by Celia Crown
He said it’s so I don’t do anything, he thinks I can't control myself and do harm to the government. If I do anything, one slightest mistake, Matt would yell at me. An angry Matt is not a pretty sight, it’s that calm before the storm vibe that gets to me every time.
He sounds so disappointed in me whenever he found out I did something that isn’t morally good to him.
A girl has to make a living somehow.
“You’re not eating?” I ask him.
He shakes his head, crossing his bulky arms over his wide chest and my eyes blank out on the tattoos on his arm.
“What are you waiting for,” he grunts, my eyes fly up to his.
My face burns in embarrassment at the sexy smirk playing on his stupidly handsome face.
He caught me.
I want to dig a hole and bury myself in it.
Quickly picking up the sandwich, I bite into the sweet ham and salty cheese. I chew slowly with my eyes going to the screens on the wall, it’s going down a row of names as I have written a program to filter out the people with no direct access to the main systems at every department.
With the list knocking off people way too slowly, I turn to Mark. “How long have you been working here?”
He says without sparing me a glance, “You know.”
I do know. It’s the first thing I did when Matt left to who knows where, and I wanted to know who is going to save me when I get into trouble in this scary building filled with intimidating people.
Mark’s personnel file has a lot of redacted information as it pertains sensitive information from his days in the military, also a lot of his work has been blacked out for being the Director of Security. I expected the firewalls around his data if I were to go through proper channels, but since I have immunity, I might as well use it to my full advantage.
He’s Mark Hansen, the only child of Maureen and Dylan Hansen. Both parents still live in their hometown of Nashville, Tennessee. I was kind of bummed when he didn’t have an accent, this man speaks the most fluent English I have ever heard.
Clear and eloquent, without the southern twang.
He graduated from Princeton University on a full scholarship when he impressed his hometown’s politician with his problem-solving skills. He worked as an IT worker in the Information Technology department, which means that he has extensive background knowledge of what I’m doing.
That’s a given since he is the head of this security agency.
He graduated early, applied for the military after that. He served five years, got an honorable discharge. The reason for his withdrawal from the battlefield is that his mother is sick with cancer, thank goodness the doctors caught it early. She is now in the progress of recovery after chemotherapy. Mark wants to stay close to his mother and that’s why he decided to get the job as one of the employees at this department.
Working and working, and soon he is the right-hand man to Matt who was the former director. When Matt retired, or as retired as a CIA man can be, Mark took on the position and the weight of the nation on his broad shoulders.
During my deep diving balls-deep into his life, I felt not an ounce of remorse. I want to know everything about him, I feel special knowing things about him that no one else does.
Though, I didn’t know what to expect when Matt is his uncle.
Matt and Mark Hansen are related.
My brain almost exploded from that information, I thought Matt is this lonely old man with a thing for guns and gruff voice.
Matt had asked me to not dig into his life and the man has my respect for me to honor his request. Also, I didn’t want to experience what would happen to me if I were to say no.
I do respect Mark for his morally strong character, but he is a man that I am very attracted to—and he would never know, I can’t help this itch to understand him.
I wonder if it makes me a terrible person.
Or a stalker.
Both works in this scenario.
I thought Mark would never know, but it would seem that nothing escapes his sharp eyes.
“Okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to peek into your files,” I apologize with a mouth full of sandwich behind my hand.
“Are you sorry?” he spins his chair and trap me between his thick thighs.
Nope, look away.
If I trace the defined lines of his thighs under his dark pants, then I will inadvertently look up and see his very massive bulge. That would lead to me to just stare, I don’t need this humiliation.
I get enough of that by daydreaming and gawking at his face.
“I mean if it makes you feel better, you can ask me questions.” I offer with a weak raise of my shoulders.
“You will answer with the truth,” he said, curling his fingers around my jaw and it twitches involuntarily.
“Not self-incriminating though.” I swallow my food.
He lets go of my jaw, dropping his arm on the support handle of his seat. Mark wheels my chair so my thighs touch him, I bite another mouthful of the sandwich. He may make me feel tingly inside, but my tummy needs food to settle the uneasiness that comes with hunger.
“Twenty questions,” I suggest after I swallow down the bread.
He immediately begins, “Who has the biggest influence on you?”
I blink in stunned silence and clear my throat from choking on the dryness of the sandwich.
“Wow,” I breathe, “We’re starting off strong.”
“Well?” he impatiently growls.
“Okay, okay.” I take a sip from the water bottle, “I say the Calculus homework started this whole thing of me going to the dark side.”
I still remember the headache from those calculations on my calculator, all those times I would be multiplying two by two just in case because that is how much I don’t trust my math skills.
“I said who,” he scowls, dark eyebrows knitting together as his eyes pierce mine for the truth.
I laugh nervously, “I’m self-taught. I was trying to avoid the wrath of Mr. Masefield, so I allegedly hacked into the school’s system to turn the camera on from his computer in hopes that I’ll see the answers somewhere.”
I clear my throat, strengthening my back. “All assumed, freedom of speech and this is a made-up story.”
He isn’t buying my pathetic act, but he goes onto the next question. “What’s the place you got the most intimate in?”
“Intimate?” my eyebrows raise to my hairline.
“Sex,” he clarifies with a straight face.
I blush hotly and stammers, “Next, next!”
“Answer,” his command tugs on my obedience and I hate how he has so much power over me.
It took Matt months to get me to listen to him, but that’s because he looks like a gentle who would never raise his voice, and he never did. He’s the type of scary that lets me stew in my own wild imagination.
“Nowhere?”
A deep and husky growl rumble from his chest, “You’re a virgin.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, mentally fanning away the heat concentrating on my face. I refuse to answer him, that question doesn’t justify a reply. He is satisfied with my silence as it’s an answer by itself, Mark is oddly pleased with that easy smirk that I mistook as a friendly smile.
It’s a possessive smirk that punches the air from my lungs.
“What was your favorite toy from childhood?”
His questions are all over the place, I try to follow his train of thoughts but it’s hard when his face doesn’t give away anything.
He’s a man full of secrets. Just like me.
“I had this dinosaur that I used to sleep with, but my neighbor's dog ate it. Chewed apart the head and the body, can you imagine how traumatizing that is for a six-year-old?”
I still love that dog to death, I may have tried to ignore the playful dog, but it was impossible to not hug that fluffball.
“I figure you’d be a doll girl.” Mark chuckles.
Oh goodness, his laug
h is so velvety. Can this man tone down his attractiveness, I’m losing my concentration on my life story.
“Barbies are okay, I never had an interest in them. I liked dinosaurs for their short arms, kind of like me.” I just compared myself to an extinct carnivore in front of the man I’m crushing on like a school girl.
He hums thoughtfully, “What do you do when you’re overwhelmed.”
My eyes brighten as this question hits the silliness button in me, “I like to walk on abandoned train tracks. For as long as I can remember, I love the eerie feeling with the unknown among the trees and the ghost train running towards me.”
“You like adrenaline,” he comments.
I shake my head, “No, I scare myself with the thoughts of ghost trains, so I can’t stay for too long. I always end up running back to civilization.”
Mark scoffs, leaning on his elbows that’s on his knees to level our eyes. “You speak as if you are in a dystopian.”
“It feels like it.” I shiver at the thought of the last train track that I went to, it was a lot scarier than I remembered from my other experiences.
“The silence gets to you. You should try it, it pumps blood up your head to improve brain function.”
Mark being the man with many skills under his belt answers with a creepier comment, “I use isolation waterboarding training.”
I stutter, “You scare me.”
“Good.”
Chapter Six
Mark
Never in my life have I been thrown into a situation where I cannot get out of. Difficult orders in the military get my moral compass wired up, forcing me to choose the lesser evil while motivating me to treasure life with a new mindset.
As the Director, I make choices that aren’t necessarily the best when it comes to people, but I have to put the country first. That is my sole job, and protecting citizens is more in the FBI’s jurisdiction.
My personal feelings are not going to save the country from being hit with waves of terrorism and espionage. I have trained myself to be uncaring and goal orientated, making close calls that will ultimately sacrifice one.
It got to me when I was younger, but as time went on, I know that life isn’t fair and I can’t keep living as a CIA agent if I the pressure gets to me. My morals tend to stay deep within me, rarely coming out to hinder my decisions.
Camille Carmichael though, she invokes this sinister lust that battles with my ethics.
Innocent, vulnerable, and too tempting with her ass hanging in the air for me to see her swaying ass wrapped in that pair of thin underwear. She is more than half of my age, too young for an old man to have these inappropriate thoughts about her.
I shouldn’t be thinking of how tight her pussy will feel on my cock.
As she fixes the extra pillow from the drawers, she has no qualm about the naivety in her openness. For a hacker relying on her infamous anonymity, she is too open for physical attacks.
I happen to be a hand-to-hand combat expert.
She plops her face down on the pillow with her ass up in the air, she squeals at the softness of the pillow. I hated that cushion as it always gives me neck pains when I wake up, it’s worse than the shitty couch in my office.
It is my second home, so I try to make it as comfortable and livable as possible.
Camille lifts her upper body up, I should be grateful she has mercy on me to set her ass down on the bed, but I like to see her perky ass jiggle in the air.
I knew I made a huge mistake the second she looks at me with those big eyes, waiting for me to get into bed with her platonically.
An average man wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off a beautiful girl like her, and I can almost say with one hundred percent certainty that I might fall into that category. I shouldn't have relented to her request, I brought this upon myself and I'm a man of my words.
I simply can't back down.
I can if I want to, but I don’t.
I want to be close to her, and if we accidentally touch during the night, then it happens. I can touch her however I like when she’s dead to the world, I have taken note on how deep she sleeps. An earthquake wouldn’t wake her, I watched her sleep for the first couple of days to get a better feel of what I should be doing with her.
Not once did she wake up until I hauled her little ass out with wild hair and whining voice.
She is too vulnerable when she’s asleep, it would be so easy to spread her legs and touch that forbidden fruit hidden in her flimsy underwear.
I am a man of protocol, I have iron control over every cell of my body and this girl is fanning the inevitable with her doe-eyes.
Camille must not have experience with men or social life, this is not normal behavior for a young girl in a room with a man used to taking what he wants.
I should have argued, said no, anything to relent in her offer of half the bed. As inappropriate as it looks, the bed is very appealing to me when I have slept on the couch for days with a stiff neck and even stiffer back.
My muscles have been aching and throbbing.
“Does it hurt?” concern laces over her eyes, crawling to the edge of the bed.
She kneels to extend her body up to mine, it’s a position of submission in my head and I know it’s not what she’s doing as she is voicing her worry over my silence. My arms tense under her small fingers as they curl around my biceps, she cocks her head to scan my body for the causes of my soreness.
Backing up, she puts herself in the middle of the bed with that nightshirt teasing her exposed thighs with no pants. She pats on the side of the bed that is closest to the door and it’s the side that gives me most leverage in case of an intruder. I can take down the assailant while protecting her, shielding her away from any danger.
I blink, the realization hits me.
I don’t see her as a threat. My body is more inclined to protect her than to harm, it’s wrong to think of her as an enemy and that’s exactly what she is.
The biggest headache of mine, dodging my attempts to find her and making my life much more complicated. A girl with blanketed immunity, her fingers on the deadliest weapon that can either defend or crumble this nation.
I honestly have no idea where she goes, but I know my heart would protest if I do anything bad to her.
That traitorous muscle.
The definition of bad is subjective to everyone, mine is always changing and molding to the situation given to me.
“Lay down.” she bounces on the bed once with her legs tucked under her ass.
I narrow my eyes in suspicion, the earnest smile on her face throws my caution out the window and I sigh defeatedly. My first battle with her bright eyes is a miserable loss that her youthful energy compels me to set one knee on the bed.
She encourages me with a grin and quick nods.
How can anyone be so pure?
“Shirt off and lay on your tummy!” she supports her weight with her hands on the bed.
My mind already knows where this is going, I’m taking off my shirt before I realize what I’m doing. It’s almost as if I’m expected to do it, which I am not. I’m merely keeping this girl happy by doing what she asks me of because she is the key to our nation’s success.
That argument gets squashed as soon as it arises.
Dropping the shirt on the bed, I put my arms back to my side. Her big eyes don’t blink when she stares so blatantly obvious on the inks, actively tracing the tattoos etched on my body with her curious eyes.
Camille looks at me with the same amount of intensity as I look at her on a daily basis. I can't help where my eyes go, her bright colored clothing is a factor that I consider into my stalkerish attention on her.
My body is littered with scars and bullet wounds, ripped in a way that the years of training and vigorously using my body to be the offense at the battlefield shows through. There is appreciation in her eyes, running over her bottom lip with her pink tongue.
My cock jerks unexpectedly and my body tense at the reac
tion.
She snaps out of her staring and blushes, averting her eyes from my naked torso to the obscenely big bulge between my legs and then flying up to my face.
Pretty pink cheeks and my creamy cum would be a great combination.
I stifle down a frustrated growl.
“Quickly,” she said, patting on the bed keenly.
I let my back be a vulnerable spot for her as I find a comfortable place, my big cock press harshly on the bed and I fight so hard to not rut on the sheets like an animal for relief.
Curling my fingers into a fist as her soft thighs cage my hot waist, nuzzling her plump ass on my tailbone and squirms to find her balance. I think back to the times of my military training and finds one of the sniper lessons to be effective for a moment of keeping my cock from bursting a torrent of cum.
I must be extra tired because I’m never this weak with my control.
Little fingers finding purchase on my shoulders, she begins to knead my stiff muscles with her puny strength, but I don’t deter her determination to make me feel better. I can barely feel the strain leaving my back, though the stress does elevate from my body.
She gropes my spine with her curious hands, going from massaging to experimental touches as my back distracts her from her task. When she tries to push down on my shoulders with that pitiful act she calls massaging, I feel her ass coming off my hips before letting the heat of her pussy sear on my back when she sits back down.
“Is it possible to have broken hands without it breaking?” she whines breathlessly, “What do you eat? I’m kneading a loaf of glutenous dough.”
I jerk up in one smooth move, throwing her off balance and as she looks for a way to hold herself up while I twist around without the slightest regret when I see her panicking face. She slaps her hands on my chest and leans forward to stop her tumbling as our nose bump into each other.
Camille laughs nervously, cheeks flushing that lovely red as she nervously licks her lip. It’s a tick that she has when she doesn’t know what to do. During that innocent lick, our distance allows her little tongue to brush against my lips and her face burns with mortification as she stutters out her apology.
The apology goes over my head as I’m too busy reeling myself back from attacking her pouty lips.
