by Renee Rose
“Yeah, I got it.”
“Thanks. Listen, did you get any more on who called the Angel? From the inside, I mean?”
There was a silence on the other end that made his senses sharpen, a sense of foreboding creeping over him.
“I can’t be sure.”
“Who?” he demanded, raising his voice, his adrenals popping into gear and sending his body into hyper-drive.
When Marcus didn’t answer, he snapped, “Tell me, Marcus!”
“It might have been Beatty. But I can’t verify.”
Goosebumps stood up on his arms as a kind of white heat flooded his veins. “Mother fucker,” he swore softly. “Why would he put out a kill on El Demo from the outside, when he already has one on the inside?”
“I don’t know,” Marcus said. “Because he has something to hide? Something he wouldn’t want El Demo to tell another agent?”
He stood up and paced his hotel room. “Maybe. Or could it be he already knew about me and he doesn’t think I’d do it?”
“Would you?” Marcus asked.
Zac didn’t know the answer to that. Becca thought her father was dead already. And the man had sold state secrets, although they hadn’t caused much harm. It wasn’t like he leaked the identities of his fellow agents—he had turned over plans for an operation that had already been called off, which could mean he had been trying to minimize damage. But that could also mean he had some reason for doing it that he might want to tell another agent about…
“I don’t know, Marcus. A week ago I would have said yes. But now it’s more personal.” He blew out his breath with a hiss, still pacing the room. “I’m in deep, aren’t I?”
Marcus was silent. “Family comes first,” he said with uncharacteristic gruffness.
He remembered the reason Marcus worked an analyst job rather than in the field was because he had a wife and two girls. It had been the reason he’d trusted Marcus with the secret of his son. It was Marcus who’d known how to plant Zac Casper into the marine pension system and it was Marcus who had dressed in a uniform and delivered the fake death notice to Becca. In exchange, he’d made sure Marcus had become rich along with him, as field agents often received the benefit of seized currency or goods that couldn’t be traced. It was unofficially considered part of their compensation for being non-existent and risking their lives on a daily basis for their country.
He looked at his watch. “It’s 9 p.m. your time. Get there early, okay?”
Marcus snorted. “I think I can handle it.”
“I know. Thanks.”
Chapter Four
Becca drove around Lincoln Park in her car, the windows and doors locked tight, her heart slamming in her chest. Not unlike her peaceful Golden Hill neighborhood, people were out on the street, lounging on porches and steps, walking the sidewalks. Except here, she could feel a menacing energy from them. No, maybe she was just making that up. Poor didn’t translate to mean. But they were all watching her because she was out of place. She probably looked suspicious driving so slowly, looking out her windows like a nervous old lady. She pulled her inhaler out of her purse and took a puff, fortification against the closing walls of her lungs.
Look confident. She pulled over, finding a spot to parallel park on the street and inched the car back and forth until it fit, feeling a dozen eyes watching her progress. She got out and slammed the door too loudly, trying not to make a show of setting the alarm. Crossing the street, she walked quickly up the block toward the park.
Fuck. Was she being followed? But wait, it could be Zac. Except no, two men were walking a half a block behind her, appearing to be looking for trouble. Quickening her pace, she walked to the northwest corner of the park, looking around for a bench to sit and wait. There was nothing, and as she stood there, she realized she probably looked like she was waiting to make a drug deal or something. Jesus, what had she been thinking? This had been a stupid idea. There was no guarantee Zac even heard her faked phone conversation, much less that he would show up. She looked around, scanning all the people for the right height and general appearance. No match.
The two men who had been behind her arrived and stood in her personal space, giving her a bold once-over. “What’s a pretty lady like you doing on a night like this?” one of them drawled. The other snickered, and picked the strap of her purse off her shoulder, sliding it down her arm.
“Hey,” she protested, but her voice was barely a squeak, her breath leaving her as her lungs constricted. She looked around wildly—for Zac—for anyone who might help her. Nobody even seemed to notice. She couldn’t let them have her purse; they’d get everything—her wallet, her phone, her keys, and her car—and then she’d be completely screwed. She yanked back on the purse and the man backhanded her across the mouth. She lost the purse, stumbling back. She expected them to run, now that they had what they wanted, but they didn’t. Instead, the one who didn’t have her purse lunged forward and grabbed her arm, yanking her up against him. “Where you going so fast?” he demanded, running the backs of his fingers down her cheek, then snatching her around the neck.
She was seeing stars, not so much from being choked, but because her own traitorous lungs had closed long before the fingers tightened around her neck. Another man appeared, a ball cap pulled sideways on his head, silver chains around his neck. He pulled a gun and the vision left her eyes completely for a moment, but a deep voice said, “Let her go and give me the bag, or I blow both your brains out.”
The fingers crushing her throat released and she stumbled to keep her footing.
“Don’t turn around. Just walk away and don’t look back. Don’t look motherfucking back, I said!”
As her vision cleared, she saw the two would-be attackers walking away, their swagger no less pronounced despite the gun trained on their backs. She blinked at her rescuer, trying to somehow make him into Zac, but he wasn’t. He was too short and older than Zac. He shoved her purse at her without looking away from the men. “Get back in your car and drive away. You don’t belong here,” he said and started walking away, following her attackers.
He had a belly, but he held his back military-straight and the way he handled the gun was professional. The image of him in a marine uniform, holding his hat and informing her of Zac’s death flashed before her eyes. She jogged forward. “Wait!” she gasped. She wanted to grab his arm, but it was attached to the hand holding the gun, so she stopped in mid-lunge. “Wait. Where’s Zac?” she panted. “Ghost! Where’s Ghost?”
He turned and met her eye. “He’s not here,” he said and the relief she felt just to have him acknowledge the existence of Zac was almost greater than her relief at his timely rescue. “Get back in your car and drive away.” His head remained perfectly still, facing her, but his eyes roved alertly, as if he were taking in every possible threat. “Go home. Don’t come back again—Zac won’t come for you.” He turned and walked away again, as he had before, leaving her glued to the cement, frozen in the chill of his words. She fumbled for her inhaler, taking one puff, then another, willing her feet to move toward her car as her mind shut down all coherent thought.
She got into the car, buckled her belt, and started the engine, working her way out of her parking spot without caring who watched. She pulled out and stopped at a red light, which blurred into waves as hot tears flooded her vision.
Zac won’t come for you.
But why not? His choice or someone else’s? Was he still alive? Was he still monitoring her, or had someone else alerted this agent?
She went home and crawled into bed, hiding her head under the covers and blocking out all thought as she slid into dark, menacing dreams. She slept until noon, knowing Parker would be at his friend’s until evening and not feeling up to anything. She had to face it—Zac was not coming back into their lives. Depressed, she crawled out of bed and stood in the shower until it went cold, as if she might wash away all vestiges of the inane hope she’d been harboring.
Drying off, she walked
back into the bedroom naked, gasped, and stopped cold. Zac sat on the edge of her bed, a grim expression on a face bruised and cut, his belt folded in his hand.
“You are in so much trouble,” he said.
* * *
Becca stared at him with wide eyes, flashes of shock, joy, and fear flying over her face. She gave a strangled bark of laughter as her eyes filled with tears. He dropped the belt as he stood and wrapped his arms around her. Her naked breasts pressed against his ribs, her bare skin so soft under his fingers. “Shh, it’s okay,” he whispered against her temple, kissing her citrus-smelling hair. “It’s okay, sweetheart.” She gave a muffled giggle/sob into his shirt and he ran his palms up and down the smooth lines of her back, hoping his callused hands didn’t feel too rough. “Shh, baby. You’re all right. Just breathe.”
He planted little kisses across her temple and into her hair, cradling her face and holding her sweet, vulnerable form against him.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I will find a way for you to contact me. I’ll figure something out.”
She gave another laughing sob.
He altered his voice from soothing to firm. “You don’t need to do anything as incredibly stupid as that again.” He slapped her ass with a resounding crack. She squeezed her cheeks together and pressed her hips closer to him. He slapped her again and again on the same cheek and she clung more tightly to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, leaning into him as if for comfort despite the fact that it was he who was inflicting the pain. He reached further to swat the other cheek, to make it even, and his thigh pressed between hers. She ground her hips over it, the warm moisture of her pussy dampening his pants. His own breath quickened and his cock swelled as he spanked harder, as hard as he could manage from their position. She rubbed her eager sex up and down over his thigh, whimpers of pain sounding remarkably similar to the cries of ecstasy, making his cock strain at his pants.
He put his lips near her ear, still spanking, keeping his hand loose and enjoying the frenzy of pleasure and pain he was working into her. “I’m going to spank you, and then I’m going to whip you, and then I’m going to paddle you,” he said in a low growl. “And if you’re lucky I might fuck you when I’m done. But I do promise you won’t sit comfortably tomorrow.”
She shuddered and he realized she’d climaxed, giving a strangled screech of protest, gluing her body to his as her pelvis jerked, her muscular buns tightening, her legs clamping firmly around his thigh. He squeezed her ass with one hand and held her against him with an arm around her waist until she stopped jerking, then pulled her to the bed where he guided her over his lap. He nudged his knee up, shifting her body to angle her rear end high in the air, making it a perfect target. He began a new set of spanks. She laid heavily over him, spent from her climax, the endorphins probably counteracting most or all of the pain he was attempting to inflict on her pink bottom.
“Don’t you ever take a risk like that again,” he growled, smacking the backs of her thighs, which won him a reactionary kick and squeal.
“I won’t!” she gasped. “I promise!” Her peaches-and-cream skin was a pretty shade of pink already, the outline of his fingers appearing with each swat.
“You’ve been a very bad girl,” he scolded, continuing to abuse the backs of her thighs, where he seemed to be able to make an impression.
“Ouch! I’m sorry!”
He stopped and rubbed her cheeks, relishing the feel of her firm muscle, so perfectly shaped. “Let’s see,” he said musingly. “What is it they say? Not half as sorry as you’re going to be?”
She groaned. He pushed her to stand between his knees, her hardened nipples impudently close to his face. He resisted the temptation to take one into his mouth. That would come later. This was discipline. He dragged his eyes higher to her face and gripped her thighs, giving her a little shake. “That was stupid, Becca!”
“I know!” she exclaimed, her face flushed and her eyes wild.
“Go stand in the corner.”
“Yes, sir,” she mumbled, turning away quickly, as if relieved not to be under his scrutiny any longer. She pressed her nose so far in the corner, she leaned her forehead against it. A tremor ran through his body straight to his already eager cock at the sight of her, so exquisite in full nudity, the pink of her spanked skin and the humility of her pose conveying utter submission. He’d never craved submission from a woman before he’d had it from her, but now…the power of it, the trust—that was it, wasn’t it?
He had very little trust in his life. His government trusted him enough to kill, to not roll over under torture, to carry out missions no one else would or could. But they might just as easily order his death on a whim. So that wasn’t trust. And there was the tenuous trust between other agents—with Marcus perhaps more than others. But that, too, was false. If he showed up unexpectedly at any one of their homes, they’d pull out a gun and shoot him before asking questions. All of them lived in as much fear of being eliminated by their own organization as by an enemy. No, Becca was the first person who trusted him, and who made him want desperately to be worthy of her gift. Her trust unsteadied him, even as it shored him.
“Come back to me, Becca,” he said, his voice soft with tenderness.
She came back, eying him uncertainly. He picked up his belt from the floor and stood as he doubled it, watching the way her eyes flickered from his face to the implement. He cupped her chin. “You’re not going to cry French fry on me today, are you?” he asked.
“No, sir,” she whispered.
“Good girl. Now bend over the bed and hold your own wrists behind your back.”
She took the position, her hesitation seeming to be over a desire to get his instructions right rather than out of unwillingness. She folded her arms behind her, gripping her own wrists.
“Good girl.” He brought the strap down with enough force to make her jerk and gasp, then repeated the action again and again, not allowing her to catch her breath or manage her emotions.
Her toes began to scramble on the floor as she wriggled in pain. He saw a sheen of sweat break out on the skin of her back. She released her wrists, then caught them again, her natural instincts to avoid pain clearly battling with her desire to please him.
He whipped her hard, because this was a lesson he truly wanted her to learn, beyond any kind of kinky fun and games they might play. Her safety meant everything to him. He would kill or die for her, and to have her take such a needless, stupid risk wasn’t something he would let slide.
He whipped until the sound of a sob made him falter. He didn’t want to go on. He’d spanked soundly and she was already crying. His urge to protect pushed to the foreground, as he let go any desire to teach her a lesson. He cursed himself for promising a paddling as well. Dropping the belt, he rolled her up into his arms, kissing her wet cheek. A stinging behind his own eyes surprised him and he blurted out its cause in a choked voice: “I love you, Becca.”
* * *
She’d been hiding her face against his chest, but her eyes flew open at his words as she stared at him in surprise. He looked shocked himself, as if he hadn’t meant to say such a thing out loud. He blinked rapidly.
“Speak low if you speak love,” she murmured.
His brow furrowed, then cleared. “Shakespeare?”
She nodded, reaching up to touch his cheek, then pulled his head down to hers, her mouth hungry for his, her tongue aggressive. His hands tightened on her, and he lifted her as he stood, returning her kiss with a heat and urgency that sent an enthusiastic spasm through her pussy.
He broke the kiss and tossed her back on the bed, peeling his shirt off in one swift motion, unbuttoning his pants as he climbed over her. The sight of an angry gash across his ribs made her gasp, but he ignored it, grabbing her knees and pushing them back to her shoulders, rolling her up like a ball and opening her sex to him. She jerked as his warm tongue licked into her, already just one stroke away from orgasm. The fresh pain of the whipping morphed into no
thing more than a titillating sensation to track, along with the stimulation of his fingers pinching and tugging on one nipple as he worked his magic below.
“Please,” she pleaded, palming his head as his tongue penetrated and retreated, then circled her clit. She moaned and pushed his face into her, unable to move her hips against him in the position he had her pinned. “Please…Zac. Please,” she begged. She fought for control of her legs, but he smacked her flayed butt to keep her in place, turning her to mush with the evoked submission.
He slid two fingers inside, finding her g-spot. She let out a squeal, panic at her loss of control welling up moments before she squirted. Embarrassed, she tried to squirm away, but Zac didn’t relent.
“Oh, yeah, Becca,” he murmured approvingly at the squirt, pumping his fingers in and out of her, hitting the g-spot each time until her muscles clamped down on his fingers and she howled with the orgasm that ripped through her. Her entire body trembled as he gradually released her knees and slid his fingers out of her. She collapsed in a limp heap, panting, staring up at him. He climbed over her, settled his hips between her legs, and murmured in her ear. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten that paddling.”
Another spasm flitted through her pussy, even as her mind rebelled. Her butt was on fire, and the pain went deeper than the surface, so she was sure Zac’s promise she wouldn’t sit comfortably would come true. She absolutely did not want—could not take—an additional paddling.
She reached her hand down, slipping her hand in his unbuttoned pants. “Does this mean I’m getting lucky?”
He cracked a grin, the first she’d seen since he arrived, transforming his face from the blank but intense mask to a boyish mug. “Didn’t you already?” he asked, but he was reaching in his pocket, pulling out a condom.
