45. Gwen
Gwen
Easton cups my chin with his free hand, urging my eyes on his. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
I love how this man always narrates his intentions, and I’m completely obsessed.
He leans in, his hot breath brushing my mouth as he murmurs, “But it’s going to be in one of our rooms this time, with the deadbolt in place.” His voice drops deeper and darker, setting me on fire. “No interruptions when my mouth is on yours.”
A rush of heat heads south of my belly. “What about work? I have to upload Jezebel’s photo into my program, and—”
“That’ll take you all of two seconds, and you know it.”
He has me there.
“I feel like we could use a break from the heavy.”
“Gotta find a balance between work and play?” I tease.
“Abso-fucking-lutely.” He brings his face closer and nudges his nose lightly against mine. “These assholes have taken a lot from us.” His hand slides to my cheek. “I’m done giving them our time.”
“Time,” I echo, and my thoughts begin to circle around an idea. The missing piece to my original plan, and it no longer has to be a backup one, but—
“What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?” He kisses his way from my cheek up to my temple, before his lips take a journey back down. But he doesn’t give me his mouth yet.
I’m torn between telling him now and waiting until after the kiss I desperately need.
“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking about if you kiss me here,” I say, making up my mind. “I don’t want to wait.” I drag my tongue over the front of my teeth. He’s acting like I don’t know how to play this game.
He pulls his face back, jaw tightening under stubble that’s drifting into beard territory—my favorite look on him. “Oh, is that so?”
“That’s s—”
His mouth covers mine, hands holding my cheeks captive. He kisses me like it’s necessary for survival. Not just his, but ours.
“I can’t think around you,” he says huskily between slow, closed-mouth kisses. “Not when we’re alone. Not after—”
“We finally crossed the line that never should’ve existed?” I whisper against his lips.
“Mm-hmm.” He releases my face and surprises me by lifting me onto the dining room table. When he presses into me, I wrap my legs around him and drape my forearms over his shoulders. He trails his lips along my jaw, tucking a flyaway behind my ear. “God, I can’t wait to make love to you.”
Make love.
My body stills. My heart rhythm doesn’t. No one’s ever said that to me. Sex. Shagging. Banging, sure. But love?
“I’ve never done that before.” Emotion catches in my throat.
He runs the back of his hand along my cheek. “Done what?”
“Made love,” I admit. “You’d have to love someone to make love, right?”
He nods, eyes glistening like this big, tough man might actually cry.
“Listen, we’ve got things to work through—you and me.
And we’re gonna butt heads because we’re both stubborn.
” His thumbs trace circles at my cheeks.
“But the reasons that scare me about being together don’t have shit on how terrified I am of losing you. ”
Our first post-kiss talk got blown apart by the fake plane crash, so I still don’t fully understand those reasons, but I’m right there with him. “Same,” I whisper-cry. “But I do need to remind you, I’m—”
“Trouble, I know.” He sets his hands on each side of me on the table. “The good kind of trouble,” he adds gruffly. “The kind I can more than handle.”
Last night’s conversation is still lingering unfinished between us, so I admit, “I hope you realize by now I want a heck of a lot more than one night with you.” My gaze drops to his forearm, then I take in the sight of the other.
They’re corded and tense, leading to broad shoulders built to take impact.
I trace one raised vein with my fingertip, following it to the back of his hand.
“Any thoughts on what you’d do with nights plural? ”
His grin turns wolfish. “Just nights?” Calm settles over his expression, the kind born of experience, not innocence. “How about mornings and afternoons, too? All the hours in all the days.”
I see what he’s doing. Asking for forever while still holding something back. He’s afraid he’ll push me off the fear ledge I’m living on.
But I’m ready to choose solid ground.
With him.
For us.
My hands slide over his rigid arms, grounding myself in the strength beneath my palms. “That could be arranged.”
A faint crease forms between his brows. He wants to say more, but he’s holding in his words. And why wouldn’t he feel that way with my one foot dangling on the other side of the cliff like a warning?
“Leave it to us to have this conversation in the middle of a life-or-death op.”
One hand moves to my waist. Steadying, not claiming. The other cups the back of my neck over my hair. He studies me intently, like I matter to him. And I know I do. “If not now . . . when?”
I fist his shirt, and the control he wears like armor cracks, just as mine does.
His mouth crashes over my lips on a rough breath. The kiss starts soft, almost asking, then turns fierce. Possessive. Desperate.
He leans me farther back, sliding a hand between us, over my breasts atop my shirt. His beard grazes my skin, kisses mapping a heated trail from my mouth to my ear and back again.
It’s messy and real and devastatingly perfect.
The table creaks under our shifting weight as his voice breaks against my lips. “I’m trying to behave, and you’re making that impossible.” He forces space between us, hands braced on the table once again.
How am I supposed to return to reality after that? “Trouble,” I murmur. “I know.”
He presses his forehead to mine and groans. “There was something you were supposed to be telling me, wasn’t there?”
Shit, was there?
He exhales as if surrendering to something, then picks me up and sets me on my feet.
“Let me first just . . .” My brain is gone. Completely gone.
His dark eyes are warm, amused, and dangerously distracting. “Upload Jezebel’s photo?”
“Right, that’s it.” I’m smiling like I’ve got a schoolgirl crush. I might as well start doodling our initials inside a heart and testing out his last name with mine.
“Gwen?” He realizes I’ve wandered off into Overthinkingland. It’s a real place, trust me.
I snap my fingers, needing a physical cue to reset my attention where it’s supposed to be. “It’ll take me ten seconds to upload Jezebel’s image into the facial recognition program.”
“Not two?” He smirks, and I love that he’s giving me shit.
“I have to age her up first.” I turn, finally mission-focused, but then the man goes and playfully swats my arse.
I swivel around, blushing. And not gonna lie, turned on.
“You had that coming, remember?” He winks.
I angle my head, fighting distraction Armageddon 2.0 all over again. “You are soooo gonna get it. Later.”
If only later could be now. I need this man on top of me, under me, over me . . . all the ways, dammit.
Shockingly, I manage to pull my thoughts together enough to settle in behind my rig and get to work while he quietly watches on.
“Okay, done.” I shut my lid and stand in preparation for what I know will be a face-off kind of situation.
“So, here goes.” I wring my hands together knowing he’s not going to like what’s about to come out of my mouth.
“I plead guilty as plan A, not the backup one. If I turn myself in now, and I’m already in custody, they can’t pin the next attack on me.
That’s how we screw with their plans and timeline. ”
He falters forward, and I reach for his forearm and let my palm slide down to his wrist.
“We’re proactive, not reactive,” I tack on in a hurry.
“Grandpa and POTUS can notify the Brits that I plan to turn myself in to draw out the real criminals. We tell them we believe someone’s planning to blame me for the air traffic attack, and there are more to come.
To prove my innocence, I’ll offer to remain in their custody until the real perp is captured. ”
He continues to stare at me.
Unblinking.
Unmoving.
The only indication I have he’s heard me is his racing pulse under my thumb.
“We have to do this publicly so we can control the narrative. We’ll clear everything up after the real criminals are taken down, and Grandpa can look like a hero.
Playing chess while others play checkers, that way it won’t hurt his presidential run.
” I lift one shoulder. “Or Diana’s mum’s, for that matter. ”
“Thought you can’t use chess analogies.”
“That’s where your head went?” Yup, he’s stuck in buffering mode. Not processing what I’m saying. Or completely ignoring it. “Dad’s not around,” I tack on before getting back to it. “But really, this is our best option. We’ll turn their deepfake shit back on them, use it to draw them out.”
His thick, dark lashes flutter a few times, realization sinking in. “Bait?” He curses. “Is that what you’re suggesting when you say ‘draw them out’?”
Oh shit, he’s gonna have a heart attack. He’s all red in the face, and his pulse really shouldn’t be that fast. I let go of his wrist and set my hands on his chest instead, hoping to both soothe and distract him.
“This is the only way we can get ahead of them, and you know it.”
“No,” he grunts, “I don’t know it.” He squeezes his eyes tight and lets go of a strangled breath.
“I’m going to need you to walk me through every damn detail of this plan,” he begins, eyes flashing open and sharp on me, “so I can decide whether it’s worth your father murdering me for agreeing to it. ”