Page 34 of Undercover
I took a moment to slump back against the door.
We’d had sex. Finally. And it had been amazing.
I could feel the smile on my face, so wide and irrepressible it made my cheeks ache.
Yeah, I’d definitely deserved better. And Alec had delivered.
Still smiling, I turned on the sink, checked out my flushed, bright-eyed reflection in the mirror, and got to work making myself presentable.
11
Alec
With Gabe safely ensconced in the bathroom across the hall, I had a much-needed moment to freak the hell out. Fuck, what had I done? My body felt incredible, relaxed and energized all at once and singing with satisfaction.
My brain, on the other hand, had just come back online after taking a hiatus and delegating its responsibilities to my other head.
I leaned my forehead against the office door, letting it cool my burning skin.
Right, I had a demilitarized zone dividing me from seducing someone involved with my case—my lying, weak-willed ass.
Gabe thought I’d been dating him because I liked him, and taking it slow because I respected him.
And the worst of it was, he wasn’t wrong. At all. I liked him. I liked him too damn much.
So much that when that asshole Whipley had been all over him, I’d reacted like Gabe and I were legitimately a couple, like I had a right to get worked up when someone else hit on him. When Gabe pulled me aside into the empty hallway, I’d lost it.
Lost it more.
And then lost it to the nth degree when I slipped my hand under the waistband of his trousers and found the edge of those fucking little lacy panties.
Jesus Christ, he couldn’t have pressed my buttons more perfectly if he’d tried.
The taste of him still lingered on my lips. My body still throbbed with the aftershocks of how amazing it’d felt to have his bare skin on me, his hand bringing me off. His moans and gasps echoed in my ears. I’d made him feel like that. Me. Alec. Borodin or Kaminsky, FBI agent or unemployed construction worker, it didn’t matter. That had just been Gabe and Alec, and our real identities didn’t have anything to do with the surge of joy and arousal and longing that’d risen up in me when he buried his fingers in my hair and pulled me in so he could come against my eager mouth, did it?
Of course it did. Because he wouldn’t have wanted to have sex if he knew the truth.
Except that it wasn’t the truth, because he’d think I’d been using him, but I really hadn’t. I’d have wanted him at least as much if he had nothing to do with my case at all.
I might not have thought to suggest Whipley’s office as the place for us to mess around if I hadn’t wanted a reason to come in here, though. I’d kept my head enough to think of that, which only made my betrayal infinitely worse. I’d lost control in the one way I should’ve kept it, and kept control when losing it would’ve been more honest.
My head spun with it, guilt and desire and the frantic wish that I could simply tell him everything without changing everything at the same time.
And it’d all be for nothing if I didn’t use the opportunity I had right then. I pushed off the door, tucked my shirt in, and straightened myself up the best I could. Gabe would be done in the bathroom soon. I had to table the self-recrimination for later, and get it the fuck together. Whipley had made it to the top of my suspect list by virtue of being tall and dark-haired—and being a total douche whose clothes and accessories screamed that he liked to spend money didn’t help. But I needed to check out Dave’s office, too, if I could. Which meant I needed to make this quick, get Gabe distracted and headed back downstairs, and do another pass through the executive offices before anyone missed me.
Whipley’s office had an overhead light, but turning that on might attract attention. Instead, I pulled out my phone and used its flashlight. Shining it around showed me exactly what I’d expect to see. Desk, chair, loveseat and small coffee table in the corner, a wall of framed photos and awards for various Middleton yachts. No filing cabinets. Maybe he made his secretary run down the hall every time he needed a file.
What a dick.
Of course, that assessment might’ve been slightly biased.
I opened his desk drawers, none of them locked. All the usual crap, although the bottom drawer held a box of condoms hidden way in the back.
Okay, yes, it might be a little hypocritical of me, since I’d just had sex in the guy’s office myself—and because I’d so have taken one if I’d known they were there, dammit—but keeping condoms at work just seemed gross.
I forced myself not to think about Whipley and Gabe having sex, maybe somewhere on these premises with one of those condoms. From the little Gabe had told me, it sounded like Whipley had borderline taken advantage of him, and I couldn’t throw up all over Whipley’s desk, no matter how much the idea of leaving him a horrifying mess appealed to me.
I turned my attention to the photos on the wall. Whipley with a group of people in yachting clothes, all holding drinks. Whipley with Gabe’s father at some kind of event like the one going on downstairs. A long shot of a dock with a whole row of boats, presumably made by Middleton.
