Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Mia
Why couldn’t I stop myself from climbing all over Armin? Maybe it was the novelty of being near a man who actually cared about me. Both the team lead and my boss at the FBI would have gladly tied me to the mast of Armin’s exploding boat if it meant the high-profile win of imprisoning Harvey Blagas.
I’d been pouring over the evidence all day, tightening up all the administrative subpoenas for when Harvey’s hotshot lawyers inevitably started whining to Congress and anybody else they paid to listen about the legality of warrantless surveillance.
Spending all day cooped up in our other property, a windowless basement under a defunct deli on the far side of Sunbreak Harbor, always made me wonder who was actually getting the criminal treatment in this world.
I’d almost managed to edge Armin out of my thoughts all day.
But now here he is, stinking of this awful tequila and wearing yesterday’s suit, begging to let him take care of me in any way at all, and I want nothing more in this world than to feel his skin on mine.
I tear at the front of his shirt until the buttons pop open and it lands on the kitchen floor of this mangy FBI apartment. He stoops his head to kiss me sweetly, but it’s not enough. I pull my dress over my head and throw it on the ratty breakfast bar.
The FBI spared all expenses with this place.
Armin’s still moving slow, soft kisses on my forehead, light caresses on my arms. That’s not what I want. I don’t want to make sweet love to a man I’ve been lying to since we met.
It’s fair, what I’m doing. It’s my job, and not only that, it’s my destiny. I don’t feel bad about it. I’d lie to a thousand, a million men to put Nicole’s killer behind bars.
But I don’t want to feel his love right now. I want him to fuck me hard on the kitchen counter. I reach for his love handles, but he’s exercised them right off.
I miss them.
I pull him to me and I kiss him the way I want to be kissed, hard and fierce and penetrating without asking.
He grunts and squeezes my ass, sliding his erection against my belly, and now we’re getting somewhere.
I unbutton his pants and thrust everything keeping me from that cock down his long legs, then fling off my bra and panties.
He gets the hint.
He picks me up and sets me down on the kitchen counter, next to the bottle of tequila.
“Is this what you want?”
“Guess,” I shoot back, and pull him to me with my legs, heels on his muscular ass.
His eyes flash with anger. He’s in love. He doesn’t want to fuck a whore. He wants to make love to his fiancée, life partner, any kind of bullshit contract with terms and conditions that would bind me to him.
Ironically, I’m not a whore.
Well, I guess on some nights and a few days, I have been. Whether you’re pretending or not, the results are the same.
I rest my hands on his biceps and look him in the eyes. That’s what he wants. Any kind of connection.
I want to be connected fast and low.
He teases me with the tip of his cock, slides it up and down and then edges his way inside, to roll it around my clit.
I want him in me, now. I inch closer, scooting my ass on the cheap linoleum, rocking towards him with my hips.
But he won’t drive into me. He dodges my attack so that he’s dividing me with the base of his thick shaft.
Fuck. He wants more foreplay.
I move his hands to my breasts and he closes his eyes and sighs.
“Mia, I—”
Don’t say it. Not now. I can’t hear that right now.
“—I’m gonna fuck every single thought out of that pretty little head of yours.”
He’s bitter about it. I can hear it in his voice. He wants to take me, soft and slow, hold me gently in bed, tell me his feelings, plan our future.
But this is what I need.
He drives into me so hard I call out. This is what I wanted. I encircle him with my legs. He steadies himself, one hand on the shabby cabinet, one arm around my waist. I grab onto his shoulders and ride him, and then I change my mind.
“Bed,” I gasp. He cups my ass and complies, still inside me. I can feel every inch of him with each step he takes. I rock against him as he goes, and maybe I’ll be done before we can get there.
But no. I need more. He flops down on his back with me on him, and this ancient bed is tested. The springs squeal. I pin him down, my hands on his forearms, and I roll my hips until the pressure builds deep within me.
“Mia,” he whispers, watching me, his hands on my hips. I’m using him, yes, but he’s using me, too.
I reach down and finger either side of my clit, gently at first, then harder with each thrust of my hips and the pressure explodes inside me.
He’s still hard. He watches me, eyes wide. I think he knows what’s coming, but no. He’s surprised.
I climb off him. “I have to go back to work.”
His eyes flare with rage, but he doesn’t say anything. He folds his hands behind his head and gives me a long look. I take him in, too. He’s a sight. All those muscles, and an erection that shouldn’t go to waste.
I head back to the kitchen, and I put my clothes back on. I grab my purse. He doesn’t follow me. I close the door behind me gently.
I take the steps, slow. I do feel him inside me, still, my Armin. I consider going back, but I can’t.
Harvey’s still free. There’s work to do.