Chapter 21
Twenty-One
York wakes me just after dawn, and we pack just as the rain starts.
It’s chilly and miserable, and by the time I get the tent rolled and bagged, my fingers are numb.
Within the hour, the whole camp is dismantled, and August is stirring the doused ashes of the fire, letting the rain stifle any remaining embers.
Everyone departs wordlessly in different directions, and I keep my gun at the ready as York and I walk through the woods in the watery morning light.
The rain doesn’t let up, and my feet are soggy by the time we make it back to the road a couple of hours later.
I’m tired, hungry, and chilled through when I get in the car, and the drive back feels like forever.
Time protracts as I watch the wilderness whip by and give way to bits of civilization before plunging us back into a corridor of endless trees. The next thing I know, we’re climbing the warehouse stairs, and then I’m under the hot spray of York’s showerhead.
The cut on my head is almost healed, so I scrub my hair vigorously. My shoulder feels better, but the skin is still tender. The bruise has turned varying shades of yellow, and my forearms look similar. When my wrists finish healing, I’ll bear some scars.
After washing twice, I dry off and French braid my hair. The color looks awful now, and I’m going to need to strip my hair entirely to fix it. I should start using wigs.
The apartment is empty when I come out of the bathroom, so I root through York’s dresser and change into some borrowed clothing before flopping down on the bed.
Tenting it for a couple of nights without even a pillow for comfort does not make for restful sleep. This bed is soft and inviting, and I don’t even get under the blanket before I feel heavy with sleep.
***
Warm hands slide up my legs, and I stretch, turning my face into the bed. Rain is still pattering against the windows, and the scent of his aftershave wafts around me.
“I’m looking forward to hearing you in full stereo again.” York pushes up the shirt and slides his hands over my ass. “I like the sounds you make when it hurts.”
He’s fucking shameless, and I hate that I like it. I may even be starting to crave it. Huffing out a lungful of air into the blanket, I shift, and his hand comes down on my bare ass. It makes my head snap up with a hiss, before he kisses the spot and climbs off the bed.
“I have to show you something.”
Over my shoulder, he walks away in nothing but a pair of flannel pants, and I track him through the room until he stops by the couches. I roll off the bed and rub my ass cheek as I pass by the kitchen and stop at the coffee table covered in papers.
“I want the Director,” he says flatly.
“I’ve figured that much out already . . .” I kneel beside the table and sift through the papers. “But why? It won’t stop them from coming after me.”
“It’s not about you.”
My eyes flick from the papers to him briefly. “Be honest.”
“Do you really think Will, Carter, or fucking August—people who don’t even know you—would risk themselves for you?” He sinks back into the leather couch and watches me from beneath heavy lids. “Why didn’t the Agency kill you when they grabbed you?”
“I told you, they used you to single me out . . . but I haven’t done anything.” I shuffle through a few of the topmost papers. “I don’t know why you picked me, but now they think I’m a fucking traitor. They want to torture me for information. I imagine I need to be alive for that.”
“They think you’re a traitor?”
“You’ve made me look like one!” I slap my hand on the table. “My life as I knew it is over because of you.”
“Please,” he scoffs. “Take some accountability for yourself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Stop pretending like you don’t know how you got here.”
“I don’t.” I grit my teeth and look down at the table.
It’s covered in blueprints, lists of names, itineraries.
I shuffle through it more earnestly, letting my eyes comb over every detail I can get them on.
“You’ll never get inside the Agency. Neither one of us will get anywhere near it, and that’s the last place I want to be anyway. ”
“We’re not going there.” He sits forward, pulls something out of the pile, and tosses it at me. The stiff card skates across the top of the other papers, and I trap it with my hand.
It’s an invitation. “A party?”
“A gala . . . more like a statesman’s garden party, but guess who’s on the guest list.”
“The Director,” I reason.
“And me,” he adds. “With a plus one, of course.”
The invitation is made out to one “David Crossley.” Crossley. I sift through more papers, but there is so much information, some irrelevant, some not seeming to fit this party at all. It’s like there are multiple different missions mixed together.
That’s because there are. He’s testing me again.
He might not know what I am exactly, but he suspects something, and that suspicion has been growing steadily and perhaps even honing itself. I grip the back of my neck and bow my head as I drop the paper in my hand on the table.
Whatever he thinks about me, this plan is fucking insane. He can’t hit the Director in the middle of a party and expect to get away with it. There is no way there won’t be security, plus the Director knows exactly what I look like—he invented my fucking job.
I exhale and stare at the invitation again. “Please don’t take this risk,” I whisper.
“Why not?” He lifts a glass to his lips and sinks back into the couch, balancing it on his thigh.
“Just . . . make it make sense for me, please.”
“I really want to. Believe me.”
My mind reels again, delving through everything I know and trying to fit the pieces together. Kill one Director, they’ll appoint another, and what does eliminating this one achieve anyway? Absolutely nothing. It puts us both in danger . . . a lot of danger.
But I can’t say that. I can’t question this man’s agenda while doing my best to hide my own.
I tap the invitation. “What do you need me to do?”
His attention switches to it and back to me, and he lets his head fall to the side slightly as he regards me and takes another drink. “Look good and do what you're told. I expect that will end up being very difficult.”
Crawling forward, I take the glass from his hand and set it on the table as I settle between his knees and rest my cheek on his thigh. “I’m a good dancer.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“I can talk politics and policy all day or pretend like my children are my world,” I add softly. “If you want me to light up the room, I will . . . or I can fade into the background.”
Those same heavy eyes watch me quietly.
“Promise me you won’t let them grab me again, and I’ll do what I’m told.”
His fingers graze my cheekbone. “I won’t let them grab you.”
I nod.
“Trust me.”
Closing my eyes, I nod again. This party could be the end of everything for me if it doesn’t go to plan. But I don’t have a choice. I could say no and put up a fight, but he’d drag me there anyway. I do believe he’ll do his best to keep me out of their hands . . . but he’s just one man.
My hands slide up his thighs, and I rise, kissing his chest, trailing my mouth down his body as I work his pants down. He strokes the side of my face and laces his fingers in my hair as the broad tip of his hard shaft juts into the underside of my chin.
Taking it in my hand, I lock eyes with him while I guide it into my mouth.
His head falls back with a deep groan, and I push him to the back of my throat hard enough to make my eyes water. A quiet rumble comes out, and he cups my throat, squeezing gently as he pushes deeper into my mouth, forcing me to swallow him.
A tear leaks from the corner of my eye as I’m robbed of air for a moment, but he wipes it with his thumb as he withdraws, and I take a quick breath before pushing him back in.
“Fuck’s sake,” he groans. “Look at you.”
I take him deeply over and over, until his fingers are buried in the leather beside him and he’s thrusting into my mouth.
Cursing, he stiffens further as a strangled moan escapes, and his fingers tighten in my hair, pinning me in place as hot cum splashes into the back of my throat.
Chest heaving, he pulls me up, kissing me hard as I climb into his lap.
“I want to keep you, Theresa.”
“Yeah?” I pant as he throws me down on the couch and pushes my shirt up. “What does that mean?”
“I take care of what’s mine.”
The shit people say in the throes of passion . . . the shit I say . . . the shit I want to hear. There is no way to trust what either of us says in these moments, but the thought of being his right now doesn’t seem like such a bad thing.
“Show me.” I look down at him.
Sliding my shirt up, he holds my gaze as his long tongue descends, and my breathing hitches as I watch him flick me with it.
Pressing my legs wide, he laps me until I can’t stand it any longer and break his gaze, letting my head fall back.
His mouth covers me, sucking and pulling teasingly until my thighs are around his head and I’m gasping.
“Give me more,” I plead.
“More?” he growls, trailing kisses and licks up to my neck.
Right now, I want to be his. The idea of him taking care of me is starting to feel comforting, which scares me. He’s intense and cryptic, intimidating and manipulative. I understand why I want to fuck him, but I’m losing sight of all the reasons why I shouldn’t like him.
“Just be a good girl for me,” he whispers before kissing me.
The taste of myself on his lips sends a tingle down my spine. “You like when I’m bad . . . You want the excuse to be mean.”
“I don’t need an excuse.” He slides his arm under me and pulls my hips up to meet his thrust.
“York!” I gasp at the brutal, sudden invasion.
“What?” He bites the top of my breast until I cry out.
“You like it mean.” His tongue slides over my nipple, and then he pulls me upright in his lap and looks up at me.
“You like it crass, Theresa.” His hand comes down on my ass hard, as I grind on him desperately.
“You’re so fucking hungry for it. You’ve just been waiting for someone to tell you it’s okay.
” His eyes drift shut. “I want that from you. Whatever innocence you have left.” A fine sweat breaks across my skin as I listen to him.
“I want to watch you swallow my cock again and again.”
He throws me back down and flips me over. I pull myself forward, but he grabs me and pulls me back until his labored breaths are in my ear and I’m on all fours under him. An arm secures me as he fills me again, and I moan deeply.
“That’s it . . .” He nuzzles into my hair, pausing. “Take it all.”
My legs shake as he fucks me forcefully. I don’t understand how he knows things that I’m only just starting to understand about myself . . . things that I never felt before him, things that I’ve never talked about with anyone.
There is shame in enjoying him, and I’m not sure it will ever go away. There is shame in letting him speak to me like this, in liking it, too, but he makes it feel okay in the moment. There is something wrong with me, with us.
His foot plants on the floor beside us, and he grabs my braid as he sits back, wrenching my head as he goes harder.
Fuck, I love this.
The tension spreads through my hips, filling me. I drop to my elbows, short of breath as the feeling spikes, hitting me powerfully as it releases, and I shriek.
He pushes my hips down, groaning and then hissing as he loses his rhythm, straining behind me for a second before relaxing and letting me drop into a heap. I stretch out on the couch, and he rolls me over, pinning me between him and the back of it.
“Don’t you dare wash me off this time.” He captures my lips. “You’re nice and full now.”
A shiver runs over me. Did he really say that? Why do I like it so much?
I scrape my cheek against his stubble as I shift, letting out a small, impatient sound, and then I kiss him too hard. It has too much beneath the surface.
“How much more do you want?”
“Don’t let me sleep,” I whisper, and he nods slowly, taking my lips again.