by Shandi Boyes
There is only one way our exchange could get more panty-wetting: if I were given the devotion of his eyes. I want to see if they’re clouded with dominance or narrowed with anger. I can hear his heart thrashing against his ribs, smell the manliness pumping from every orifice of his body, and feel the thickness a pair of jeans and a winter coat can’t hide, but I want his eyes on mine—badly.
“Answer me, Regan. Who are you visiting?”
I moan before I can stop myself. His growl of my name was better than any fantasy I’ve had the past two months. It was thick and hot and utterly devastating.
My throaty groan grants me my final wish. I’m given Alex’s eyes. They are as devastatingly beautiful as I anticipated. He appears both angry and confused, torn between wanting to possess every inch of me and walking away. His fight or flight instincts have kicked in full force.
I save him from making a bad decision by slinging my arms around his neck and sealing my mouth over his. Worry I haven’t just lost my self-pleasing mojo smacks into me when he doesn’t respond to my boldness in the way I’m hoping. He seems willing yet alarmed by my tongue piercing his stern lips.
It is fortunate persuasion is one of my finer points.
It takes several strokes of my tongue to calm the tension in Alex’s jaw, but when it does, mayhem ensues. His fingers weave through my hair as he returns my kiss with so much passion, I feel as if I am being claimed. He takes advantage of all the strong points on his face to dominate our exchange. His teeth sink into my lip before his tongue glides along the area throbbing with aroused pain. His Viking beard tickles my chin and neck when he drags his nose down my cheek to coat my face with his delicious scent, and the strokes of his tongue are purposeful and sensual.
His kiss leaves my mind filled with only thoughts of him. I can’t escape the madness—I’m trapped by his smell, taste, and warmth.
When the elevator comes to a stop on my floor, we stumble down the hallway, all legs and arms, neither willing to surrender our mouths from the other. The crash of our bodies on my apartment door is loud enough to wake the residents of my building. My moans will take care of the ones we missed.
After splaying my back against my door, Alex buries his hand deeper into my hair before taking our kiss to another level. Wetness pools between my legs when he teases my mouth with precise strokes of his tongue and sweet, controlled movements of his lips. His kiss is anything but innocent, but he doesn’t seem to care—finally.
He holds all the reins in our exchange, and I’m happy to hand them over. I don’t usually encourage a change of guard in the bedroom, but only a fool would feign disinterest in exploring his sexual prowess. Furthermore, we’re kissing, not fucking, so until then, I can let him take charge.
My nerve endings zing with pleasure when Alex rocks his hips forward. Layers of clothes can’t hide the thickness throbbing behind his zipper, begging to be released. He is long and hard. His body’s response to our kiss isn’t surprising. It isn’t chaste. It is steamy and hot, a perfect opener for what is about to occur.
As Alex’s tongue strokes mine, I blindly hunt for my keys in my clutch purse. I find them two seconds later, but it isn’t quick enough for Alex. His hand has already slithered under my dress to cup my engorged breast. He twists my nipple, causing goosebumps of arousal to pepper my skin. He’s barely touching me, but a violent storm brews low in my core. This is the sensation I’ve been missing the past two months: the chaos that arrives with both devastation and relief.
“Not yet,” I throatily purr when his fingers sweep away the material clinging to my hardened bud, nearly exposing my naked breasts to his avid eyes. “There are motion-activated cameras in every hallway of Hector.”
Agitation spikes through me when Alex’s eyes lift to mine. I hear the million thoughts streaming through his head without a word escaping from his mouth—just as much as I can feel them. He’s panicked, yet confident. Ready, yet hesitant. Blinded by lust, yet still holding back.
I don’t know how he does it. From the instant his scrumptious taste engulfed my taste buds, I’ve been in a dream-like state. I’m not drunk. . . unless fumes of lust are classified as a drug? If so, sign me up for rehab.
My heart rate triples when Alex scans the corridor for the security camera I mentioned. The tightness our kiss removed from his jaw returns stronger than ever when he locates its dome.
He bites out a string of profanities. I wish that was the worst of the tragedy. Unfortunately, it isn’t. The removal of my legs from his waist is the biggest blow I’ve endured this year.
Actually, scrap that. Make it the past five years.
I don’t know whether I should be humiliated or pleased by his rejection. If a simple grind up against a door under a watchful eye is too far out of his comfort zone, how will he ever handle a woman like me?
In less than a split second, the magic is over, our spell undone. I’ve never seen such an array of emotions cross someone’s face as I am seeing now. Confusion. Shock. Anger. And perhaps even a little bit of resentment.
The final realization helps me regain the reins I lost while trapped by lust. This is the very reason I usually keep them firmly in my grasp. It is the only way I’m guaranteed to be free of burden.
With a shimmy of my shoulders, I return my eyes to Alex’s. The heat burning my veins simmers when I spot one thing in his eyes I never thought I’d see. Sorrow.
“It’s okay,” I assure him when he attempts to speak but can’t.
“You don’t understand, Rae.” His words are barely whispers. “This isn’t. . . I can’t—”
“Wait to get out of here. I get it.”
If I had any chance of fooling you with a declaration that my tone was confident, I’d tell you it was swimming in it. It is a pity my libido isn’t the only thing that packed up and left town a few months ago. My ego went right along with it.
My back splays against my door when Alex takes a step closer to me. His kiss-swollen lips, mussed hair, and dilated eyes are a brutal reminder of what I’m being denied. “That’s not it at all, Rae. It’s just. . .”
I save him the hassle of rummaging up a better excuse by dipping under his arm, jabbing my key into the lock and entering my penthouse apartment.
The brutal slam of my door drowns out anything he says next.
Chapter Thirteen
I stand outside of Regan's door for the next ten minutes. I don't say anything. I can't. There isn't anything I can do to change the monumental fuck up I just made, so why bother? I have no excuse for the jealousy card I played except that this is foreign to me — all of it.
That possessive, narcissistic asshole I portrayed in the elevator isn’t me. There is just something about Regan that brings out my chauvinistic side. Just the thought of her with Isaac. . . Ugh! My blood boils just thinking about it.
I told myself she was stirring me, that she wanted me to react to her taunts, but no matter how many times common sense screamed at me that I was a better man, I didn’t hear a fucking word he spoke.
I wanted to piss a circle around Regan to mark my territory. I wanted to fuck her so hard, my name would ring in Isaac’s ears for years to come, but one confession unraveled it all.
Isaac lives in this building. His apartment is the one sitting opposite Regan’s, so you can be assured any surveillance equipment in this hallway was infiltrated by the FBI the instant Isaac was placed on their radar.
That means they have our kiss on camera. If that isn’t bad enough, they may even have glimpses of Regan’s bare breast. It’s probably only a bit of cleavage, but that alone has my legs pumping as fast as my heart.
I charge down the corridor before throwing open the emergency exit door next to the elevator bank. The shoes Regan despised batter the stairs as hard as my heart smashes against my ribs. I take the stairs two at a time, my focus on one thing and one thing only—protecting Regan.
By the time I make it onto the sidewalk outside Regan’s building, only half a lung is
in operation, but a new record-setting pace has been achieved. As my lungs work through their oxygen deprivation, I scan the congested street. In a town as bustling as Ravenshoe, even the Bureau has issues finding parking spots.
I find what I’m looking for half a block down. The faded pizza sign on a dark blue van makes it appear authentic, but the lack of movement on a Friday night assures me it is the vehicle I’m seeking.
When I throw open the unlocked door of the van a few seconds later, a man I’d guess to be early to mid-twenties startles. He has the same blond hair as me, a similar wonky smile, but his shoulders are two sizes smaller than mine and his personality a whole lot more timid.
“Move,” I instruct, shoving him away from the bank of monitors he is seated in front of.
It takes me flashing him my ID before he does as instructed. If my endeavor to remove Regan from the FBI’s surveillance mainframe weren’t my utmost priority, I’d commend his commitment to the job. Not many tech agents come out of the gates firing. Most wilt away within the first six months on the job. The fact he didn’t flinch when given a direct order has me curious about how long he’s been on the job, and why he requested to be a technician instead of an agent.
When he eyes me with suspicion, I add to my ruse, “We got word our target is piggy-backing off our surveillance. I need to check the servers to ensure they’re clear.”
I'm talking nonsense. I'm a field agent for a reason. This technical mumbo jumbo isn't my field of expertise. Fortunately for me, I only need to know one button to fulfill my goal: the delete button.
“That can’t be right. I coded this program myself. It is unhackable,” the young technician assures, his voice more confident than his facial expression.
“Is that so?”
When he nods, I add on, “Then what is this? Why is our target visiting her now?”
I point to a monitor on my left that shows Isaac knocking on Regan's apartment door—the same door I pinned her to with my cock as I assaulted her mouth with my tongue.
Our kiss—fuck. How can you describe something you’ve never experienced before? I’ve kissed plenty of women, but I’ve never had an all-encompassing, I’ll never seek release without it entering my thoughts kiss before.
The fact I’m thinking this way after nothing but a kiss proves the power Regan has over me. I don’t just want to break the rules for her. I want to rewrite them.
I’m snapped from my dangerous thoughts when the technician mumbles, “He could be borrowing a cup of sugar?”
He laughs, apparently amused. I’m glad he can find humor in our situation. I am anything but amused. I left Regan in a . . . vulnerable state. The last thing I want is Isaac relieving her of her predicament.
“Listen. . .” I read the technician’s name off his ID badge, “. . .Brandon. I’ve been running this operative from the ground the past four months. Isaac doesn’t borrow sugar. I kissed a member of his team to see if he would react. He’s reacting.”
“Your kiss was staged?”
My chest puffs high from the shock in Brandon’s tone. He either thinks I’m a brilliant actor or full of shit. Praying it is the former, I continue to pull the wool over his eyes, “Yes. You’ve met our head of unit, right?”
He nods before his hand darts up to tug at the collar of his polo shirt. It’s not hot. The temperature inside the van is sitting at a pleasant 74˚F. He’s merely responding how every rookie agent does when they meet the very definition of a ball crusher.
“So you’re well aware Theresa demands her agents to go above and beyond the norm, right?”
Looking a little ill, Brandon nods again.
“That’s why I kissed Rae. I was following orders.”
“Rae?” Brandon double-checks, somewhat confused.
I curse under my breath before stammering out, “Rae, Regan. What’s one blonde to another?” I backhand his chest, acting like an Grade A moron. “We should call them all ‘babe’ to save the awkwardness in the morning when you can’t remember their names.” I laugh, ending my chauvinist routine worthy of an Oscar nomination.
In the corner of my eye, I spot Isaac walking away from Regan’s unopened apartment door. When he enters an empty elevator car a few seconds later, a sense of relief washes through me. Not enough I forget my original campaign, but enough to unclench my jaw.
“Pass me a pen. We should be jotting this down so we can forward it to Theresa for analysis.” I’m referring to Isaac’s movements—not my kiss with Regan. I gesture to a stack of pens on Brandon’s far right, purposely knocking his mug of coffee onto the box responsible for backing up surveillance images.
“Ah, fuck. Jesus. What did I do?” I grab the wad of napkins under his half-eaten donut to soak up the mess sprayed across his keyboard while he frantically strives to save the mainframe from fritzing.
Confident he is distracted, I remove any traces of my exchange with Regan from the startup system before it’s transferred to the mainframe.
When it is all said and done, I feel no less guilty. I expected a weight to lift off my chest the instant I removed Regan from Theresa’s vindictive strike. All I get is more worry.
This is wrong. I am a federal agent. I don’t destroy evidence. I gather it to charge criminals and protect the innocent.
I guess I could use that as the reason why I’ve allowed Regan to misalign my moral compass twice in my career. She’s an innocent caught up in a game she doesn’t belong in.
Even with a shattered kneecap, I followed the Substanz case with an eagle eye. What Regan said that night was true. There was no evidence whatsoever that she was part of the illegal brothel operating as a side business from Substanz. She was purely a dancer—a good one.
Who’s to say that isn’t the case this time around as well? Perhaps she is just Isaac’s business lawyer. The corrupt are known for surrounding themselves with honesty. It’s how they fly under the radar so long. No one scans their own backyards for criminals.
When I slump into my chair, perplexed, a note scribbled on Isaac’s movement sheet captures my attention.
Electrician arrived at the apartment across from target at 9:16 PM. Departure time:
No departure time has been noted. I drop my eyes to my watch, noticing it is a few minutes short of 11 PM.
“Why didn’t you jot down a departure time for the serviceman? Although we no longer have agents allocated to Isaac’s team, we still track their movements like we do Isaac’s. Every breadcrumb must be noted.”
Brandon dumps coffee-soiled papers into a bin with a grumble before twisting around to face me. His eyes are narrowed, and his lips are hard-lined. He’s peeved. Rightly so. One swipe of my hand ruined hours of surveillance while adding more work to his already tight schedule. Lucky for all involved, Isaac’s routine rarely alters. A quick copy and paste of yesterday stats will cover my “mishap.”
After dropping his eyes to the note I am referring to, Brandon returns them to me. “He hasn’t left yet.”
My brow cocks, certain I heard him wrong.
I didn’t.
“It must have been a private callout—he entered the apartment unattended. Usually, the front desk has someone escort them.”
He rifles through a pile of handwritten notes, oblivious to my bubbling anger. I don’t know why I am angry, but with no other plausible explanation for my skyrocketing blood pressure and reddening cheeks, I’ll assume it is anger.
“I requested the guest registry the instant he entered the apartment. I have it here somewhere.” Just as I am about to rip the papers out of Brandon’s hands to search them myself, he murmurs, “Here it is.”
Paper shredding booms over his whiny voice when I snatch the document from his grasp. My jaw ticks as I scan the extensive guest registry. Unease invades my gut when I reach 9 PM. There are only four names jotted down between then and now. None of them are for an electrical company.
“Are you sure it was an electrician you saw?” I ask Brandon, my voice picking up
with unconcealed suspicion. It has the same cocky edge it held when I interrogated Regan about her supposed after dinner date.
Brandon’s throat works hard to swallow. “Yeah. I’m fairly sure—”
“Fairly sure? Or one hundred percent sure?” My tone advises I will not accept a pansy-ass reply. We don’t run on assumptions here. We work with facts—stern, unapologetic facts.
“I’m confident.” His voice doesn’t relay this. “He had an electrician logo on the back of his overalls.”
Leaning over my body, he taps on the keyboard three times. It brings up the image responsible for my panic. At precisely 9:16 PM a man approximately five foot eight with light sandy hair and a dark cap glides down the corridor separating Regan’s apartment from Isaac’s. As Brandon advised, there is an electric company logo emblazoned on the back of his overalls.
Although he is carrying a large metal toolbox, the veins in his hand aren’t showing the exertion you’d expect if it were brimming with tools. Come to think of it, his hands are dainty and smooth—unlike any tradesmen I’ve seen.
“Run his company through the system. We can track his movements from there,” I suggest to Brandon, hoping his knowledge of the FBI database is more extensive than mine.
It doesn’t even take Brandon thirty seconds to run the electrician’s details through our system. It isn’t because he’s brilliant at what he does. It is because the search comes up empty. There is no company of that name in the world database, much less the state of Florida.
I swallow away a bitter taste in the back of my throat. “Are you sure you didn’t miss his exit?”
You can hear desperation in my voice. Regan entered her apartment twenty minutes ago. Isaac knocked and didn’t get an answer. That hasn’t happened once the past four months I’ve been tailing them. This can only mean one thing: Regan is being stalked as she presumed months ago.
When Brandon remains quiet, I growl, “Did you take a break? A piss? Fall asleep? At any time tonight were you away from these monitors?”