Chapter 11
Ford
I don’t know how I expected things to go tonight, but it sure as fucking shit wasn’t like this. Masking my increasing panic, I take a sip of the Godfather she made me, which is surprisingly good, if a little sweet.
Of all the women, why did it have to be her? The one woman on planet fucking Earth I feel drawn to, one I might actually like, and she’s my motherfucking assignment.
“No,” she says, her blonde hair—softly curled today—swishing around the column of her neck. Her voice brooks zero argument, and I wonder briefly what it would look like to see her dominate someone, to see someone on their knees, fully submitting to her.
That’ll never be me, though. She’s right. I never could’ve truly submitted to her, not even for an assignment. I couldn’t even pretend. I’m not a good enough actor to have passed that off as truth.
Fuck, Jackson really, really should’ve chosen a different agent. I was a poor selection if they knew Madam Allison preferred to dominate.
Not only that, but I’ve already blown my goddamn cover. While this isn’t the first time that’s happened to me, it’s never happened this early in an op. Jackson is going to get an earful from me tonight. Asshole.
“I don’t give lessons,” she adds, settling back, draping an arm along the back of the couch as she takes a sip, the picture of calm confidence. She really is a sight to behold.
Seeing her in her element, I know why the government wants to take her down. She exudes power from every inch of her body, and the sight alone would have someone on their knees, begging her for just a moment of her time, no matter the cost.
The corner of my lips lifts, signaling that I’m gearing up to negotiate her to fucking death.
Holding her attention for another moment, I give her my best try me countenance, praying I won’t actually have to open my mouth at all.
I’m bluffing here. I don’t have an ace up my sleeve, but I need her to agree to this.
I shouldn’t be here. I wish I’d told the FBI to fuck themselves. I should’ve run the fuck away from this assignment. I still can, the angel on my shoulder urges, while the devil whispers, and let someone else touch this beguiling creature? I think not.
Fuck, I’m already pussy-whipped and I haven’t even touched her.
When she had me on my knees for her, telling me to “use my words” and that I was “topping from the bottom,” my fingers twitched to palm her ass until it was red and white-hot to the touch.
What the hell is wrong with me? This is not good.
Relief floods my system as she sighs, glancing away from me. “There will be rules—additional rules—and you’ll be required to pay for the submissive’s time, as well as mine.”
My lips curl in delighted triumph. “We have ourselves a deal, Genevieve.”
She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.
“Do you have a preference for a female or male sub?” she asks less than five minutes later, stepping into the elevator next to me.
“I’d prefer that it be you,” I answer without thinking, leaning against the back wall. Maybe I shouldn’t have admitted that, but it’s the most truthful statement I’ve made since I saw her tonight.
There’s clearly a reason why she won’t let me dominate her. Maybe it’s a safety precaution, but something tells me there’s more to it, and I intend to get to the bottom of that.
Her elegant hands slip into the pockets of her trousers easily, and she stares at the chrome doors, her face not giving away a single thing.
Her next words are like a dagger flying through the air, suspended briefly before finding its target: in this case, my chest. “We can’t always get what we want, Superman. ”
Most people can’t always get what they want, but I’m Ford fucking Crawford. I will get what I want. And right now, what I want most in this world is her.
“My goddamn cover’s been blown,” I bite out into the burner phone the moment I step into my apartment. “Again.”
When Genevieve walked me to the front doors, she told me that she’d be sending me a new questionnaire, as well as a list of things to research and familiarize myself with.
I have forty-eight hours to immerse myself in all things BDSM just as Crawford Enterprises is slated to close on a multi-million-dollar deal.
But before I can dive into anything else, I need to handle Jackson.
The idiot always has shit to say, so when he’s silent for a few beats, I know he’s worried. “How bad? Do you need an extraction?”
“We met at a gala,” I lie, leaving out the part about the bar, as well as what I told Drake: the fact that I like her. I wish I could say that’s changed, but it hasn’t. “I gave her my name, my real name, Jackson. She knew who I was the moment she walked into the room tonight.”
“Do you think you’re in danger?”
Yes. “No.”
“Do you think she ran the background check?” I’d wrap my fingers around his damn throat right now if this conversation were happening in person.
“Definitely.” There’s no doubt in my mind that she saw the extensive fake identity that was created for this op.
My only hope is that I can play it off like I had it created to cover my ass, given my powerful position at Crawford Enterprises, and there’s a chance it’ll work, given our rapport. I tell Jackson as much.
“Fuck, Crawford.” He sighs, sounding more tired than usual. Me too, asshole. “I think pulling you might spook her more. When do you get together again?”
“Two days.”
“Can you fix this? Are you comfortable seeing her again?”
That’s part of my problem. I’m entirely at ease with this woman, unburdened and weightless. I want her: in my bed, in my life, at my side. It’s terrifying for so many reasons, chief of which being that I’m tasked with tossing her tight, sexy ass in prison as soon as I get what I need.
Instead of sharing any of that, I go with a simple, “Yes.”