by Sam Crescent
He sucked her other nipple, tugging, swirling his tongue around it until Fallan felt she was losing control. She jumped off his lap and resumed dancing, removing her panties then going to her knees again, showing him her exposed pussy.
Her inner thighs were covered in the wet result of her arousal and he stared at her cunt, at the no doubt puffy red lips of her slit.
“Come here,” he ordered.
She crawled to him but instead of sitting on his lap she laid herself over his knee.
“I’ve been a very naughty girl,” she said. Fallan didn’t know why she played these games with him. With Bishop she wanted to do everything to please him and if it meant giving him her body and mind she’d do that.
“Fucking hell.” He caressed her arse cheeks then lifted his hand and delivered a swift swipe. She cried out but the pulse of heat and short, sharp sting had her squeezing her legs together to gain some friction on her clit. She needed contact on her cunt.
His smacks rained down, giving her continued pleasure, and she cried out again—not in pain but from the intense satisfaction.
By the time the last hit landed they were both sweating and panting for breath.
“That felt so good.”
She moaned as he gently pushed her to the floor then stood. Through her erotic haze she watched him remove his clothes. His cock, strong and hard, pushed out in front of him and in seconds he was naked.
Bishop grasped her hair and brought his cock to her lips. “Suck it,” he demanded.
Fallan opened her mouth and took him inside, tasting pre-cum from his slit. Using her hair as leverage, he fucked her mouth.
“Fucking wicked mouth,” he growled.
Fallan cupped his balls, wanting to give him enjoyment. This was more than a one-night stand now. She wanted this. Him. His hard commands and the bliss he could give. Her arse stung from the punishment but she relished it.
She looked up to see Bishop watching her take his cock.
Soon, though, he pulled her off him and sat back down.
“I want you to crawl to me and take my dick in your cunt. I want to watch as you sink down on me.” He fingered his bollocks.
Fallan crawled to him, licked her lips, turned on as Bishop fucked his fist, his shaft glistening from her saliva. He was large, fitting her mouth and cunt nicely, and she wanted more of it. She stood and opened her legs, repeating everything she’d done before, only now, as she perched on him, she took his cock and brought it to her entrance. She rubbed him over her clit, coating him in her essence, then lodged him inside her. With her hands on his shoulders, she slowly eased down. She gasped—he did nothing but watch her sink on him.
After she was seated, his balls resting near her arse, she felt full to the top.
“Now ride me,” he said.
Fallan did as he’d instructed. They gasped, kissed and panted as he held her hips and pushed her down at the same time he thrust up to meet her. Her breasts bounced with each swift fuck, his strength surprising her. He lifted her off his cock until the head remained inside, then, with one hard slam, he jammed her all the way back onto him. She screamed as he hit the spot deep inside her, so close to pain but delightful all the same, immense pleasure taking over.
“I’m not going to last,” he said. “Play with yourself. Touch your cunt. Rub your wet clit. Make yourself come.”
She fingered her clit. Bishop took control and sped up her movements. Her clit was hot, on fire, and it only took a few strokes and she was screaming out her release. Her cunt tightened, pulsed hard. A couple more jerks and he shot his own release.
They collapsed. He circled his arms around her. For the second time in years, she felt warm, safe and happy, and she didn’t want the feeling to end.
Chapter Eight
Bishop left Fallan to shower alone. She was getting to him, under his damn skin, into his emotions, and he didn’t like it, didn’t bloody need it. If he allowed himself to get attached he risked making mistakes he couldn’t afford. They were safe—for now—but they couldn’t stay here indefinitely. She needed to return to her normal life, and at some point before that he’d have to go out and leave her here. Do some undercover work to see what Waterman and his men were up to, ask around discreetly to find out whether they had a bead on where he’d taken her. They’d discovered his other place easily enough, and however they’d done that could be applied to this place and they’d swoop on them. Mind you, all they’d find was a dilapidated cottage, nothing to write home about.
Unless they discovered the wall panel.
Fallan was singing, her soft voice drifting out to him, garbled by shower water. He paced the living area. He’d better contact Huntington and let him know they were secure for now. Maybe his boss would have some new information for him.
In a small office off the living room, he used the regular phone to contact Huntington. Video calling on the laptop wasn’t an option, what with Bishop being stark naked. Huntington didn’t need to know that his suspicions about Bishop fucking Fallan were correct. He sat on the chair behind the desk and dialled.
“Yes, Bishop?” Huntington said upon answering.
“We’re safe at house two.”
“I gathered that when the security alarm here bleeped and I saw you and the woman enter. I see the place is still as nasty as ever. Miss Jones, however, is another sight altogether. Although I didn’t much enjoy seeing you in the frame in the apartment, watching her fuck you passed some time pleasantly.”
Shit. He’d forgotten to switch off the cameras in the basement.
“Silly mistake, don’t you think, Bishop?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has she got to you so much that you forgot every movement made in that place is filmed? You know this—it’s how we find out someone has broken into the property when none of our agents are in residence—so I can only assume she’s so alluring that security measures slipped your mind.”
Bishop blushed, annoyed with himself and Huntington, his smug tone grating on Bishop’s nerves. “I fucked up. I gave you a show. You probably wanked off while watching. Big deal. I’ll turn the cameras off next time.”
“Is it wise for there to be a next time? Having feelings for her isn’t a good idea.”
“I don’t have feelings for her. She’s a job, nothing more.”
A soft growl came from behind him, and Bishop turned to the doorway and caught sight of Fallan as she strode naked across the living room and flopped onto the sofa, narrowing her eyes at him. Christ, she was a wildcat. She’d told him she liked to fuck for fucking’s sake, yet there she was, eyeing him as if she’d thought they had some kind of thing going.
He got up and closed the door, returning to the chair, the leather squeaking as he sat. “You knew she was there and never said a word, didn’t you, sir?”
“Of course. Just like I can see you sitting there naked.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Bishop looked around for something to cover himself with. Failing, he scooted the chair under the desk so at least his cock was hidden. “So what’s next?”
“You know what’s next, although there is a little job I need you to do before that. You find Waterman, deal with him and his men.”
“Any news on that front?” Bishop picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk.
“They found your other hideout. Went inside, discovered nothing, because, of course, you’d gone. Our men arrived after they’d left, and they discovered a little gift inside. A warning to you, perhaps, or maybe it was just convenient for them to leave their package there.”
“Package?”
“A man you knew as Kemp.”
Bishop frowned. “So Kemp was waiting for me to return with Miss Jones?”
“No, Kemp was rather dead.”
“What?”
Huntington chuckled. “He must have pissed Waterman off, who knows? Whatever, we disposed of him. Waterman owes us for cleaning up his mess. So when you catch up with him, give him a little more of what
you’re so good at, just so he really knows, before he meets his maker, that he annoyed us.”
“You want Waterman taken out?” Christ, this was getting worse by the minute. He thought he’d have been asked to torture, to teach him a lesson, his usual thing. It was clear that whatever was inside those little bags Waterman had had delivered posed a massive risk to certain people—bigger than he’d first suspected.
“Yes, and Frankie Lash. This time you need to get your hands a little dirtier, I’m afraid. Waterman thinks he has every bag except the one you took, but he’ll soon have a shock to find we’ve taken all of them from his men except one. You might want to go and fetch it. One of our other agents has been unable to collect.”
“So? If he’s unable to collect, what makes you think I’ll do a better job of finding it?”
“Oh, we know where it is. The agent had a slight accident while trying to break in last night. Fell from a second-storey window. Broke his leg. Unfortunate, that.”
“Right. Where is it?”
“In an apartment. East End. Unpleasant area, but there you go. Good hideout, nonetheless. Waterman has his head screwed on, stashing things in places the average person wouldn’t think to check. But we’re not average, are we?” He cleared his throat. “Glad to see you used the van and not the car to transport Miss Jones. You were found that way, you know. Like I said before, Waterman threatened a CCTV operator to give up your last whereabouts while in the car.”
“How is the CCTV man?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“Right.”
“So get to it. I’ll send you the address in the usual manner. Oh, and leave the basement cameras on. I’ll need to keep an eye on Miss Jones while you’re gone.”
Fucking pervert. “Okay, sir. Do you want me to bring the goods back here?”
“Yes. And we found the bag you picked up from the hotel. In the safe of your other place. Good job we did. Seems you forgot to take it with you when you left. Too busy wanting to keep Miss Jones safe, I fear.”
Bishop cut the call without bothering to say anything more. He stood, conscious of being watched, and left the office. He glanced at Fallan, who pouted at him, curled up in one corner of the sofa, arms crossed over her breasts. Ignoring her, he strode into the bedroom, pulled some black clothes out of the wardrobe and dressed. He returned to the living room and picked up his discarded jeans, rummaging in the pocket for his mobile phone and the keys to this place and his van.
“Are we going somewhere?” she asked, tilting her head to one side and smiling.
“I am. You’re staying here.”
“What?” She sat upright, placing her hands on her knees, her smile vanishing. A rosy blush sprang to her cheeks.
Anger, he suspected.
He averted his attention to her breasts, cursing how she distracted him like that, then raised his gaze back to her face. “I have something I must do. You can’t come with me—too dangerous.” He jerked his head in the direction of the wall-mounted screens. “You’ll be watched. You’re safe. If you try to leave, you’ll find that when you press for the lift you’ll get an electric shock. It’s pretty aggressive, will knock you back a few feet, probably land you on your arse.”
She smirked, clearly disbelieving him. “So how come you didn’t get a shock?”
“Because my boss saw us arrive and switched the device off, and when I leave it will go back on. Only someone who finds where to turn it off here would be able to operate the lift.”
“I see. So I’m trapped here against my will.”
“Something like that, although it doesn’t appear to be against your will. Seems you enjoy spending time with me.” Bishop shrugged on his jacket.
“I do, but, obviously, although you appear to enjoy spending time with me, I’m just a job, nothing more.”
“That’s right, Miss Jones.” He had to say that, couldn’t tell her anything else, couldn’t afford to have her worm her way into his emotions any more than she could afford to have him in her life once he took her back where she belonged. Being the partner of a freelance government agent wasn’t ideal for anyone. He didn’t think she’d be able to handle it.
“Good,” she said, surprising him. “At least we know where we stand. I’ll fuck you while we’re together—providing you want that, and anyway, it relieves the boredom, don’t you know?—and then, when this shit’s over, I’ll continue with my life and you can get on with yours.”
“That’s right.”
“But I’m thinking you owe me some money. I mean, if I’m going to lose that ten grand, you ought to pay me instead. I didn’t ask to be here. I didn’t know what I was getting into. I need that money.”
“Fine.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “Really?”
“Yes, really. Money in exchange for fucks. Classy.” Why did I say that?
Hurt, in the form of a frown, crowded her forehead. “You fucking bastard. You really are a fucking bastard.”
“I know, which is why, when you return to your regularly scheduled life, you’ll want to forget all about me.” But I’ll never forget you. “So I have to go out. Not something that’s ideally done in daylight, but needs must. Hopefully, by this time tomorrow you can go home. Oh, and you might want to find something to wear. Unless you like the thought of someone watching you while you’re naked.”
* * * *
Bishop sat in the van outside the target address. He pulled out his phone and checked the coded text message again, making sure he had the right place. Unfortunately he did. Getting inside through a window without being seen would be a nightmare. He’d have to go into the block of flats and gain entry that way. The building was…well, it was disgusting, gave council tenants a bad name. All right, most of those living in these kinds of areas were rough—the council housed them all together, made policing easier, the majority of crimes committed in the same place—but a few good, law-abiding folks also resided here and were tarnished by the dirty ‘council rubbish’ brush.
He sighed, knowing what he had to do and not wanting to do it. He slid his phone back into his pocket, then climbed over the front seat and into the back of the van. Taking the lid off a big plastic container, he grabbed a folded royal blue boiler suit and slipped it on over his clothes. Next, he took out a large makeup bag and crawled back into the driver’s seat. Thankful for the tinted windows, he reached up to adjust the rear-view mirror so it reflected the lower half of his face. He opened the makeup bag and selected a fake bushy black beard and glue, then went about attaching it. As the glue dried, it pulled his skin taut, and he grimaced.
Fucking hate this part of the job.
He tilted the mirror down a little more and slapped on new eyebrows. Once the glue had dried, he popped in blue contact lenses, then slid on some ugly, clear-lens tortoiseshell glasses—the rectangular frames altering his appearance more than the facial hair. He reached into the glove compartment for a black beanie hat and jammed it on, tucking his hair inside. He lifted a rusty red toolbox from the passenger footwell. A gun and tools for breaking in were inside. As ready as he was ever going to be, he got out of the van, locked it, and walked towards the block of flats.
In the main foyer, a stark, grey-walled square that reeked of dried piss and vomit, he took the stairs, not wanting to chance getting stuck in the lift. The toolbox bounced against his leg with every step, and he muttered curses. On the second floor, he stared at the four front doors and took a deep breath to steady himself. Adrenaline had unleashed itself on his bloodstream and he needed a second or two to adjust. Confident, he inhaled deeply again then rapped on the third door, rehearsing his bullshit speech about being sent from the council to check the taps. He waited a moment, but with no response he lifted his hand to knock again.
On his left, the second door opened and a young woman with a baby perched on her hip appeared. Boy or girl child he didn’t know—it only wore a nappy.
“He’s not in,” the woman said. “He was here la
st night, late, and before that, well, he isn’t here often, put it that way. Seems like he only uses the place to stash stuff or have meetings every now and then with…women. And he’s a right hard wanker. Wouldn’t mess with him if I didn’t have to.”
“Oh, right.” Bishop smiled. “Well, I’ve got to get in there. Leak’s been reported.” He placed the toolbox in front of the door so the back of it faced her, then hunkered down and opened it. He took out a lock-picking tool, closed the lid and stood.
“You allowed to do that?” she asked, eyeing the tool and repositioning the baby, who pulled on the woman’s lank black hair. “I’m sure you’re not allowed to go in. Says in my tenancy agreement that—”
“Yes, we have to give notice when we visit, but, in this case, when the flat downstairs might get flooded—”
“Fuck! Does Martha know? She’s got kids in there. Last thing she’ll need is water coming through the ceiling!”
“Which is why I have to go inside.”
She nodded. “Right. Yeah, right. Well, I’ll leave you to it.”
She disappeared into her flat, and Bishop breathed easier, raising the tool to the keyhole and sliding it in. The fug of disuse slapped him in the face as he swung the door open, picked up his toolbox and stepped inside. He breathed through his mouth to prevent himself smelling the unpleasant, mixed odours of what appeared to be boiled cabbage and unflushed toilets. He pitied the women brought back here. Slipping the lock-picking tool into a pocket in his boiler suit, he closed the door.
The flat was a state if the hallway was anything to go by. Whoever paid rent on this place didn’t enjoy cleaning. He picked his way between coats slung on the floor and went through a doorway ahead, ignoring the one to his right. He stood in a kitchen where a dishwasher or use of hot soapy water in the sink was unheard of, wincing at plates covered in dried-on food scum and glasses bearing the remnants of milk and beer froth. He shuddered and shoved some crockery aside to place his toolbox on the work surface, remembering too late he hadn’t put on any gloves. Once he’d covered his hands, he took a cloth from his box and went to the front door, wiping where he’d touched inside and out then closing himself in again and going back into the kitchen.