by Shandi Boyes
“This better be worth it,” Regan snickers over my lips.
“You know it will be.”
To amplify the cockiness of my reply, I brace her back against the wall the water is spraying on, part her thighs with my hips, then drive home. Her eyes close as she struggles to contain the emotions fueling our exchange. Tonight, I’m not the agent who rushed in and saved her from a deranged stalker any more than she’s the lawyer who prepared to defend me from thugs when I felt like my brain was about to explode. We are a man and a woman unifying as one. We are even. Equal. Together. Complete.
After a few long pumps, I nip Regan’s nipple, returning her eyes to mine. She whimpers from the sternness of my bite. It’s more a cry of ecstasy than pain. Good. I don’t want to hurt her. I just want her to see what her honesty does to me. She could have lied earlier. She could have told me anything I wanted to hear just to ensure our exchange continued on the path it is, but she didn’t. She went for honesty. Now I need to do the same. . . after I’ve taken care of business.
I circle my tongue around Regan’s hardened bud before sucking it into my mouth. The hot water siphoning from the showerhead masks her floral scent, but her skin tastes the same. It is seductive and sweet and has my hips grinding upwards in quick, crafted strokes.
The louder Regan moans, the further her head descends into the water. Gushes of hot water trickle down her platinum hair, straightening her usually wavy locks before gliding across her collarbone and through the dangerous valley between her thrusting breasts.
I tighten my grip on her sharp hips before increasing my speed. I want to see her tits clap in reverence of our performance. The little jiggle and bounce routine they’re doing now is nice, but nothing will compare to seeing her body used as it was built for. She was designed to be fucked, and considering this is the first time I’ve taken her without clothing, I want to cherish every minute of it.
Within seconds, Regan’s breasts do the twirl/clap routine I was aiming for. Let me tell you, it is a fucking riveting visual. Her pert pink nipples sit high on the generous swell of her breasts, and the bloom across her chest isn’t solely compliments of the heat bouncing between us. I drive into her even harder, taking her to the very brink of ecstasy.
“Oh, god, I can’t fucking breathe,” Regan murmurs a short time later, her usually smooth voice hardened with lust. “I’ve heard sex can take your breath away, but this is utterly ridiculous.”
With her effort to suck in precious air hindered by the steamy conditions, I switch off the faucet and head to the main area of our hotel room. Not a step is taken without my cock impaling her in some way. We move from the bathroom to the bed without losing contact. . . until I place Regan on the bed.
“My turn.”
With her legs curled around my waist, she flips us over so she’s straddling my hips—a maneuver I’ve only seen in A-grade defense classes. I almost voice a protest, but the beautiful curve of her back steals my words. She thrusts her tits my way as she strives to find her rhythm. The rise and fall of her exquisite body as she rides my cock is a captivating visual. The way her stomach clenches with every descent and the sweat rolling from her neck to her breasts keep me enthralled for several long minutes.
I love that she’s confident enough to take charge, but with my night not starting as I would have liked, I need to bang my chest a little—assert my authority. So with that in mind, I execute the same maneuver Regan did on me ten minutes ago, except I keep the aggression on the downlow—although she doesn’t seem to notice that.
With a grunt, she flips me over once more, commanding the reins without a word spoken. Since we’re out of mattress, we land on the floor with a thud. Our brutal crash doesn’t deter Regan in the slightest. Before all the air in my lungs has vacated, she straddles my hips, guides the crest of my cock between the folds of her slick canal, then slams down.
I bite out a string of curse words. Her pussy isn’t just wetter than it was in the shower; it’s also tighter. “You feel so fucking good.”
“Then stop fighting for control and enjoy the ride.”
Her words aren’t snarky—far from it. They’re too nurturing to display anything but sincerity. She’s not being dominant because I’m failing to give her what she needs. She’s taking charge so I can relinquish it. She’s identified that I’m struggling and showing she’s strong enough to take the reins when needed. If that doesn’t prove her ability to destroy me, nothing will.
My fingers dig into Regan’s hips with violence when I adjust her position. I’m not fighting to be top dog. I want to show her what her support means to me. She wants us even—I’m assuring we are.
Regan’s scream of frustration shifts to a moan of pleasure when my cartwheel-like maneuver has her swollen-with-need pussy landing on my mouth. I crank my neck forward, smashing my lips against the succulence responsible for the delicious scent lingering in the air.
“Oh. . . you shouldn’t. . . I can’t. . . Fuck. . .” The rest of Regan’s reply is a garble.
Her nails dig into my thighs as her head flops forward. She’s at my mercy, her body incapable of denying the sensation roaring through it. She quivers and shakes as the most seductive fucking taste I’ve ever sampled smears my tongue. Her orgasm is quick to arrive but less eager to leave. It takes several long, perfectly addictive minutes before her shaking subsides. And even then, she’s only at half-strength.
While Regan works through the exhaustion screaming through her body, I suckle her clit into my mouth, easing its frantic throbs. My speed is slow and patient, a teasing pace full of admiration and mutual respect.
After regaining control of her limbs, Regan returns my devotion with the same agile moves. Her sweaty palm glides down my erect cock before her pouty lips nestle my weeping crown. We suck, lick, and fondle each other for the next several minutes, our exchange only ramping up when the tension in my sack grows too great to ignore.
In a nimble roll, I enter Regan from behind. As we work together to find a rhythm fast enough to be satisfying but slow to starve off my desire to come, I slide my fingertip over the soaked opening of her pussy. With our sideways position letting my chin rest on her nape, she feels the curve of my lips when the strum of her clit causes her hips to jerk forward.
“You better not be laughing at me, Mister Fancy Pants.” Her use of my favorite nickname weakens the sneer of her words, but it doesn’t completely erase it.
“I’m not laughing. I’m smiling. Those are two entirely different things.” After circling my thumb over her clit three times, I add on, “ I love the way your body responds to my touch. It’s more vocal of your needs than you are.”
“That’s because the only needs I have are for you to fuck me well enough that I come. . . again.”
I burrow my head into her neck. I’m not hiding my face in shame but concealing my smile from the dip of her tone when she said “again.” Anyone would swear she’s never had back-to-back orgasms before. I know that isn’t true. Our romp in the field had her firing back-to-back shots. It was beautiful, too perfect to have only happened once.
Unless. . .
“Oh, baby, if I had known, I would have aimed for more than two.”
Regan cranks her neck back to peer at me. My chest swells when I see the confirmation I am after in her eyes. I may not have been the first man she slept with, but I was the first to award her multiple orgasms. And you can be assured I’ll be the last.
“Step off the soapbox, Alex. You can’t bang your chest until you’ve delivered the goods.”
Her sassy words muffle into the thick carpet pile when I adjust her position once more. I heard the challenge in her voice, saw it flare through her eyes. Finding the right balance has always been my biggest issue with Regan, but that never enters the equation when we’re fucking. Right here, in this environment, logic defies. We’re not dueling; we’re forging peace. I’ve struggled to find my place in the world for years, but that will never be the case when I’m balls d
eep inside her. I’m the hunter claiming his prize. The first place winner stepping up to the podium to collect his medal. I’m her motherfucking other half.
I stop banging my chest without fists so I can raise Regan’s glorious ass high into the air. She purrs a throaty garble when I slam my cock back inside her. It vibrates all the way up my shaft when my hand bounces across the pasty white globes bobbing up and down in front of my face.
As a fiery jolt scampers across the taut skin of her ass, Regan calls out in a grunt, her eyes rocketing to mine. “Again.” Her voice is unlike anything I’ve ever heard. “Spank me again.”
A lifetime of injustice is corrected when I answer her request without a single qualm. She shouts my name as her pussy bleeds my cock of precum, its frantic squeezes begging for me to join her on the dangerous ride that borders the brink of insanity. If I weren’t still seeking a way to relocate my ego, I’d happily jump on board, but right now nothing but discovering how many ways Regan can scream my name is on my mind.
That. . . and striving to unearth why the angry red handprint on Regan’s glowingly white ass has my attacker’s identity smacking into me at this very instant.
8
I wait for the shower to switch on in the hotel bathroom before snagging Regan’s cell phone from the side table and dialing a frequently called number. An operator at FBI headquarters requests my name and badge number two rings later.
“Alex Rogers, ID 3415673, seeking information on a Brandon James, technician at—”
“Patching you through to his cell now.”
“Or that’ll work too,” I mumble to myself, annoyed.
I’m not bothered by the operator’s quick thinking. I’m frustrated as hell that I have to deal with this now. Tonight has been the best night of my life. The past ten hours with Regan have been phenomenal. We fucked. We laughed. We ate room service while sitting on the floor with our legs intertwined before she fell asleep in my arms for the most peaceful four hours of my life.
And I did it all without letting on to her that she is responsible for my assault last night. She didn’t clock me over the head before stealing my wallet, badge and gun. She was just her—a woman so perfect men can’t understand why they can’t have her.
I stop watching steam float under the bathroom door when Brandon’s groggy voice sounds down the line. I’m shocked by the huskiness in his tone. He sounds as if I woke him. With Theresa’s team dwindled to half a dozen men, I thought she’d have all available agents working on my case. It’s what I’d do for a fellow agent. You don’t rest until the case is solved. That’s why my sleep has been so lacking the past five years.
Deciding to end one pandemic before starting another, I say, “We fucked up.”
Although I could place all the blame on Brandon’s shoulders, some of it belongs to me. I was so caught up unlocking years of frustration, I didn’t adequately assess what was happening. We didn’t go to Regan’s ranch for a naughty weekend. We went there because Regan’s life was threatened. Her safety should have been my only concern. Instead, years of restlessness and unrealistic promises were on the forefront of my mind.
I’ll never regret a single moment I’ve spent with Regan, but I’ll forever regret that my stupidity almost cost me everything. I’m not talking about my life, either. I’m referring to Regan’s.
“We agreed the assailant was five foot eight with sandy blond hair and a waif-like build.”
Brandon murmurs, either in agreement or because he’s still in the process of waking up.
“Danielle was recorded as five foot seven on her arrest documentation. . .” Brandon attempts to talk, no doubt to assure me an inch difference in a mental calculation of a perp’s height is not uncommon, but I continue speaking, foiling his endeavor to lessen my anger. “. . .and she has mousy brown hair.”
“She could have dyed it.”
I work my jaw side to side. “It was also noted in her file that her hands smelled of bleach—”
“Because she cleared Regan’s apartment of evidence Friday night,” Brandon interrupts, speaking to me as if I am an idiot. “That shows our case was thorough, not done in haste.”
“No, it doesn’t.” I furiously shake my head even though he can’t see me. “Danielle smells like bleach because she works at a poultry farm. Her main task is to clean the feeders each day—with bleach.”
Brandon takes in a sharp breath, but I can tell he isn’t one hundred percent persuaded by my evidence. That’s okay, I’m confident the next fact I hit him with will have him climbing over the fence.
“The constant wet conditions her hands are immersed in is the reason they’re covered with dermatitis. They’re scaly and red—nothing like the electrician’s hands we captured on surveillance.”
“Fuck,” Brandon murmurs, the truth smacking into him as perversely as it did me when I stared at the angry red welt on Regan’s pasty white skin last night. “But we arrested Danielle. Her fingerprint was in the glove canal. That evidence can’t be undone.”
“The evidence is right: Danielle was in Regan’s apartment Friday night. She just wasn’t alone.”
I give Brandon a few minutes to absorb the facts. I’m not doing it because I understand sometimes you need a breather. It is because I also need a moment. The facts were right in front of me, staring me in the face, but I ignored them. Even with my job on the line, and Dane’s livelihood at stake, it was the most idiotic thing I’ve done this week.
After a few silent seconds, Brandon asks, “What do you want me to do? I could run video evidence back through an analytic recognition software via an expanded search. Even without his face, shoulder width, height, and the way he walks, we could discover a match.”
My lips twist, impressed. I didn’t know we had software capable of tracking someone by their swagger. If I did, Isaac would have been arrested years ago. You can’t have attitude like his without the pompous walk to back it up.
Realizing I’m reflecting my anger in the wrong direction, I return my focus to Brandon. “Run the data, but use the footage obtained last night. We may have his face on camera.”
“Footage?” Brandon asks, clearly confused. “I don’t know what footage you are referring to.”
“From the incident at HQ. . .”
Silence—lots and lots of silence teems between us.
“Where I was assaulted. . .”
More silence.
“I was jumped on my way out of the office last night. How do you not know this?”
“You were assaulted while on duty?” The shock in Brandon’s tone exposes his confusion is authentic.
Even though he can’t see me, I nod. “They took my gun and badge. I don’t even have my cell.”
I’m not sure why I added the last comment. Probably more to ensure he’s aware my phone is compromised than wanting it cited in my report.
“When did this occur?” Brandon’s words are barely heard over the stomping of feet.
“Approximately 11 PM. I was out cold for a few hours, so I could be a little off on the timeframe. I was found in the alley by Regan just before 1 AM.”
Brandon’s heavy stomps stop. “You were discovered by Regan?”
My jaw tightens from the worry in his tone. He doesn’t need to worry about Regan. That’s my job.
Pushing my idiotic neurosis to the side, I reveal, “Regan just happened to be visiting the building directly across from HQ. The same building our office windows face.”
I swear I can hear Brandon’s brain ticking as he works through the facts. “You weren’t scheduled yesterday.”
A hum vibrates my lips as I nod. “I wasn’t due on deck until this morning.”
“So the assailant had no idea you’d be where you were at the time of the assault?”
“Uh-huh,” I groan as the tick in my jaw ramps up.
“So he wasn’t there for you. He was there for. . .”
“Regan,” we say at the same time, my voice filled with more anguish than Br
andon’s.
“He had dainty hands, was a few inches shorter than me, and has sandy blond hair. The fucker we let slip the net Friday night is still free and capable of stalking Regan Monday afternoon. We fucked up.”
“We did,” Brandon agrees, “but I’m more interested in discovering why Theresa didn’t report the incident last night. I was on call. Your contact is the first I’ve had from a member of our team the past twelve hours.”
I take a few moments to contemplate before spitting out, “IA?”
“Huh?” Brandon’s voice is so loud I wouldn’t be surprised to discover Regan heard it in the shower.
After moving onto the balcony attached to our room, I murmur, “Theresa may be keeping things in house as she’s worried about IA. It’s the only plausible excuse I can find. With my shit and Regan’s shit intermingling, we’ve got a lot of shit going on. Shit Theresa doesn’t want internal affairs becoming aware of.”
Brandon pauses again. It isn’t long, but it is extremely revealing. He wasn’t aware of my relationship with Regan. Although stunned, I’m not wholly shocked. This is the exact reason he’s been left in the dark. Theresa has trust issues, and Brandon is new to our team. He’s not privy to half the shit she does every day, much less all of it.
“You and Regan?” Brandon doesn’t say any more, although I can tell he wants to.
I lick my dry lips. “It’s complicated and not something I have time to discuss right now.” There’s even less time after I hear the shower faucet switch off.
“Alright.” I purse my lips, shocked at how quickly Brandon gives in. “How shall I contact you if I get any results?”
He sounds skeptical, but I pretend he doesn’t. “Use this number. I’ll be out of the office for a few days.”
Pen scratching paper sounds down the line at the same time Brandon’s breathing weakens. He must be jotting down Regan’s phone number.
His deep exhalations return when I say, “And Brandon?”
“Yeah.”