by Amy Faye
My body cries out with need, every thrust driving me closer and closer to orgasm, bringing me closer to the edge. I drive into her, each thrust seeming to take me deeper than the last, to mark her as mine so that nobody else will ever be able to have her.
A dangerous part of me likes that idea. Likes the idea that nobody after this will ever be able to measure up to me. I take my grip on her hips again and use it to thrust as hard as I can, forcing her body to remember my shape with the power of each thrust.
Her hips stopped moving, but I can still see her hands, ineffectually scrabbling for something to get a grip on, something that will give her some sort of control or context on her surroundings.
I reach down and take that hand in my own, pulling her shoulders back tight. She arches away from the cushion again, her hips pressing back against my invading cock now, a new dimension that I hadn't even considered or imagined.
I can feel her tightening down on me for what feels like the third or fourth time, and where I had thought that Maguire was out of energy and couldn't muster the strength to keep fucking the way we had been, she seemed to find something more.
Her body seemed to sense my approaching orgasm, and she seemed to know that any minute now, I would be letting loose an orgasm inside her waiting, fertile womb.
That thought drives me to thrust into her with renewed vigor, and her body seems to be matching my intensity, meeting each thrust with her hips pushing back, letting a loud 'slap' of flesh-on-flesh ring out every time I take her.
I can feel my body tensing, can feel myself losing the control that lets me keep a steady rhythm. Need begins to overtake my control, forcing me to take each thrust as I can get it.
The rhythm breaks, and now I have nothing more than desire and the sensation that any moment I'll pass over the crest and finally fulfill the nagging need inside me.
One last push inside and my vision goes dark, my eyes forcing themselves shut as a powerful orgasm rips through my body, the two of us still joined as I cum hard, one long potent strand of cum after another shooting into her.
Maybe I shouldn't have done it. I don't care. My body starts to relax, the fire that had taken over my body starting to ebb away. I lean forward to press a kiss against the nape of Maguire's neck, laying still there for a moment before pulling out of her.
A drop of cum follows with me, spilling out and onto the floor, just something else I'm going to have to clean up when all this is over.
Maguire lays there for a long minute, panting and trying to catch her breath, before turning herself over in the bench.
"That was—"
I smile at her, lazily palming one of her breasts as it pools on her chest. A woman always looks her best on her back, like that. Something stirs deep inside me, a renewed interest that I haven't decided yet whether or not to refuse.
"Yes, it was," I agree. My thumb passes over her nipple, and it hardens immediately, already trained to follow my orders. Maguire's body is more honest than she is, at least.
"We shouldn't have done it, though."
"Shut up," I tell her, my voice lacking even the edge of a threat.
She shuts up, and I smile down at her. She smiles back, a rare moment of tranquility and acquiescence. Maguire doesn't make any move for her clothing, and neither do I.
Something inside me says that I should take her again. There's always the chance, the animal part of my brain tells me, that it didn't take. I shut it out.
I lean down again, still undecided about what I'll do next, except that I want to taste her nipples again. I pull the neglected nipple into my mouth and let my tongue trace a circle around it.
Maguire's hands start tracing their way through my hair again, lazily twirling rings around her fingers and idly pulling at it, letting me take things at my own pace.
I can feel myself growing hard again already. It's not something that I've generally had a problem with, not since high school. With this voluptuous beauty beneath me, though, I'm not sure that once will be enough. I take her nipple between my teeth and bite down, hard enough to force her to draw a breath.
Her fingers tighten in my hair, though neither of us can possibly be sure whether it's to encourage me or to try to stop me. She doesn't stop me, either way.
The phone ringing, on the other hand, does.
Chapter Twenty-One
MAGUIRE
I pick up the phone only an instant before my phone goes to voicemail, and part of me would rather not answer. "Maguire."
Donaldsen's voice on the other end growls. He sounds as if he hasn't slept, and I can't bring myself to feel bad about it. "Maguire? Give me a status update."
I look over my shoulder. Ryan's buckling his jeans, and when he looks up I put my finger over my lips. He gets the message. "Nothing to say, sir. We haven't been able to get in touch with our man in the field since a couple of nights ago."
I hope I sound convincing, and not just for Donaldsen's sake.
"That's not what Agent Ball had to say earlier. He said—"
"Danny's full of shit." I don't like throwing him under the bus, and I like cutting Donaldsen off less. I can hear the way he seethes at the interruption. He can't stand to be interrupted. I know that, and I usually let him go. I can't afford that luxury right now.
Donaldsen boils in a unique way. Most people, you can see it right on their faces. The ones you can't, and it's rare, you can hear it. But not Donaldsen, not the way you'd expect. His voice gets real sweet.
"Agent Maguire, what have you been doing with your day?"
"Sir, I've been out getting our man in. Just as you ordered."
I turn and watch Beauchamp, who's watching me talk. I suddenly realize exactly how naked I am, standing there. The odds that anyone might come in seem to be slim, but the fact that it could happen at any second suddenly hits me like a ton of bricks.
"What's taking you so long? Do you know where Beauchamp is, or don't you?"
"It's more complicated than that, sir. I'll have him—"
I try to communicate with Ryan as best I can without saying anything, without giving any sign away to the Inspector on the other end of the line.
"You said you already had him when we spoke this morning, Maguire."
"You don't understand, sir, I have to—"
"I'm sure that I don't Maguire. I'm not going to come down there unless I have to, and if I have to come down and get you, I'll be bringing the entire cavalry with me. You'll be riding a desk for the rest of your very pitiable career. Am I making myself sufficiently clear, here, Agent?"
I take a deep breath, let my eyes drift shut for a moment and try to get control of myself. I can't let him get to me. I can't afford that kind of attention.
"Yes, sir."
"Two days. If things are so complicated, get them wrapped up. You have two days, but if I don't have an invoice for plane tickets on my desk by Monday morning, then you're not going to like what happens next."
"Yes, sir." Part of me bristles at having to bow and scrape to him.
Another long look to Ryan. He raises his eyebrows, as if he's commiserating with me. I shrug.
"Get this mess cleaned up, Agent. And get your man back to Washington yesterday. Am I being sufficiently clear here?"
"Crystal clear, sir. I'm sorry for any confusion."
"Good. Be sure that everything stays crystal clear, Agent."
He must have clicked the phone off, because before I can hang up, the line goes dead in my ear. I set the phone down on the counter and start reaching for my clothes.
I don't hear Ryan come up behind me, but I feel it when he puts his powerful arms around my waist, turning me around and pulling my still-nude body in close to him. He looks serious, and for a moment I'm afraid that things are going to get ugly.
Instead he presses a kiss against my lips. It's almost surprising, the tenderness in the kiss.
"Everything alright, babe?"
"I can't discuss it," I tell him. Part of me wants to see i
f he can figure out some kind of solution to my little problem. Another part of me is fairly certain that he can't, and so I don't bother to ask him to try.
He presses another kiss against my lips, then starts tracing the line of my jaw. Part of me wants to let him continue. Even through the exhaustion, my body aches for more.
I push him away. "I can't. We've got to hurry now."
"So something is wrong, then."
"I've got until Monday morning."
"Monday morning? That's going to be a challenge."
I don't tell him that he doesn't know the half of it. I certainly don't tell him that the two-day limit isn't to get McCallister. It's to get him. I have to hope that if I turn up McCallister in that time, and get rid of Beauchamp, that my insubordination will be buried under my success.
It's a fragile and fleeting hope. I pull my trousers back up. I catch Beauchamp watching as the waist catches on my ass. I lean over a little to give him a show. It's the least I can do. Even still, I pull the pants up and button them, then reach down for my bra.
"Two days, then," he says, moving back to sit down on one of the bench-seats. "That's a damn fine time crunch."
I can excuse him repeating himself. People have been looking for McCallister for years. No pictures of him in the last three years. For all we know, he could be dead of throat cancer, or buried in an unmarked grave.
Finding the leader of the Crazy Horses is a job for a task force, and it's a job that takes years to do. I had hoped for months to get Beauchamp to turn him over. Now we have a handful of trusted people, and all of two days.
Calling it a time crunch doesn't begin to describe what we're going to have to do. 'Impossible' is more appropriate. Nobody could do what I'm hoping for. But there's no other choice, because there's no way in hell that Donaldsen is going to give me the chance to prove myself.
I have to take what I want. Of all the reasons I've learned to hate Donaldsen, I have to thank him for teaching me that. If there's something I want, then I have to take it or I'm not going to get it.
I want to sit in his office, I want to sit in his chair, and I want to be the one who has interns kneeling between her knees, hoping for the chance at a fucking job.
I cut that thought off as quickly as I can. I don't have time to let myself get upset. I have to plan, and it has to be a good God damned plan. I finish buttoning my shirt and turn back toward the bar to grab my phone and slip it into my pocket.
"I'll call you tomorrow and let you know what the plan is."
"You don't have a plan, then?" Beauchamp's voice seems to imply something that I don't pick up on.
"I'd better have one, if we're hoping to get something done in two days."
"That's about right," Beauchamp agrees. I have to stop myself snapping at him. I don't.
"What's your fucking point?"
"Sit down, Agent Maguire. If I'm going to get my ass off the hook, then we need to plan, and you're not going to get anywhere sitting in a room full of cops."
I give him a long look and sit down on the other side of the booth.
Chapter Twenty-Two
RYAN
I swallow hard. I don't like anything about this plan, but my least favorite parts are all coming right at the beginning. Part of me would rather go back with her, get the prison time and be done with it.
At least in that case, I know the Feds won't just kill me right off. There's a certain amount of respect between criminals. A knowledge that the other guy is doing the same shit you're doing.
That tends to go out the window when you kill a half-dozen guys and blow up their truck.
But if two days is the cutoff, you don't take your time with risk assessment. It's just a reality. The plan is a non-starter if I can't get a meeting with whoever's leading the Crazy Horses. If it's not McCallister, that's news in itself, but I can accept it. I swallow hard and walk into the bar.
It looks the same as it did yesterday. In fact, it looks downright quiet. I shouldn't be surprised, but then again, it won't be quiet for very long. I walk up to the bartender.
"Call your boss."
He looks up from the counter. "I own the place."
"Perfect," I tell him. I don't like being lied to, and it makes the next part easier. I grab a bottle and smash it on the wooden bar top. It leaves a perfectly convincing dent in the thick polyurethane finish.
"Hey—what the fuck are you—"
The gun that comes out and into his face convinces him to be a more forgiving citizen.
"You'd like me to stop? Call your boys. I'll wait."
He doesn't turn his back on me, even as it takes three or four steps to make it to the phone hanging on the wall. As he moves I set the gun down in easy reach.
"Hey, I got a guy here causing trouble—"
"Tell him it's Ryan Beauchamp!"
"He says it's Ryan Beauchamp. Yeah. He's got a gun."
"I just want to talk!"
I push the gun across the counter. It's still near me, and we both know it. But now it's out of easy reach, unless I want to race the bartender for it.
He looks quick, for some nobody. He certainly doesn't look strong, so he'd better be quick, or he's just totally incapable. Well, I can't blame him if he is. It's not as if he has some kind of responsibility to be a tough son of a bitch.
He watches me, his eyes wide. I let him watch me, then toss the bottle onto his side of the bar as well. I flatten my hands against the bar, and get real still. If I move too much or too fast at the wrong moment, then no amount of honor among thieves is going to count for much.
I don't have to wait long. I can hear them coming from a ways off. Please don't let them notice the Indian out back, I think. Between the cops trying to fuck with me and the rush I'm under, I don't know that I could handle having them trash my bike, too.
They come through hot, guns already drawn. Smart of them. But I don't move. I don't even blink if I can help it. They grab my arms and get me in a lock. I let them. I might be able to slip it, maybe. But with four of them there, and three of them with guns drawn, it wouldn't be smart.
"What the fuck are you doing here, Beauchamp?"
I can hear one of the other guys, slipped behind the counter, talking to the bartender in a hushed voice. Calming him down, I figure.
"I thought, well, you know who I haven't seen lately?"
He cuts off the answer with a heavy fist. The guy's built less like a bodybuilder and more like a beer keg, but he doesn't let that get him down. He still hits harder than a son of a bitch.
"We know you did that job at the Franklin street warehouse."
"You know about that, huh?" Another fist finds my floating ribs. I feel them start to protest, threatening to break. Maybe they already have broken, and the next hit will just make it worse.
"I don't need your fucking sass, Beauchamp. What the fuck are you here for?"
"Same reason I did the warehouse job. I'm looking to get your attention, shit-for-brains."
The next hit doesn't have as much fire in it, but he makes up for it by hitting the same spot again. I feel a rib go for sure that time, but the guy behind me holds me pretty firm, so I can't exactly do anything about it.
"How you liking that attention so far, bird-boy?"
"You've taught me so much about boxing, I think it's already paying off."
He takes the compliment reasonably well. Doesn't even hit the same spot this time. I think the guy's starting to like me. Maguire doesn't even remotely realize how much she's going to owe me for this.
"So you're not hiring, then?"
The guy doesn't bother hitting me this time. It's as if I'm watching evolution occur in front of me. The man can think, all of a sudden. It's as if he's just crawled out of the primordial ooze.
I can see from his face that he's not great at it, though. They didn't send their smartest guys, they sent the guys who hit the hardest.
"What the fuck do you mean, hiring? No, we're not looking for help from some two-bi
t outfit—"
"Better than those guys you had watching that warehouse. Honestly, if my guys had the kind of kit your boys had—"
That hits a sore spot. He doesn't hold back much, and he catches me under the arm, where my ribs aren't really supposed to get hit. It feels like I would expect it to, which makes my vision more than a little blurry.
"What are we gonna do with him?"
I can barely keep my eyes open, but I don't need to be able to see to know that he's not talking to me. The big son of a bitch behind me shrugs. I can feel it in the way that it makes my own arms shift.
"We can't kill him here, can we?"
No, they obviously can't. Anyone could see that. First of all because it's just a fucking bar. Which is why I came here in the first place.
It's their territory, and they're not going to have a problem coming out here to get me. But they're not going to kill me, because it'll bring the wrong sort of attention down on the place where they make their money.
That's what I'm hoping for anyways. A third voice, probably the guy who went behind the bar right away, chimes in.
"You fuckin' stupid? No, you can't kill him here. Poor Mark's suffered enough already, you dumb bastards. Get this fucker out of here. We'll ask the boss what to do with him."
There's the magic words. I need to get inside the organization, and fast. I need a face to go with the name. And I can't do that if I don't get noticed and picked up.
If I can piss them off enough, McCallister will come out. Has to come out. Because there's no way in hell that he's going to let this stand.
Once the connection's been made, I can work my ass off to stop him from killing me dead right, right there on the spot. But first I need to meet the guy, and I need to meet him now.
Chapter Twenty-Three
MAGUIRE
I don't know how long I'm supposed to wait, but it already feels like it's been too long. He should have gotten back by now, or if he wasn't going to, he should have given some kind of signal.