Page 63 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
But then she kissed him. Soft. So soft. As if she were asking him a question.Are you mine? Would you be mine if I asked?
Yes. Always yes.
Then she lifted up and took his cock inside her.
He muffled a groan. He had memories of how wet she was, how tight, how warm, and none compared to this moment. She rode him slowly with her hands braced on his shoulders, her gaze fixed on him.
As if she needed to see him come apart beneath her.
“Is this what you wanted?” he whispered, sliding his hand to her nape. Kissing her again. “This hard enough for you? Or do you need it deeper?”
“More,” she gasped.
Good.
He grasped her hips and rolled her under him. Her surprised gasp cut off when he thrust into her – hard, deep, the way he knew she needed it. She clenched around him, and he moaned.
Memories of Hong Kong couldn’t capture this. The beautiful flush of her cheeks, the clutch of her hands, how her nails dug into his shoulders, and the sounds she made when he went harder. Her thigh hooked over his arse, and she canted her hips, fucking him back.
The bed frame knocked against the wall, loud enough that the entire house would know exactly what they were doing.
Let them hear. Let everyone know she was his.
When he looked down at her, a question burned in his throat.
Am I still the only man you’ve ever wanted?
But maybe the answer was unnecessary. She stared at him like there’d never been anyone else. Like they could be anywhere – this bed, a filthy alley, a crowded ballroom – and she’d still only see him, and it was like time stopped.
His hand closed around her throat, not squeezing, just holding her in place while he fucked her harder. Her nails cut deeper. A tremor went through her that told him she was close.
“Let go,” he told her, pounding into her. “Come on, little thief. I want to see it. Let go for me.”
She arched against him, head thrown back as she shattered. Beautiful. Wild.
He thrust one last time and spilled inside her, his own release sweeping through him. Dropping his forehead against hers, he let his breathing come down. He gathered her against him. Splayed a palm against her spine and curled the other into her hip.
Mine.
*
Callahan woke to muffled whimpers.
He lay still, every muscle coiled tight. Then, his sleep-addled brain registered the source of the noise.
Isabel.
She was curled in on herself, her fists clenched. The expression of anguish on her face made Callahan’s chest constrict.
“No,” she muttered. “Please, I can’t—I won’t—”
“Isabel,” he said, voice low and calming. “Wake up. It’s just a dream.”
A choked sob escaped her. The sound hit him like a knife between his ribs.
“Trouble,” he tried again. “Come on, open those eyes for me.”
Her eyes flew open, wild and unseeing. Before Callahan could react, she’d launched herself at him, one hand going for his throat.
