Not My Spook! Page 9

  I did! “There’s enough in here to knock an elephant back on its ass! I want you conscious, not half asphyxiated because I’ve had too much garlic!”

  He laughed at me. His lips had firmed, he’d looked away, but then he was chuckling softly. I pretended to be annoyed, but this was one of the best dinners I’d ever had. I didn’t usually have the time to enjoy a leisurely meal in a nice restaurant. Too many people to kill, lives to fuck up.

  I could get used to dining with Quinton Mann.

  That goddamned little voice chose that moment to speak up. It had been silent for so long I thought it had decided to go bother someone else. No such luck.

  Not too smart, wise guy. He’s CIA.

  What’s your point? It’s strictly sex! He’s the best lay I’ve ever had!

  Yeah, yeah.

  “Did you say something, Mark?”

  “No.” I stomped on the voice with both feet.

  There was still room for dessert, and Quinn suggested the sorbet trio.

  “Yeah, well, I thought I’d try the warm roasted pear crepes in hazelnut sabayon.” Whatever the fuck that was.

  As if reading my mind, he said, “That sabayon is a whipped dessert, Mark. It consists of a mixture of egg yolks, sugar, and usually Marsala wine. The sorbet is a lighter ending to the meal.” He frowned. “Of course, if you’d rather sleep through what I have in mind for later….”

  When the waiter came to take our dessert order, we both ordered the sorbet and declined the coffee.

  When I requested the check, I thought I might have to wrestle Quinn for it, but he allowed me to pick it up this time.

  And then we went ho— We went back to Quinn’s town house.

  X

  I WAS having the mother of all wet dreams, and that was saying something. Sure, I’d had them in my teens and after, but once I’d joined the WBIS they’d become few and far between, only resurfacing once I’d started that file on Quinton Mann.

  In this dream, Quinn was having such a good time, I didn’t want to spoil his fun, so I just lay on the bed and let him explore my body and pretended to be asleep.

  He started licking a path from behind my right knee up my thigh to the curve of my ass, and I couldn’t prevent a moan and an encouraging wriggle. I didn’t even have to spread my legs further apart—he did that for me. His strong fingers kneaded my ass cheeks, then parted them, and he began flicking his tongue against my hole.

  I’d never been rimmed. Well, I’d never rimmed anyone, either. It wasn’t a big deal. No one I’d taken to bed had wanted to do that, and the feeling was mutual. We fucked, and that was what we were in bed for. Besides, there was the trust factor—I didn’t.

  Oh, I had no doubt Pretty Boy would have rimmed me that time I’d taken him to bed after my fuck of a partner had gotten himself killed, but I hadn’t thought to suggest it; I’d had other things on my mind.

  Quinn, on the other hand…. He obviously knew what he was doing. Who’d have thought a CIA spook could have such a talented tongue?

  That tongue stroked over my hole, then began dipping into it, penetrating it, and I was panting steadily. I got my knees under me and thrust my ass back against that marauding tongue, and Quinn laughed, his breath warm and moist.

  By the time I realized that this wasn’t a dream, that Quinn was rimming me for real, his tongue had been replaced by a couple of slicked fingers, which were replaced by a lubed cock.

  But he had me so loose and relaxed, and I liked what he was doing so much, that I didn’t even think to tense up. This was nothing like my partner had done.

  And when he slid past my prostate, giving it a good nudge in the process, I stopped thinking at all and groaned.

  Quinn froze. “Did I hurt you, Mark?” He was afraid he had been too rough with me? That was sweet. Dumb, but sweet.

  “You’re CIA, Mann! You couldn’t hurt anyone WBIS on your best day!” I taunted and thrust back against him.

  “Oh, no? I think I’ve been taking it too easy with you, tough guy. I’m going to fuck you into tomorrow, Mark. You’re going to be so used to the feel of my cock in your ass, if I haven’t had you at least once a day you’re going to wonder if I don’t… don’t want you anymore.” He took a piece of skin at the nape of my neck between his lips and worked it hard enough to leave a mark.

  “Promises, promises,” I mocked, then I groaned again as he changed the angle of his strokes and hit my prostate. “Oh, fuck! Do that again!”

  “Do you like when I do that… baby?”

  I wasn’t going to ask him to say my name. That would show insecurity, and I was never insecure.

  Instead, I reached for my cock. “Fuck, yeah!”

  “No.” He grabbed my wrist.

  “What? What are you doing, Mann?” I growled. His fingers covered mine. The need to come was growing almost unbearable, and if he stopped me from touching myself, I was going to flip him over and start fucking him.

  “No.” He licked the spot on the back of my neck. “I want you to come just from me fucking you.” He began sucking on that spot.

  “Are you crazy, Quinn? Let me go! You can’t—Jesus fucking God!” It seemed that he could. He targeted my prostate with a series of jabs that shot me higher and higher. I tightened my fingers in his and turned my head into the pillow. If I hadn’t bit down I would have been howling like a banshee and scaring the neighbors, even though Quinn’s town house was detached. My eyeballs felt as if they were about to pop out of my head. The top of my head felt as if it was about to explode. I bucked into him to get him deeper inside me.

  “This is me, Mark.” He’d said my name. “Take me! Take every inch of me!” He bit down on the back of my neck and held on. If I tried to break his grip I’d hurt myself, but I had no intention of struggling against him. I arched my neck, and he rocked into me. It was like a nuclear reaction; the ripples of my climax exploded from the spot Quinn was repeatedly nailing. I clamped down my inner muscles and milked him for all I was worth, determined not to come alone. He was coming along for the ride if I had to drag his orgasm from him. He gave a startled cry, releasing my neck, and I could feel him pulse in me.

  “Bite me, damn it! Bite me, Quinn!” I gritted out.

  His mouth was back on me, his teeth closing over the muscle. His fingers gripped mine as he shivered, and then he collapsed bonelessly against my back. I stayed in that position for as long as I could, really enjoying the feel of him on me and in me. His arms were around me, and his fingers combed through the hair that formed an inverted triangle from my nipples down past my navel. Finally I couldn’t maintain it any longer and eased down onto the mattress with him still covering me.

  “Ah, fuck! I’m in the wet spot!”

  He gave a huff of laughter.

  “Not funny, Mann!”

  “Just give me a second, Mark, and I’ll get off you.”

  “No, that’s not acceptable either. Hold on. Are you holding on?” He laughed again, and there was a drowsy quality to it this time, but his arms tightened around my chest. I inched cautiously toward the center of the bed. With a satisfied sigh, I relaxed into a spot that was dry and slipped into sleep.

  XI

  IT WAS early Monday morning. I was feeling decidedly mellow; I had fucked Quinton Mann twice the night before. And just as the sky started to lighten, signifying that dawn was fast approaching, he had pushed my legs back to my chest and slid into me, his cheek against mine, rough with early morning stubble. I slid my knees down to grip his waist, and for long minutes we just lay like that. When Quinn finally began to move, it was gentle and unhurried and very, very thorough.

  I would have liked to have breakfast with him, but I couldn’t afford to let anyone get the idea that I was getting soft, losing my touch. And I didn’t want to be late for work.

  He was just waking again as I finished tying my shoes. I leaned over and kissed his jaw. “I have to go, baby.”

  Quinn blinked at me sleepily. He stretched until his joints popped, push
ed aside the covers, and stood up, uncaring that he was naked. “Dinner tonight, Mark?”

  I licked my lips, unable to drag my eyes away from his cock, which stirred, indicating his awareness of my gaze. “I’ll pick up some takeout. What do you feel like?”

  “Surprise me.” Quinn tugged on my ear and walked into the bathroom, closing the door. He didn’t lock it.

  I took a step toward the door.

  Oh, fuck. I knew if I didn’t leave then, I wouldn’t leave at all. I left.

  I stopped at a McDonald’s about halfway between Quinn’s and DC, ordered a couple of Sausage Egg McMuffins and two supersized coffees to go, then drove to headquarters.

  “Morning, Mr. Vincent.”

  “Morning, Ned.”

  The corridors of the WBIS building were dim and empty, and my footsteps echoed hollowly in the stairwell as I went down to pick up the inhaler that Romero in R&D had promised would be ready for me.

  He looked up when I pushed the door open. His right hand was out of sight beneath his work counter. I knew he had a gun stashed under there. He brought his hand out only after he had identified me. “Hey, Vincent. Don’t you ever sleep?”

  “I could ask the same of you. Here’s your fee, Shylock.”

  His eyes lit up at the sight of the McMuffin and the coffee. Romero was solid, not fat, but his wife thought it might be a good idea if he lost some weight. The only time he had fast food now was when I paid him for going above and beyond. “You’re a good man, Mark Vincent.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t let it get around. How’re the wife and kid?”

  “Aida’s good, Vincent, and will you look at Nips?”

  I stood patiently while he whipped out his wallet and prepared to display what looked like about a hundred photos, some of the woman he had married only the year before, but most of his son, first as a newborn, dressed in blue, his face scrunched with the indignity of a journey down the birth canal, then in a little cupid outfit for Valentine’s Day—what parents did to their kids!—and finally in a little white suit for his christening.

  “That’s one fuck-all name you gave your kid, Romero!”

  “Anibale? Hey, it’s the name my folks gave me!” He was used to being kidded about his very old-country name. “And if he’s lucky, it’ll keep him from gettin’ drafted!” He gazed down at a photo. “Ain’t he the spittin’ image of his old man?”

  Only if his old man had been in a Saturday Night Live skit about Coneheads, but if Romero wanted to brag about the newest addition to his family, I’d listen as long as it took. He had been with the WBIS as long as I had. He worked hard, offered suggestions about the best way to make latex look more like human skin, dealt with that fucking cyclotron, making a very realistic substitute, and wasn’t above listening to alternative advice. And he was one of the first people to call me a forensic artiste.

  Romero smiled proudly at the final picture of his son, then flipped his wallet shut and put it into his back pocket, now all business. “I know you’re short on time; you always are.” He poked around in a cabinet while I finished my breakfast sandwich and tossed the wrapper away. “Here you go.” With a flourish, he presented the inhaler to me.

  I turned it over and over in my hands. “How does it work?”

  He tried for an affronted look then spoiled it by grinning. “Testin’ me, Vincent? This medication is supposed to be a bronchodilator, only, instead of openin’ the bronchial passages, it’ll shut ’em down with a vengeance. He follows the usual directions, takes two puffs, and oh, my! Looks like he’s havin’ an adverse reaction: bronchospasm. He’ll be tryin’ to suck in air, but it won’t do him no damn good. Bet he turns a nice shade of purple.” He held out his hands, palm up, and shrugged. “Strangulation without havin’ to get up close and personal.”

  “Sweet.” Although getting up close and personal never bothered me. “Thanks, Romero.” I slipped it into my jacket pocket, took my coffee, and turned to leave.

  “You’re in a really good mood, Vincent. Been gettin’ some?”

  “Uh….”

  Fortunately, he wasn’t expecting a coherent response. “I’ll give Aida and Nips your regards.”

  “Yeah.” I gave him a little salute and left his domain, feeling uncomfortable. Well, sure. It was because I was so used to thinking of myself as a loner that it shocked me to realize there were actually people out there that I had some regard for.

  And one of them was CIA.

  I was not about to start getting stupid over the man I had left earlier.

  You think, smart guy?

  No, I know! I growled at that fucking voice. I can take or leave Quinton Mann, and it’s no big deal.

  Sure. That’s why you let him fuck you.

  I ignored the smug snicker and entered the stairwell. It was only as I trotted up to the seventh floor that it sank in: I had let him fuck me, not once, but twice. The ache in my bowels was nothing compared to the first time I’d been fucked, but it made me realize exactly what I had let Quinn do to me.

  Sex was good, sure, but I never let myself get so overcome….

  Well, shit. I didn’t have time to think about this. I keyed in the access code to my private office and pressed the light switch by the door. Before I hung up my jacket, I removed the inhaler from my pocket and put it in the bottom left drawer of my desk, which had a hidden compartment.

  Sperling was a devious fucker, although all I’d found there was a stash of cocaine.

  As I sipped the last of my coffee, I turned on my computer and logged on. And there was the message I was waiting for, from Ben-David of the Mossad. His man had met with Josephson as planned. They were just waiting for further word from Alon, who was expected to report back shortly.

  Okay. I sent Ben-David an e-mail, thanking him. If Josephson didn’t turn up soon, I was going to have to contact my opposite number again and ask him to let me know what Alon had to say about the matter.

  And then I was personally going to kick Josephson’s ass for making the WBIS look bad.

  Time to get down to work. There were always a number of reports in need of being completed.

  The computer system of the pharmacy Daren Curtin used had been programmed by our people to forward his request for a renewal to my computer here at the WBIS. I’d make sure the correct inhaler was waiting for him and then sit back and wait for the results.

  I was getting up to speed on a situation that was ongoing in the Southwest. Huntingdon was expanding, a new corporate center was being built, and one of the contractors was causing serious delays. I’d have to send someone out there to deal with them; they had no idea that fucking with Huntingdon was fucking with the WBIS.

  Yeah, I could do this delegating thing.

  I checked my watch. My secretary would be at her desk. I flipped on the intercom. “Ms. Parker, get Matheson in here.” I picked up a pencil and tapped it rhythmically against my desk blotter.

  In a surprisingly short amount of time, my office door opened, and Matheson walked in, with a cup of coffee. “Good morning, sir. Ms. Parker asked me to bring you this.” He handed me the cup.

  “Morning, Matheson. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Will we be doing more testing today, sir?”

  “No. I have another assignment for you.” My computer chimed, and I grinned. It was show time. I spared Matheson a glance, to find he was motionless. He watched intently as I went into the pharmacy’s program and Daren Curtin’s prescription history came up on the screen. I keyed in the information that it would be ready for him to pick up at lunchtime, and that since this was the last refill of albuterol he had left, he would need to have his doctor renew the prescription. I rolled my chair away from my desk.

  “What size are you, Matheson? Thirty-four regular?”

  “I can wear that, sir.” He did a decent job concealing his confusion. “But a thirty-six is more comfortable.”

  I went to the storage closet. Sperling had used it mostly for junk, but I believed in being pr
epared for all contingencies. Along the back wall was a rack that held various articles of clothing, and I found a lab coat that should fit him.

  “Here. You’re going to need this. When the son of a bitch comes in to pick up his prescription, he’ll be dealing with a replacement pharmacist. Ms. Parker has your nametag and a pair of John Lennon glasses for you to wear as well. Keep your hair like that.” The widow’s peak that had been so pronounced on Saturday was hidden by the way his hair was combed today. I opened my desk drawer, withdrew the inhaler, and gave it to him. “Now get over to the pharmacy on Connecticut Avenue.” I told him which one specifically. “They’ll be expecting a replacement for the regular pharmacist.”

  “Yes, sir.” Matheson left, his game face in place.

  I gazed at the door as it closed behind him. Yeah. He was going to make a good senior agent.

  My office line rang. “Vincent.”

  “Mr. Vincent, Mr. Wallace would like you in his office at your earliest convenience.” The Boss’s secretary.

  I just barely refrained from saying, “Yes, ma’am.” She had that effect on me. Well, she had that effect on everyone. “I’m on my way.”

  XII

  I UPDATED Mr. Wallace on the progress of the various assignments that had been left on my predecessor’s desk and gave him an outline for what I had planned for Interior Affairs. I wasn’t going to bother him with this thing with Josephson just yet. After all, my department, my worry.

  “And that problem in Arizona?”

  I smiled. “Do you really want to know my methods, sir?”

  His expression became pensive as he considered that, and then he shook his head. “Just make sure there’s nothing left.” I sat back, crossed my feet at the ankles, and continued to smile. Mr. Wallace began to smile as well. It was almost as if he had shifted the balance of power toward me, just a bit. He reached for his phone. “I have some important calls to make. That will be all, Mr. Vincent.”

  “Yes, sir.” I stood and left his office.