Page 62 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
The same thing he’d wanted since the night she held a knife to his throat in New York and looked at him like he was the most fascinating man she’d ever seen.
Callahan released her to drag his smallclothes down, freeing his aching cock. “Suck me, little thief.”
There was something innately sensual about the way she slid down his body, curving her back a little as she settled between his thighs. His breath caught as her tongue flicked out, tracing the underside from root to tip. Callahan’s hips jerked. A low groan rumbled in his chest.
“Isabel . . .”
She took him fully into her mouth.
“Christ fucking—” His head slammed back against the pillows.
The wet heat of her was exquisite, maddening. Isabel sucked hard and drew away, then sank down again, taking him deeper.
He buried his fingers in her hair, keeping her still as he thrust shallowly.
“Just like that,” he rasped. “Take it deep. Let me fuck that gorgeous mouth.”
His hips lifted, pushing until he felt the back of her throat. Her fingernails curled into his thigh. Letting him use her. Letting him take. Letting him fuck.
“So perfect,” he breathed.
So damn perfect.
She was something out of his darkest fantasies – her lips stretched around him, those green eyes never leaving his face. How many nights had he lain awake wondering exactly this? If she’d take him deep, if she’d let him control the pace, if she’d yield to him. But nothing – not a single fantasy – came close to the reality of watching the most dangerous woman in the country on her knees for him.
There wasn’t a hint of submission in her eyes. Just power. The kind that wrapped around his throat and squeezed while making him beg for more. They both knew who really held power here. She was conquering him. Noting every reaction, every place where his control slipped.
“I need you. Come up here and ride my cock, Mrs Ashford,” he commanded.
She gave him one last teasing lick and tugged her nightdress over her head. “So demanding tonight. What’s gotten into you, Mr Ashford?”
“Five months is a long time to want something,” he said.
She straddled him, not taking him in yet but settling her weight on his thighs. “Yes. I distinctly remember someone not letting me finish.”
Lowering herself, she moved her hips in a slow grind. Still teasing him with the maddening friction. He dug his fingers into her hips hard enough to bruise, fighting the urge to flip her onto her stomach and pound into her until she screamed.
“My husband has peculiar tastes, you see.” Her lips brushed his ear. “He likes his poor, defenceless wife in chains. Does unspeakable things to her body.” Another grind. “Then leaves her aching.”
“Sounds like a monster,” he managed.
“What would you suggest I do with such a cruel husband? Make him watch while I touch myself? Make him lose his mind?”
“You should stop tormenting him and sit on his cock before he flips you over and takes what he wants.”
“One question first.”
He groaned. “Of course there is.”
She held his gaze, suddenly still. “Have you been with anyone since the steamer? Tell me the truth.”
Another lover? He nearly laughed. When she’d infected his every thought since Hong Kong? When even sleep offered no escape?
He leaned in, whispering, “My body is yours.”
She went still. An emotion flickered across her face – a crack in Isabel Dumont’s perfect mask. Just for a moment, he saw something raw underneath. Something that terrified him more than any knife at his throat ever could.
He’d said too much. Been too honest.
