3. KISMET #2
“God, look at you in this red lingerie set and these matching fucking heels.” I pick up speed. “Did you wear this hoping you might see me tonight, Jane?”
“Mm…maybe,” she whispers. She starts massaging her breasts over her bra. “Remind me,” she says innocently, “do you like heels?”
I lean down, pull her bra cups down with one hand, and pinch her nipples, one at a time, watching the pleasure ripple through her. “My exact words the first night we met,” I say slowly, humming, “were, ‘Damn, gorgeous, tall women in heels are my kryptonite. Are you trying to kill me?’”
“Oh, yeah,” she says, pressing one heel into my chest just enough to sting, “that does sound familiar.” She drags her heel down my chest, then does the same with the other before wrapping her legs around my hips.
I gasp, the pain only fueling the pleasure. She leans up, kissing my stomach and chest. “And I remember telling you I’d only try to kill you if you deserved it.”
“Turn over and put that sexy ass up for me. Now,” I command.
She obeys. I slap her ass a few times playfully, on the edge of pain—exactly how she likes it. I knead her ass roughly, then thrust back into her.
“Fuck, Jane,” I growl, picking up speed.
“Yes. Fuck. Yes. I’m close again,” she mumbles.
“Good,” I say. “Rub that greedy clit of yours and come on my cock, Jane. Now.” My voice is rough, my pace relentless.
She does exactly what I tell her. When I add pressure to her back entrance again, she comes even harder.
I follow moments later, chasing my own release.
We collapse into each other, both of us sweaty, breathless, and spent.
I finally pull away. “I’ll get us some water. We can rest for a few minutes, then I’ll be ready again. If you’re going to make me wait this damned long between nights together, I’m just getting started, Jane.”
After very little sleep last night—thank you, Jane—I’m downing a second cup of coffee. I have a huge smile on my face as I say hellos and good mornings to my colleagues at FBI headquarters and make my way to my desk.
“That smile is very telling,” Stone says as he approaches my desk.
Marcus Stone and I are both Assistant Directors.
He leads the anti-trafficking unit. We often work together on cases and share resources and agents, given that anti-trafficking and organized crime often overlap.
He’s a good guy—a little square, but easy to work with. A real Bureau guy through and through.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Stone,” I respond with a smirk.
“Oh, to be single again, my friend,” he says wryly. “Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t need to be single, but to be kid-free? That smile on your face is a smile of a guy who wasn’t cock-blocked by his kids last night.”
We both chuckle.
“I will neither confirm nor deny.”
“That’s all the confirmation I need.” He laughs. “Listen, quick question: is Steele almost wrapped on your laundering case with the Donovan clan?”
Ten years have passed since Ciara Donovan chose Konstantin Volkov Junior over her fiancé, Enzo Luciano.
That single decision ignited a war between the Russian, Irish, and Italian mob families, leading to the deaths of the heads of each family—including Enzo and Eva’s parents, the only real parents I ever knew.
Micky Donovan is dead now. Ciara escaped back to Ireland. She never married that asshole, Junior, after all. But the Donovan and Volkov names still crawl under my skin, making my blood boil.
“Yup, the Donovan case goes to the prosecutor’s office tomorrow. I believe Steele is almost done. I was about to find her, actually, so I can confirm. You need our best hacker?”
“Yeah, something landed on my desk last night I want her eyes on.”
“No problem, man. I’ll send her your way.”
“Appreciate it. And when you’re ready to let a married father of three live vicariously through your exploits, you know where to find me.”
“You know I don’t kiss and tell, Stone.”
“I know you don’t and it drives me crazy. A guy that looks like you…I can’t even imagine, man.”
I laugh and stand as he walks away. I need to speak to the woman in question.
Luna Steele is indeed the FBI’s best hacker.
We recruited her about nine years ago when she was only nineteen.
I’ve been lucky enough to work with her the past five years.
To describe her as a hacker isn’t even fair—she’s a literal magician.
When I approach her desk, she’s typing away, zoned in.
I always get a kick out of seeing her work.
She’s chaos in action. Her wild, curly hair is always pulled into a messy bun.
She wears oversized, bright-pink glasses and is always sporting some sort of 90s pop-culture tee or neon top.
Her personality can only be described as sunshine incarnate.
“Whatcha working on, kid?”
She startles and her eyes snap up to me. “Hey, Cross. Wrapping the last reports for the Donovan case while I run some backend queries on some outstanding dark-web cases we’ve been looking into.”
I lean a hip against the edge of her desk. “All in a day’s work for you. How ya been?”
“Good. Busy. Late night. You?”
“Same,” I answer, hiding a small smile thinking of my night with Jane. “It’s about time I get you and your team out for another night at the bowling alley. I need my damned dignity back.”
“That was all them, I’m as hopeless as you and Stone. I much prefer darts or pool.”
“Oh, trust me, I remember! I’ve yet to win a single game against you.”
We both laugh.
“Let me guess: You’re here because the mob stopped returning your calls?”
I snort. “Exactly. I figured I’d send our best after them instead. And spoiler alert, that’s you.”
She gestures for me to continue, faux-humble. “Flattery will get you everywhere, please continue.”
“Looks like Stone has something he needs your help on. As soon as you’re wrapped on Donovan, go ahead and check in with him.
Also, I’ve got someone I need you to look into—something politics-adjacent.
Could be nothing, but a name landed on my desk that I need more info on. Should be a quick file pull.”
Her brow quirks. Politics and organized crime have a long, intimate history in this city. “Go on,” she says. “You have effectively piqued my curiosity.”
“Pippa Saint James. She’s an executive assistant in Senator Lowell Cramden’s office.”
For a fraction of a second, she looks blindsided. All the color drains from her face, and she’s slow to respond. Luna Steele doesn't get flustered—her mind moves too fast to pause on anything as inconvenient as nerves.
“Pippa Saint James,” I say again, casually. “Is that a name you recognize? I’m tracking a lead. She or Cramden might have some overlap on a case I’m working.”
There it is again, just a flicker. Too quick for anyone else to notice.
I tilt my head. “You okay?”
Her expression smooths back into place. She looks up at me. “Yeah—I mean—that name! Pippa?” She forces a laugh. “Just has me picturing royalty, someone with pearls and a clipboard. Like she was born in a tiara, sipping tea while delegating world peace. Probably with a swan as a pet.”
I hold her gaze a beat longer than necessary. Five years working together has taught me Luna’s tells, and she was definitely caught off guard by my request and I clocked it.
I chuckle to put her back at ease. I’m not pursuing this right now. “Something tells me pearls aren’t your thing.”
“Never! Opal is too neutral of a color for me, you know that.”
“Good point. Besides, I like your bright wardrobe, brings some life to this place! Text me if you find anything. I owe you a coffee.”
“More than a coffee! Talk to Hale about getting me a raise, Cross.” An ongoing bit.
“If anyone deserves it, it’s you, Steele,” I say as I leave her desk.
I file her reaction where I keep things I don’t yet understand but know better than to ignore. Luna Steele is fast, composed, and careful. So, when something slips, it matters. She’s definitely heard of—or even knows—Pippa Saint James.
I’ll see what lands on my desk later today. And I’ll be paying attention to what doesn’t.