Chapter 27 Will
Will
Icouldn’t sleep. My mind kept drifting back to Paris, painting images of Thomas and me on our balcony or sipping coffee at our little café or making dinner in our flat. The sight of our simple, beautiful life made something well up inside my chest.
Thomas lay beside me. I rolled onto my side and watched him breathe.
“You’re creepy when you stare, you know that, right?” he mumbled without opening his eyes.
I grunted a chuckle as my hand reached up from the covers and stroked his hair. “I can’t help that I love watching you.”
His eyes fluttered open, and his head turned toward me. The ghost of a smile curled the corners of his lips.
“You getting mushy on me, Shaw?”
I raised a brow. “Have I ever not been mushy?”
“Fair point.”
“I really want to kiss you.”
He smiled, this time so full the skin around his eyes crinkled. “What’s stopping you?”
“The Baroness is right next—”
“If memory serves, the Baroness has heard us do a lot more than kiss.”
He had a point, so I leaned across and pressed my lips to his. Despite winter’s chill and everything we’d been through, they were soft and gentle.
Until his tongue got involved, and my heart began to race.
His hand surfaced, cupping my cheek, then finding the back of my neck to pull me further into him. I scooted toward him, and our naked bodies brushed. He was already stiff and throbbing. I could feel him as his erection pressed against my stomach. A thrill tickled my skin as my own hardness pulsed.
“Someone’s happy to see me,” he breathed between kisses.
I tried to come up with a sharp retort, but his tongue grazed mine, and I lost the ability to think or speak or do anything but kiss my infuriating, frustrating, beautifully wonderful man.
“Careful,” he said, wincing as I rolled to climb on top of him.
“Shit, sorry,” I said, adjusting to straddle him.
Our kisses grew ever more passionate as our hands brushed and roamed bodies we knew better than any landscape. Every curve, every muscle, every tiny hair—I knew them all.
I loved them all.
Thomas moaned as I squirmed to position his cock so it would slip into place.
“I need you, Thomas. God, I need you so bad.”
Thomas’s teeth had just bit into the tender skin of my neck when a flash of light shot through a gap in the curtains. It was faint, but unmistakable.
Headlights, sweeping across the window as a car turned into the drive.
“Thomas—”
He was already moving, rolling out from under me and reaching for the pistol on the nightstand in one fluid motion. The pain in his shoulder didn’t slow him down. Nothing slowed Thomas down when his instincts kicked in.
I sat up, reaching for my own weapon. “Damn it. Will we ever get a moment’s peace?”
Thomas ignored me. He was on his feet already, naked, his gun raised and every line of his body coiled for violence despite his erection that lingered. It might’ve been the hottest scene ever had I not been worried about armed intruders.
“I’ll screw your brains out when we survive this mess,” he said quietly. “Right now, we’ve got company, and I don’t remember inviting anyone.”
We pulled on trousers and moved, still shirtless, into the hallway.
Bisch was already there, a shotgun in his hands, his face carved from granite in the dim light.
“Expecting guests?” he asked.
“No,” Thomas said.
The headlights swept across the front windows as the car came to a stop. The clock struck midnight. It was far too late for a social call—and too early for good news.
“Positions,” Thomas breathed.
We moved without discussion, years of training guiding us into a defensive formation.
Bisch took the front door, positioning himself behind the heavy oak frame.
Thomas slipped into the sitting room, finding an angle on the windows.
I moved to the kitchen where I could cover the back door and provide crossfire if needed.
The engine cut.
Silence and darkness cloaked the farmhouse once more.
I pressed myself against the wall, pistol raised, watching shadows shift outside. One door opened. Then another. I counted footsteps in the snow—four people, spreading out as they approached.
My finger found the trigger guard.
Three sharp knocks at the front door rang out.
No one moved.
Then a voice, a female with an American accent, carrying a hint of amusement: “If you’re planning to shoot us, at least let us get warm first. It’s freezing out here.”
I exhaled and lowered my weapon.
“That’s her,” I called out. “The CIA woman.”
Bisch glanced at me, then at Thomas, who had emerged from the sitting room. After a moment, Bisch lowered the shotgun and reached for the door.
The woman stepped inside first, brushing snow from her dark hair like some model posing for a movie reel. I felt my breath catch the same way it had in the café. She wore a heavy wool coat over dark trousers, practical clothes for a midnight drive, but she wore them like evening wear.
Behind me, Thomas whistled low.
“Damn,” he murmured. “You said she was pretty, but . . . just damn.” He tilted his head appreciatively. “And I don’t even like girls.”
She heard him.
Of course, she heard him.
Her smile sharpened as she looked past me.
“I like him already,” she said. Her eyes traveled down Thomas’s bare chest. “And I can see why you do, too. Perhaps we might share a taste sometime? I already like the way your musk teases my tongue. I bet your man’s is even—”
“No!” I said more harshly than was necessary. “There will be no . . . musk tasting . . . on either of us . . . or both of us . . . or . . . oh, fuck it. Just no.”
The woman’s laughter was the tinkling of a bell, bright and merry and insidiously wicked.
“I like her. Maybe just a nibble?” Thomas grinned, and my asshole partner flexed, then shot me a lopsided grin. “Please.”
“Both of you, just piss off. Right now.”
Their mingled laughter greeted the three men who filed in behind her. Olaf and Sven stepped in first, then a third entered. He had a dark complexion, a short, compact build, and watchful eyes. He was the one who’d followed the Opel.
“Forgive the dramatic entrance,” the woman said, pulling off her gloves. “We decided not to wait for morning. If we’re doing this, we might as well do it now.”
“You could have warned us,” Bisch said flatly as he propped his shotgun against the wall by the front door.
“And miss the chance to see how you react to an unexpected threat?” Her eyes swept across us. “Twelve seconds from engine cut to defensive positions. Not bad for a mixed team.”
“We’ve had a little practice,” I said.
“I can tell.” She turned to face me fully, and there was that damn smile. “Hello again, handsome.” Her gaze traveled down my chest to where the last of my hardness had refused to fully fade, despite the harrowing moment. “Oh, my sweet boy, you did miss me.”
My ears went warm. Thomas nearly fell over laughing. Bisch’s brow furrowed, but the CIA men grinned as though they’d grown used to their leader’s coquettish ways.
“We should make proper introductions,” Thomas said, saving me from dying of embarrassment right there in the living room. “I’m Condor. This is Emu.”
The woman’s grin sharpened. “From the old OSS birdcage. How cute.”
“We like the classics,” Thomas said dryly. “There’s less chance of ending up named after something that slithers.”
She laughed again. “Fair enough.” Then she gestured to her team. “Marcus, Danny, and Eddie.”
Thomas caught my eye. I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. So much for Olaf and Sven.
“Those aren’t real,” I said. “Are they?”
Her eyes sparkled. “As real as my tongue was in your ear, sweetheart.”
Crimson flared across every part of my being. Goddamn it.
Beside me, Thomas made a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh—his composure cracking so badly he had to turn away, shoulders shaking.
“I—that was—” I stammered.
“Tradecraft,” she finished, her eyes dancing. “I know. It was very professional of you to hold still and give me full access to your tasty little lobes.”
Thomas was useless now. He had to brace himself with his uninjured hand against the wall. Even Bisch’s granite expression had developed a crack.
Before I could attempt a recovery, a door creaked open down the hallway, and the Baroness emerged in a heavy robe, her silver hair loose, but her eyes sharp.
“I heard voices,” she said. Her gaze found our visitors. “Ah. The American team. You decided not to wait. This is good.”
The CIA woman’s demeanor shifted instantly. All flirtation vanished, replaced by something crisp and professional. “No, ma’am. Time is too short for half measures.”
The Baroness studied her for a long moment. Apparently, whatever she saw satisfied her.
“Good,” she said. “Come. Everyone into the kitchen.”
We gathered around the farmhouse table.
The Baroness sat at the head—or what felt like the head, despite the table being round.
Her bandaged hands rested on the wood. Bisch stood behind her.
Thomas and I—now properly dressed—took one side, while the American team arranged themselves across from us.
Thomas had thrown on a shirt, though he’d left it half unbuttoned, which I suspected was deliberately aimed at further teasing me even during a session as serious as this.
Maps covered the table, detailing Bern, the surrounding canton, and locations we’d identified as potential targets. The Sternberg documents sat in a neat stack.
“Before we begin,” the Baroness said, looking at the woman, “I must know what you are authorized to do.”
“Observe and report. We may also provide security, though even that is limited.” She paused. “Active intervention requires authorization, which I don’t have.”