I sink my teeth into my lip, fingers gripping the armrest.
“And you think he won’t report this?” she asks.
“I think that he doesn’t want anyone to know how he ended up in such a compromising—not to mention humiliating—situation. Especially his wife.”
“Still, you took a risk.”
I stand and, reaching behind my head, tug off my shirt. I walk forward to stand before her. She’s trembling. Lust glazes her eyes.
I palm the arms of the chair and lean over her. “Everything I do, every single day, is a risk for you.” Then I kneel, cupping the back of her knee. With a forceful tug, I bring her farther down, her ass positioned at the edge of the seat.
Her sharp inhale sends a thrill right to my cock as I plant a tender kiss to her inner thigh. I travel up her skin, tongue dragging across the rising gooseflesh, kissing and sucking with gentle touches.
“Is this a new form of torture?” she says, chest heaving against her blouse.
I smile against her leg, and reach up to start working the bottom button of her top. I guide my hand beneath her skirt, settling at the apex between her thighs, as I drop a heated kiss to her exposed belly.
“I can be romantic,” I say, hooking a finger beneath the seat of her panties. She’s hot, wet, drenching them. “I can make love to Lydia and fuck London at the same time.” I haul the thin material down to her knees, causing her to quake with a hard shiver.
Her hands go to my hair, fingers, nails seeking purchase. Then I’m undoing each button, reverently opening her up to me as I kiss a path toward her chest. Her light-pink satin bra is trimmed in black lace. That does something to me—the sight so innocent and sexy all at once.
A heavy groan tears free. I’m straining against the zipper of my pants. Every roll of her hips and arch of her back drives me wild; Lydia doesn’t stand a chance. I sink both hands under her ass and prop her pelvis up, getting unfettered access as I bury my head between her thighs.
I suck her soft lips into my mouth, eliciting the sweetest moan as a tremor riots through her body.
Pulling back just enough, I say, “Whenever Lydia fights for control, think of me touching you. Just like this.”
“God, if we start, we’ll never stop. You have to let me go.”
“Never. I got you right where I want you.”
A ringtone sounds from the office. London’s cellphone. She opens her eyes, the spell broken. “It’s him.”
12
Duet
London
The ringing chime crashes into our sacred space, and I tense, reality seeping in through the cracks. I let the call go to voicemail, but the ringing starts again.
“Ignore it,” Grayson says, and he’s doing everything in his power to convince me to do just that. He licks the seam of my lips, fondles my clit, deepening the ache in my core.
“I can’t. I know it’s him.” I don’t have to say his name. The sudden rigidness coiling Grayson’s shoulders denotes he knows that I’m referring to Agent Nelson. “If I don’t answer, he’ll send agents to my apartment and here, or he’ll come himself.”
With a grunt, Grayson releases me and moves back.
This is difficult for him. Grayson doesn’t yield to intimidation, but he’s intelligent; he knows when to rein in his defiant nature.
I stand and hurriedly situate my clothes before I pad to the office. My purse is on the desk where I left it. I dig out my phone. Nelson’s contact flashes on the screen.
I brace myself. “Agent Nelson,” I address him formally. No need for pretense at this point. We’ve moved past the games.
“London, how are you?” His voice sounds edgy, strained.
“Fine.” I’m as tempered as bulletproof glass—unbreakable. Until I feel the current of Grayson’s nearness from behind. “Has there been a development?”
“What? No. Nothing like that. I hadn’t heard from you since you got back to Bangor.” An expectant pause hangs between us, what he’s leaving unsaid. “I wanted to make sure you’re all right. I had to pull Silks and Mahoney from your detail due to low funding at the crime scenes in Rockland.”