Page 13 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
“You’re the one with morals, Agent. So why aren’t you stopping?”
Callahan groaned. “God, I don’t fucking know.”
And he didn’t. He only knew he couldn’t get enough of her taste. That he’d imagined this for longer than he cared to admit. His mouth found her neck, hot and hungry. Her skin was soft beneath his lips. He sucked hard at the tender spot beneath her jaw, deliberately marking her.
She gasped, gripping his arms. Not pushing him away. Pulling him closer. A savage satisfaction coursed through him at the thought that she might want his marks on her. His bites.
Tonight, she was his.
And he was going to hell for this.
He tugged at the sash of her borrowed dressing gown. The silk parted. She was beautifully shaped. Strong and lithe like one of the Imperial Ballet dancers he’d seen in St Petersburg. Small, perfect breasts, flat stomach, long legs.
But he wondered who dared to mar all that perfection. Her pale skin was marked by a constellation of scars, some old, faded to silver. Others newer. One slash was still red and puckered along her ribs.
Questions rose.Who did this to you? Who am I going to have to kill for it?But the warning in her eyes silenced them.
Not tonight.
So he pulled back to strip off his smallclothes. When he was finally naked before her, he paused. The sight of her spread out on his bed made his chest ache with want.
“You’re staring,” she whispered. Something almost vulnerable flickered across her face as she began to draw her knees together.
Callahan caught her thighs before she could close them. “Don’t. I like looking at you.”
He dragged his hands higher, watching goosebumps rise across her pale skin. She was so damn soft. Made him think of silk sheets in rich men’s houses he’d broken into as a lad.
Things he wasn’t supposed to touch.
“Just thinking you have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen,” he whispered.
There it was – a blush. Not the practised coyness she used when playing a mark. All that fire and fight and careful calculation was gone.
This was something real.
“Filthy words, Agent.”
“I save my fancy words for people who matter less.” Callahan settled his weight between her thighs, savouring how her breath caught. “Poetry is for toffs and politicians. All I’ve got is the truth – you’re the most infuriating, impossible woman I’ve ever met. And I can’t get you out of my head.”
Her smile was soft. Warm. Genuine. “Why would you want to? This is so much more entertaining.”
“Which part?” He positioned himself against her, one hand sliding beneath her knee to lift it higher. “The part where we pretend to be civilised?” He pushed inside just enough to make her gasp. “Or the part where I fuck you until we both forget why we’re supposed to stay away from each other?”
When he finally thrust deep, she cried out. “Oh, God—”
“That’s what I want to hear, little thief.”
She was perfect – tight and wet. He pulled back slowly, watching the pleasure ripple across her face before shoving in harder. The headboard slammed against the wall as he found a rhythm. Fuck hotel neighbours. Fuck everyone in Hong Kong. Nothing mattered outside this room.
Callahan gripped her thighs hard enough to bruise, fighting for control. He wanted this to last. Wanted to remember every second of having her. She met him stroke for stroke, her body rising to meet his. Demanding more.
“Harder,” she moaned. “Fuck me harder.”
Callahan couldn’t help but laugh. “Now who’s got a filthy mouth?”
She bit his neck in response.
“Jesus,” he hissed, hiking her leg higher over his hip, changing the angle. The new position let him sink deeper.
