Page 60 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
He should say something clever. Something about the mission. The cover identities. Anything to distract himself from the expanse of her thigh left bare by her nightgown and how badly he wanted to push her down onto the mattress.
“Do you ever blink?” Isabel asked.
His gaze snapped to her face. “What?”
“It’s like you’re attempting to vivisect me with your eyes.”
“I’m looking at you.” He let his gaze drift deliberately down her body. “That’s what normal people call it.Looking. Maybe ‘observing’ if they’re feeling fancy. Anyone ever tell you that you have a remarkable gift for killing the mood?”
“What mood is there to ruin? The one where we pretend we aren’t imagining all the filthy things we want to do to each other?”
Memories rose – her pulse beneath his fingertips, the slick glide of skin on skin. Isabel twisting a hand in his hair as she urged himfaster, harder, more.
He was so monumentally fucked. His brain shut down while his body took over, like a drunk falling off a cliff.
“I’m thinking,” he said, “that James and Lydia Ashford aren’t the hands-off type. He’s a scoundrel who somehow convinced this gorgeous woman to marry him. She’s clearly fallen for him despite her better judgment. Americans don’t have that English reserve. We should consider establishing an easy intimacy so we’re comfortable in each other’s space. We’ve been apart for five months.”
Isabel, who had been reading the dossier, finally looked up at that. “Should I expect darbies and commands and punishments? Or do you have something else in mind?”
He shifted closer before he could stop himself, sliding a hand under her nightgown to graze her thigh. She was smooth here. Soft.
“I propose a game,” he said. “Some competitive espionage to keep things sporting.”
The lie tasted good. Made him feel less desperate. As if this was just part of the job and not him dying to get between her legs since Hong Kong.
“Now?” Her breath hitched as his fingers inched higher. “While your hand is up my nightdress?”
“I can do lots of things at once, Spectre.” He grazed her pussy and almost groaned. She was wet. Always wet for him. “The rules are simple. Five minutes to review our identities, then we take turns asking questions about our covers. For every correct answer, the asker names a forfeit. A bit of pleasure.”
Isabel’s thighs fell open. Her nipples hardened beneath the thin fabric of her nightdress, and Callahan wanted to tear the damn thing off with his teeth.
“And incorrect answers?”
He increased the pressure just slightly, circling her entrance. “Then no pleasure for the questioned. What do you say?”
She was already rocking against his hand. Little movements she probably didn’t even realise she was making. He’d missed this power – how she tried to pretend she wasn’t falling apart when he touched her.
Let her suffer as he had. Every night for five months, with only his hand and the memory of her taste to get him through.
“I accept.” Her breathing went shallower as she squirmed. “Are . . . are you going to keep—”
“Oh, this hand is staying right where it is. I never said I’d play fair. Now get to work.”
They both reviewed their documents while he gently stroked between her thighs, never dipping his fingers inside her. Not yet. Just feeling her shiver into his touch, lifting her hips to chase his caress.
She bit her lower lip. Hard. The way she always did when trying not to make noise.
He checked his pocket watch. “Time.” He set the papers aside, still stroking her. “Let’s see what stuck in that criminal brain of yours. What’s Jamie’s preferred drink?”
She swallowed before answering. “Whiskey. Single malt. Twenty years aged.”
“Good girl.”
He slid one finger into her, slow and deep, watching her mouth fall open. A sweet sound left her as he pumped once, twice, teasing.
“Another question. How does he take it?”
“With—” She gasped as he added a second finger. “God. With two drops of spring water. Collected by cloistered virgins under the full moon because he’s a pretentious arse.”
