Not My Spook! Page 6

  I was sweating and panting and writhing under him, trying to crawl under his skin. He kneed my thighs apart, but it wasn’t far enough for me. I rocked my hips up at the same time that he positioned his cock at the entrance to my body.

  “Quinn, no, not yet!” The flared head slid past my sphincter and all the way in, giving my prostate a solid nudge in passing. We groaned in unison.

  Mark held himself still. He wedged his shoulders behind my knees and laid his weight on my torso, imprisoning my cock between us. But he didn’t move. Minute shivers rippled over my skin. In desperation, I clamped inner muscles down on his cock, rhythmically squeezing it.

  “Fuck, baby! I’m trying to make this last!”

  I nipped his chest, and he growled a warning. He didn’t like that? I’d have to keep that in mind.

  “Fuck me!” I demanded, and he laughed softly, his breath teasing my ear.

  “Long and slow and easy, Quinn.”

  I went a little crazy. I hooked my ankles together, concentrated the way I would when I was setting one of my mounts for a jump, and then rolled. The abrupt movement took Mark by surprise, and I sat astride his hips, feeling his cock deep in my bowels, and bit down hard on my lip, just containing a whimper.

  “Dammit, Quinn! Are you okay?”

  “I’m—” It took a moment for me to catch my breath. “I’m fine.”

  “All right, then.” His eyes glittered. “Giddyup, baby!”

  I rose up onto my knees, as if I were posting to a trot, and then sank back down. I had been an Olympic-class rider after all.

  Continuing that movement, I leaned forward and twined my fingers with his, taking his mouth in kisses that were tempestuous and voracious, something I’d never been with any of my lovers. Mark’s response was highly vocal, although nonverbal for the most part.

  But my control over him was illusory. In a flurry of arms and legs, I found myself on my back again, sprawled beneath him. But this time long and slow and easy had gone out the window. Mark pounded into me as if we were racing toward a finish line, and he poured those hot, dark, sexual words into my ear, promising to give me everything I wanted, everything I needed. He freed a hand and got his fingers on my nipple, twisting it with enough force to drag me under and then hurl me into a storm surge of a climax that left me breathless and battered.

  With a shudder, Mark began to come. I could feel his cock pulsing in my passage as he filled the sheath with his hot semen.

  When he finally caught his breath, this time it was he who went into the bathroom to find a washcloth and dispose of the condom. I stretched luxuriously as he wiped my body clean. At his urging I turned onto my side, and he examined me for tears. Gently he slapped my rump.

  “You’re okay.”

  “I told you I was, Mark.”

  “I could have hurt you.” There was a brooding expression on his face.

  “But you didn’t.”

  He went to the switch by the door and snapped off the light, then crossed to the windows and drew back the curtains, leaving just the sheers. Moonlight spilled into the room.

  “Now hurry up and come back to bed.” I thought I heard him mutter something about “pushy bottom,” but then he was climbing in behind me, spooning along the line of my back. One arm slid under my head and pillowed it, while the other wound over my waist, keeping me firm against him.

  “Be nice if we could spend tomorrow morning in bed, doing this again. And again.”

  I wanted to agree with him, but, “I go riding with Mother on Sunday.”

  “Fuck. You’re right.” His hold on me tightened for a moment and then relaxed. “You’re right.”

  He would have moved away from me, but I twisted to face him and gripped his arm. “Mark. I don’t have to meet Mother until eleven. And if you’ll remember, you promised to go to the museum with me in the afternoon. You’re not going to break your promise, are you?”

  I thought he looked relieved, but the light was so dim that I could have been wrong.

  “I’m WBIS. We never break our promises!”

  “Of course, Mark.” I started to turn away from him.

  He stopped me, his hand cupping my cheek, and he brought my mouth to his. “Quinn, I never break a promise. Now go to sleep, wouldja?”

  “Of course, Mark,” I repeated. I turned over, more pleased than I should have been when he pulled me back and anchored me against his torso. I drew in a deep breath. The lingering odor of our lovemaking was heavy in the bed.

  Simultaneously, we both reached for the covers and pulled them over us, and within minutes we were asleep.

  Hours and Minutes of Uncertainty

  I

  SOMEONE was in bed with me, arms holding me snug against an almost hairless chest, morning wood nestled in the crack of my ass. I started to inch out of bed.

  “It’s early, Mark,” a sleep-roughed voice murmured. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Quinn.” I blew out a breath. “I’ve got to—”

  “It’s Saturday. You don’t have to do anything.”

  I could have told him that maybe that was how things worked at the CIA, but not at the WBIS, but his arms were strong around me, it was warm and comfortable under the covers, and my own morning wood quivered.

  And I’d told Matheson he didn’t have to come in until ten.

  I freed myself of Quinn’s grip, and he sighed. “I wish you’d—”

  “You wish I’d what?” I rolled him over, switching our positions. Now it was my cock against his ass.

  “Never mind.” There was a smile in his voice. He took one of my hands, wrapped it around his cock, and sighed again, only this time it sounded more contented.

  I dropped a kiss on the back of his neck, licked it, and began to leisurely jack him off.

  II

  IN SPITE of the fact that it was Saturday, it was going to be a busy day. Weekends didn’t mean squat at the WBIS; there was still work to be done. I needed to meet with Matheson and bring him up to speed about tailing Diane Coyne, Senator Franklin’s intern.

  This would be another test for him, and I was interested in seeing how well he did.

  I also needed to find time to return the tux I’d worn the night before, and then to go to my apartment. So, okay, Quinn had spared me the necessity of packing up my clothes, since he’d done that the day before, as well as taking everything, including my shoes, to a cleaner to get the smell of smoke out of them. He’d thrown open the closet door, looking so pleased to have done that for me. And what the hell? The place was such a wreck he wouldn’t have been able to find any worthwhile intel, if that had been his intention.

  But I’d need to ascertain the amount of damage done, if only for insurance purposes.

  Sam…. I’d found that stupid ceramic dog just before I’d been sent to La Salle Military Academy in Oakdale, and the man who’d given me that opportunity to escape the hell that was my home life had kept him for me until I left the army and began working for the WBIS. He was another one of the good guys my old lady had managed to attract.

  “Isn’t breakfast to your liking?” Quinn asked as he sat across from me in the breakfast nook.

  “No, it’s great.” I’d been surprised that he’d actually made me breakfast from scratch: Belgian waffles with strawberries, topped with freshly whipped cream, bacon fried just the way I liked it, that fantastic coffee of his. “You’re a good cook.”

  “Alyona taught me.”

  “Who?”

  “Gregor’s sister. You mean you didn’t find that in your background check of me?”

  Well, yeah, I had, but I liked hearing him talk about when he was a boy.

  But he was laughing, and I could see he wasn’t pissed. “She came to keep house for Mother and Father shortly before I was born. She always said that just because I was male didn’t mean I shouldn’t learn how to cook for myself. I’m not anywhere near as good a cook as she, but I can do the basics.”

  “Well, you do a mean Belgian waffle.”


  “Thanks. What about you?”

  “What about me?” I hedged.

  “Do you cook?”

  “You mean you didn’t find that in your background check of me?”

  “Ass. Actually, no, although I did learn that you can kill a man in—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

  “Why not?” I shrugged. Quinn was a spook; he should know what the job entailed. “I can kill a man, probably in more ways than were listed.”

  “We’re having a nice breakfast, and I don’t want to spoil that. So, do you know how to cook?”

  I grinned at him, letting him change the subject. “There’s a reason why God created microwaves and frozen dinners.” I’d never had the time to give cooking the concentration it deserved, and if I couldn’t do it right, I wasn’t going to do it.

  “Do you have any plans for this evening?”

  Well, that was really changing the subject. “No.”

  “Good. I thought we could eat in.”

  “Sounds good.” I took my coffee mug to the sink.

  “Leave it. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you later.” I lingered by the door while he disarmed his security system. If he was making dinner, I ought to bring something. Not wine—that would be like coals to Newcastle, but I’d noticed on New Year’s Eve that he had a bit of a sweet tooth. “I’ll pick up something for dessert, okay?”

  “Okay, Mark.”

  “And Quinn? Thanks for putting me up.” Then I did something so stupid I couldn’t believe it. I kissed him. Jesus, talk about your Ozzie and Harriet moment. I got out of there in a hurry.

  But no matter how busy I was during that day, thoughts of Quinn were never far from my mind.

  III

  PUTTING on the Ritz didn’t open until noon on Saturday, so I left the suit bag, which contained the tux and its accessories, and which I’d borrowed from Quinn, in the trunk of my car.

  The seventh floor of the WBIS building was quiet. On the weekends, most of the action would be down on six and up on nine, where Ordnance and Foreign Affairs, respectively, had their offices. Once again I wondered what The Boss had in mind when he’d stuck me on seven, but then shrugged it off. Unless I was willing to leave the WBIS, I’d stay where he put me.

  I let myself into my outer office and started the coffeemaker Ms. Parker kept on a small table near the wall of windows; she wouldn’t be in today, since support staff usually had the weekend off. While the coffee dripped into the pot, I turned on my computer, then made a phone call.

  He answered on the second ring. “Romero. An’ this betta be damn important. I got a baby sleepin’ here.” His heavy Brooklyn accent assaulted my ear.

  “It’s Vincent.”

  “Then, yeah, I guess it’s important.”

  “And?”

  “That job is comin’ along nicely. I wanna do a little tweakin’, but I should have it ready for you by Monday mornin’, the latest.”

  “Good man. I’ll see you then.”

  “Hey, Vince, when you gonna come see my little boy?”

  “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

  “That’s what you always say.”

  “Yeah, well… I still haven’t found anything to bring him.”

  “He’s three months old; you could bring him a clothespin horse. He don’t know nothin’.”

  “One day he will, and I don’t want him to think I’m cheap. I have to go. Some of us have work.”

  “Like I don’t? Whaddaya think I’ll be doing?”

  “Suck it up.”

  “You’re just lucky Aida was in the business before we got married. I gotta get goin’. Nips is startin’ to fuss. Take it easy, Vince.”

  “You too.” I hung up. The coffee had finally finished, and I poured myself a cup. It was okay; it fired up the old brain cells, and that was what I wanted.

  It wasn’t as good as Quinn’s, though.

  I turned to my computer and pulled up the files on Senator Franklin’s staff. It didn’t take too long to find the one I wanted: Diane Coyne.

  She’d graduated the previous spring from a college in Pennsylvania with a double major in creative writing and classical and Near Eastern archeology. Economics or political science would have been more germane to a career in the public sector, but that wasn’t my worry.

  I sent the file to Matheson’s computer, then checked the time. It would still be about half an hour before he came in.

  I minimized the page, poured myself another cup of coffee, and began scrolling through the latest updates on the status of various operations that fell under my purview.

  One of our agents in Europe was overdue in reporting in. Josephson was one of Sperling’s, and now, therefore, one of mine. Although what the fuck Sperling had been up to sending him there—that was Stanley’s bailiwick, and when the one-legged Director of Foreign Affairs learned of this, he was going to be pissed Sperling was already dead.

  Still, since Josephson was my agent now, I’d look into his operation, but I’d make sure it was with a light touch. There were times when an agent might be caught up in things and not be able to contact headquarters, and no one knew that better than me. I’d hated like hell when one of the directors starting second-guessing me.

  Of course, they didn’t do it more than once. Even without The Boss’s backup, they quickly learned to leave my operations alone, especially after that cluster fuck with Sperling.

  He was the only one who hadn’t realized what a lucky break he’d been given when The Boss refused my request to return to the States. I wasn’t someone to fuck with.

  I still wasn’t.

  I set up the parameters and got the program running.

  Now there was nothing to do but sit back and wait for the results.

  My thoughts drifted back to the night I’d just spent with Quinn. Sharing that meal with him after the convention center reception had been… nice, even nicer than time I’d spent with Pierre de Becque, the French cold op from the Division.

  I grinned wryly, remembering how we’d first met.

  “You need some time to regroup, Vincent,” The Boss had said. “Take it.”

  So, filled with resentment and a restless energy I couldn’t slake, I’d taken it, and one morning I’d spotted a handsome French youth having breakfast at the sidewalk café near my hotel.

  I’d assumed he was a hustler because he was dressed like one and the looks he was sending my way were predatory and interested. It was an easy matter to think I could rent him for an hour or so.

  He’d assumed I was an American businessman with a bad suit and a worse accent, and he was in the mood to get his ass fucked by someone who didn’t know up from down.

  Strictly a business proposition, and there would be no strings.

  But I did know up from down, and the “hour or so” turned into two weeks. It might have gone on even longer, except for the ringing of our cell phones, recalling us to the real world.

  We’d been surprised to discover we were both intelligence operatives, Pierre de Becque with the Division, and I with the WBIS.

  “Slumming, de Becque?” I’d demanded angrily as I pulled on my clothes.

  “Mais non. Someone of whom I was very… fond… committed suicide. I was ordered by the head of Psych to take some time off.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He’d shrugged. “And you?”

  I hadn’t been about to tell him one of my operatives had also committed suicide. I didn’t know him well enough to trust him with that kind of information. I’d shrugged in turn. “Vacation.”

  “Vraiment?” It didn’t look like he believed me, but he didn’t challenge me. We’d shaken hands and parted company, certain we’d never meet again.

  But we had and, oddly enough, had become good friends.

  A tap on my door brought my attention back to the present, and I put aside thoughts of Pete and that April in Paris.

  “Good morning, Mr. Vincent.”
Matheson stood in the doorway, and a glance at my watch showed me it was ten on the dot.

  “Matheson. Come in.” The suit he was wearing was the same one he’d had on yesterday, and now that I thought of it, was the same he’d been wearing the other night, when The Boss had instructed him to meet me at the morgue. “For future reference, you might want to keep a spare set of clothes in your office. Better keep one in your car too. Didn’t your trainer tell you that?”

  His nostrils flared as he turned his head and sniffed discreetly, and he blushed bright red.

  Jesus. These young guys. I shook my head and pointed to a chair.

  He took it, flinching as he sat down, and I recalled hearing Sweetcheeks’s voice last night when I’d called him. So he’d let the rent boy fuck him? I raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t offer an explanation, and I nodded in satisfaction.

  “How was the trip to Boston?” I maximized the file on Senator Franklin’s intern, pulled up Diane Coyne’s image, and clicked on print.

  “Uneventful, sir. I met with the hacker, and he’s been taken out of the equation.”

  “You’d said something similar in your voice message yesterday.” I stopped what I was doing and turned my head to give him a look. “Are you deliberately being coy with me?”

  He turned pale, shook his head, and kept his mouth shut.

  “Who’s your trainer, Matheson?”

  He looked startled. “You, sir.”

  I tapped my foot impatiently. “Who was your trainer?”

  “Mr. Adams, sir.”

  “James ‘Bond’ Adams?”

  He moistened his lips. “Yes, sir.”

  I knew the man. He’d jumped on The Boss’s bandwagon with both feet, one of the first to insist his agents couch their responses ambiguously, hence the nickname, James Bond.

  I ran a hand through my hair, not at all happy. If I was going to have to undo all the crap Adams had taught him….

  Matheson was pale, but that was the only sign he was nervous. Did he think I was going to tell him he’d blown his first assignment, that he didn’t have the stuff to follow in my footsteps?