a hole in the wall Mexican joint on the outskirts of Colorado Springs. Logan Palmer sat in the back, the obligatory basket of tortilla chips and salsa sitting half eaten in front of him.

  “You’re late,” he said, frowning as he looked up at Owen.

  Palmer worked for the NSA, as part of a cloak-and-dagger division tasked with policing America’s intelligence agencies—spying on the spies, as it were. In the old days, Owen would have considered a man like Palmer reprehensible. Beneath contempt. But at the moment, he merely represented a paycheck.

  And a way to get through one more day.

  “I’ve been waiting almost half an hour.”

  “Missed the turn.” Owen shrugged as he slid into the booth. “Even after four years of living in your country, I still look for signage on the left. Anyway, I’m here.”

  “So what have you got.” The older man sat back, waiting.

  “Not much, I’m afraid.” Owen reached for a chip, dipping it into the fiery salsa before popping it into his mouth. “At least beyond what’s official. I did everything you asked. Went to the scene and to the base for her interrogation. I even followed her to her hotel. We shared a couple of drinks. But if there’s anything beyond the official version, Tyler Hanson’s not telling. She’s a professional. She knows the drill.”

  Except that she’d risked opening herself up to him. Sharing her bed and a little piece of herself. If he’d been any other man he’d have felt guilty for what he’d done in taking advantage of her when she was hurting. But anything decent about him had died a long time ago in an explosion in Mayfair.

  “So you’re saying she’s innocent?” Palmer asked.

  It was tempting to concur. Maybe he owed her that much. But in truth, everyone had secrets, and if Tyler’s had anything to do with the stolen detonators, he wasn’t helping anyone by lying. “I can’t say anything definitively. Like I said, she’s not the type to give anything away. Still…” He paused, trying to order his thoughts.

  “Go on,” Palmer prompted, eyeing Owen over the rim of his iced-tea glass.

  “It’s not anything specific really,” he said. “It’s just that if I’d been in her situation, I’d never have left my team alone on the road. Not unless there was something really compelling to pull me away.”

  “The motorcycle?”

  “Not enough. There was damage to the guard rail, and she mentioned something about thinking there might be a body down in the ravine. But the motorcycle was in the middle of the road. So the logic doesn’t follow. Unless there was something else.”

  “Something she’s choosing to keep secret,” Palmer mused. “But considering the questions surrounding her survival in the wake of the deaths of the rest of the team, you’d think she’d be more willing to talk. So maybe her only reason for going down into the ravine was to get the hell out of the way. She was wearing a vest, right?”

  “Yes. But she’d been injured in a previous operation.” He’d seen the scars, but he wasn’t about to share that information. “So it’s possible she was just being cautious.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe she knew what was going to happen, and she wanted to make it look good. Get shot without risking any real damage.”

  “You’ve never said why you’re gunning for Tyler Hanson,” Owen said, reaching for his water glass. “I mean, you called me in before the transport left the base, which meant you suspected something might happen even then.”

  “We had intel. Nothing concrete, but it seemed to indicate there might be problems.”

  “With Tyler?”

  “Not specifically, no. But when A-Tac was made a part of the transfer it raised a red flag.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following.” Owen shook his head. “Why would their involvement sound an alarm? Aren’t their missions sanctioned from the top? I’d assume they’re above reproach.”

  “Not in this political climate. In fact, they’re exactly the kind of unit the politicians are targeting. Especially after this latest round of revelations regarding CIA turncoats.”

  “You’re talking about the guy from Colombia?” A former operative had been running arms operations out of South America, his inside knowledge allowing him to avoid detection. He was responsible for bringing down an entire black ops division, jeopardizing U.S. security in the process. The U.S. Congress had had a field day. “But he was stopped, and from what I’ve read his operations were dismantled.”

  “Unfortunately, there was more to it than that. He had help, and from what we’ve been able to gather he’d managed to infiltrate the organization at the highest levels.”

  “But I still don’t see the tie-in to Tyler Hanson and the detonators.”

  “It was a team from A-Tac that managed to bring the traitor’s actions to light. Tyler was part of that team. And we believe that the insider helping with the arms deals also originated with A-Tac.”

  Owen let out a low whistle. “So that’s why we were called in. But couldn’t the traitor have come from somewhere higher up in the chain of command?”

  “It’s possible. But the fiasco in Colombia wasn’t the first time A-Tac’s had problems. There’s been a string of apparent sabotage. Communications problems, jammed guns, cut ropes.”

  “Care to elaborate?” Owen asked.

  “Pretty straightforward stuff. On a mission in the Far East the communications system cut out. It was a new one and at first the failure was considered a fluke. But then on a second mission, this one stateside, a jammed gun almost cost them the mission. And then during an operation in Cyprus, a climbing rope broke during an ascent almost taking out four operatives.”

  “All conceivably accidents.”

  “Yes. Except on further examination, the gun proved to have been tampered with and the rope was severed. And explosives the team took into Colombia to eliminate an arms stash had also been tampered with. And no one had access to the equipment but members of the team and their ancillary staff.”

  “So it had to be an inside job.”

  “It would seem so.” Palmer nodded. “Of course none of this would have come to our attention if not for the revelation that the man they were hunting in Colombia was in fact homegro
wn. But when you take it all in combination—especially adding in A-Tac’s role in the detonators theft—the potential connection can’t be ignored.”

  “And since Tyler was the only A-Tac member on site in Colorado—she’s moved to the top of your list,” Owen said, his mind churning as he considered the possibilities. “What about the other incidents? Was she present? I know from her dossier that she was medevaced out of Colombia early in the mission.”

  “Actually, it puts her in the perfect position to ferry information to the traitor,” Palmer said, propping his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers. “For exactly the reasons you state. After surgery in Ecuador, she came back to the States, with full access to everything necessary to keep the information flowing. And when you add that to the fact that there’s no real reason for her to have been part of the transport team, it starts to look pretty suspicious.”

  “What do you mean no reason?” Owen asked. “I thought she was an expert with ordnance.”

  “She is. But the detonators weren’t exactly high-risk. Without a payload they’re harmless. So why the need to bring in someone with her credentials?”

  “Maybe there’s something about the payload we don’t know? I mean the CIA and Homeland Security aren’t exactly known for playing nice together. Could be they’re holding out on you.”

  “I’d agree except that this wasn’t a CIA operation. It was military all the way. And to hear General Fisher tell it, they were as surprised as anyone to find out Hanson had been assigned to the transport. Orders appear to have come from the top at Langley, but things like that are easily doctored.”

  “So you’re thinking that someone within A-Tac, possibly Tyler Hanson, fabricated the assignment?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. At least not yet. But my bosses believe it’s worth investigating. Especially when you factor in Ms. Hanson’s miraculous survival. It just seems a little too convenient that she just happened to be wearing a vest, and then managed to be out of direct range when the attack occurred.”