“That’s all right. I understand. I really am okay. There’s no need to waste agency resources on me.” Grayson’s chest presses against my back, his hands tentatively settle at my hips. His deliberate eavesdropping is distracting.
“You are not a waste of resources. I want you to know that I’m dedicated to your safety—that it doesn’t come second to the agency, despite the politics.” When I don’t respond immediately, he adds, “Are you at home
?”
“No,” Grayson whispers in my ear as his hands rove to the backside clasp of my skirt.
“I’m not,” I say, talking over the sound of Grayson lowering the zipper. The rough pads of his fingers trail in its cool wake, nearly stealing my voice. “I’ve stayed late at the office. I have a lot of things to catch up on.”
When telling a convincing lie, make sure that it’s partly the truth. I glance at the Dali painting and, while my skirt slithers down my legs, feel more than exposed. My research into Grayson’s past preoccupies more than my daytime career.
Nelson assembles my statement into his own understanding. “You’ll bring your sister home,” he assures me. “You’ve sacrificed too much time fighting the system. Let it run its course.”
I close my eyes against the onslaught of emotions and the feel of Grayson sweeping my hair over my shoulder. He lowers himself to press his lips to the nape of my neck as his hand snakes around to my belly, fingers dipping beneath the lace trim of my panties.
“Thank you,” I manage. “I do appreciate all your help in this matter, Agent Nelson.”
A lengthy beat, where I’m hyperaware of Grayson’s mouth, his heated skin, his touch, then: “About what happened in—”
“It was nothing,” I say, startled back into the conversation.
“No, it was inappropriate. My ego was too bruised at the time to admit it, but…London, this isn’t my MO. I want you to know that. This never happens, especially on the job.” I hear his weighted sigh. “I’m sorry.”
Grayson pushes closer, his mouth at my ear. “Tomorrow.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I understand. In fact, it’s my job to understand. I think we should meet tomorrow. If you’re available.”
“I’d like that.” The relief in his voice is palpable. “When I get back, I have a number of things to wrap up in Rockland, then I’ll call you.”
“Perfect. Talk to you then.” I end the call before Grayson maneuvers me right into the crime scenes. I set my phone on the desk. “Why am I meeting him?”
I grip the edge of the desk as he sinks to the floor, his hands mapping my body along his descent. The abrasive rub of his callused fingers over the silk of my bra and panties snags the fine material. “Because he’s your target,” he says, his hand sliding back up the curve of my thigh. “And because the agent is obsessed with you. He’ll find a way to see you, regardless. Better to make it on your terms.”
“He’s not obsessed with me.” My nails dig at the wood as his fingers slip under the edge of my underwear, finding the erogenous spot that makes my voice quaver. “He’s obsessed with you.”
He nips my flesh before he takes the elastic trim between his teeth, tugging my panties away from my body and slowly dragging them down. This time, he doesn’t stop until they’re snuggly around my ankles.
“One and the same,” Grayson says, getting to his feet. He flattens his palm over my pelvis, his other hand clears a space on my desk. “We’re a package deal.” Then, with sure, swift movements, he turns me around and hoists me onto the desk.
I plant my hands behind my back, bracing for balance, as Grayson hovers above. A predator looming over his prey. My gaze sweeps the diagonal scars on his sculpted chest. The tattoo sleeves reaching up his defined arms. I had fantasies that consisted of a scenario much like this during our sessions…and the realization that I’m here, in my office with Grayson, sends a thrill racing through me.
“You like pinning me to desks,” I say, a taunt in my voice.
That slight dimple carves his cheek, his rare, devilish smile making an appearance. “I love pinning you. Period.” He palms my face delicately and tilts my head back as he kisses my lips, savoring me. The coarseness of the starchy uniform slacks rubs against my clit, increasing the throbbing ache between my legs to a sharp pain.
I latch on to his neck to bring him closer, craving all of him at once.
My needy response steals over him with a hard shiver of restraint, then he’s grabbing my ass, fusing our bodies together. He lifts me off the desk with hardly any effort, only breaking the kiss to say, “I want you in that fucking chair.”
The guttural rasp of his voice grates along my skin like his brusque touch, his Irish accent bleeding through. I wrap my legs around his waist, locked to him the way his inked puzzle pieces link together. Uninhibited. Shameless. I grind against the hardness trapped in coarse pants that ignites my senses. Loving the feel of his strained muscles as he carries me to the therapy room to make good on his claim.
He collapses in the patient chair with me on top of him. This is a sacrilege to my profession. I’m spitting in the face of my practice.
And it feels cathartic.
I clutch the headrest, my hair an unruly veil shielding us, as Grayson works my bra off to bare my breasts. He’s not gentle, nearly shredding the flimsy material with unfettered need. The pressure isn’t enough, we’re too far apart still, and he grips the fleshy curves of my hips and forces me harder against his erection. Like starved and depraved savages, we tear at each other. Never enough.
We communicate without words. On a carnal level. Whether we’re fighting or connecting. Challenging each other or submitting to our weaknesses. Conversing or fucking. None of it matters on a topical level—we delve deeper, exploring the cavernous abyss of our psyche, what some might call the soul.