Page 25 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage

He shifted closer before he could stop himself, sliding a hand under her nightgown to graze her thigh. She was smooth here. Soft.

“I propose a game,” he said. “Some competitive espionage to keep things sporting.”

The lie tasted good. Made him feel less desperate. As if this was just part of the job and not him dying to get between her legs since Hong Kong.

“Now?” Her breath hitched as his fingers inched higher. “While your hand is up my nightdress?”

“I can do lots of things at once, Spectre.” He grazed her pussy and almost groaned.

She was wet. Always wet for him. “The rules are simple. Five minutes to review our identities, then we take turns asking questions about our covers. For every correct answer, the asker names a forfeit. A bit of pleasure.”

Isabel’s thighs fell open. Her nipples hardened beneath the thin fabric of her nightdress, and Callahan wanted to tear the damn thing off with his teeth.

“And incorrect answers?”

He increased the pressure just slightly, circling her entrance. “Then no pleasure for the questioned. What do you say?”

She was already rocking against his hand. Little movements she probably didn’t even realise she was making. He’d missed this power – how she tried to pretend she wasn’t falling apart when he touched her.

Let her suffer as he had. Every night for five months, with only his hand and the memory of her taste to get him through.

“I accept.” Her breathing went shallower as she squirmed. “Are . . . are you going to keep—”

“Oh, this hand is staying right where it is. I never said I’d play fair. Now get to work.”

They both reviewed their documents while he gently stroked between her thighs, never dipping his fingers inside her. Not yet. Just feeling her shiver into his touch, lifting her hips to chase his caress.

She bit her lower lip. Hard. The way she always did when trying not to make noise.

He checked his pocket watch. “Time.” He set the papers aside, still stroking her. “Let’s see what stuck in that criminal brain of yours. What’s Jamie’s preferred drink?”

She swallowed before answering. “Whiskey. Single malt. Twenty years aged.”

“Good girl.”

He slid one finger into her, slow and deep, watching her mouth fall open. A sweet sound left her as he pumped once, twice, teasing.

“Another question. How does he take it?”

“With—” She gasped as he added a second finger. “ God . With two drops of spring water. Collected by cloistered virgins under the full moon because he’s a pretentious arse.”

Callahan barked out a laugh. “Now you’re taking the piss. Your turn, Mrs Ashford.”

“What’s Jamie’s middle name?”

His mind went blank. All the blood in his body had clearly been redirected south, leaving nothing for his brain.

“Tick tock, darling.” Isabel gave a slow roll of her hips, fucking herself on his fingers. “I’d like to climax sometime before the next century.”

“Winston.” Callahan called up the first pompous moniker that sprang to mind. “Jamie Winston Ashford, named for some great-uncle or other. Pillar of the community, I’m sure.”

“Edward, I’m afraid. After his maternal grandfather and some prized breeding bull or something equally asinine. I’m disappointed, Agent. I expected more from you.”

“Hard to remember trivial nonsense while I’ve got two fingers in your cunt.”

“Excuses. I want your mouth.”

He pressed against that spot inside her that made her thighs tremble. “Here?”

“No.” She arched her neck. “Here. Bite down. I enjoy a little pain with my pleasure.”

This woman would be the death of him.

He lowered his head, breathing her in. First, just his lips, testing the flutter of her pulse against his mouth, then his tongue, tasting the salt of her skin. When his teeth finally scraped against her throat, her whole body jerked.

She made a sound – half gasp, half moan – that shot straight to his cock.

He bit down harder, just shy of breaking skin. Marking her.

“My turn,” he growled. “Lydia’s parents. What are their names?”

“Helena and George,” she panted. “Hampshire Granthams. Textile fortune. Moved to America when she was three.”

Impressive. But he shouldn’t be surprised. This was Isabel. She excelled at everything she did – stealing, lying, making him lose his fucking mind with wanting her.

“Good girl,” he murmured again, loving her little shiver at the praise.

“Bite me again,” she whispered. A soft cry left her as his teeth sank into another spot. At this rate, every damn person at the symposium would know who she belonged to. “The name of Jamie’s prized stallion. What was it?”

Another blank. His brain wasn’t working. Not when she kept tightening around his fingers like that.

“Beelzebub.”

“Bucephalus. Named for Alexander the Great’s legendary charger. Jamie likes to say the beast chose to be reborn as his personal mount.”

“Where are you pulling this shite from? It wasn’t in the file.”

“I’m improvising. Now, my forfeit. Put your mouth on my tits while you fuck me with your fingers.” She patted his cheek. “There’s a good boy.”

Callahan didn’t need to be told twice. He yanked down the front of her nightgown and took one of her nipples between his lips. Isabel cried out, arching against him.

“Beautiful,” he murmured into her skin. “So bloody perfect.”

She squirmed. Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths that made him want to tear the nightgown off. Ruin her. Mark her. A dark and possessive emotion clawed at him when she responded to his touch.

“I forfeit my question.” Her hands twisted in the sheets. “But I’ll give you a chance. What’s Jamie’s favourite thing to brag about at his club?”

“His rare book collection,” Callahan said, cupping her breast. The game was just an excuse now, a flimsy pretence to keep touching each other.

Isabel arched into his hand. “And what do you want from me?”

The same thing he’d wanted since the night she held a knife to his throat in New York and looked at him like he was the most fascinating man she’d ever seen.

Callahan released her to drag his smallclothes down, freeing his aching cock. “Suck me, little thief.”

There was something innately sensual about the way she slid down his body, curving her back a little as she settled between his thighs. His breath caught as her tongue flicked out, tracing the underside from root to tip. Callahan’s hips jerked. A low groan rumbled in his chest.

“Isabel . . .”

She took him fully into her mouth.

“Christ fucking—” His head slammed back against the pillows.

The wet heat of her was exquisite, maddening. Isabel sucked hard and drew away, then sank down again, taking him deeper.

He buried his fingers in her hair, keeping her still as he thrust shallowly.

“Just like that,” he rasped. “Take it deep. Let me fuck that gorgeous mouth.”

His hips lifted, pushing until he felt the back of her throat. Her fingernails curled into his thigh. Letting him use her. Letting him take. Letting him fuck.

“So perfect,” he breathed.

So damn perfect.

She was something out of his darkest fantasies – her lips stretched around him, those green eyes never leaving his face.

How many nights had he lain awake wondering exactly this?

If she’d take him deep, if she’d let him control the pace, if she’d yield to him.

But nothing – not a single fantasy – came close to the reality of watching the most dangerous woman in the country on her knees for him.

There wasn’t a hint of submission in her eyes. Just power. The kind that wrapped around his throat and squeezed while making him beg for more. They both knew who really held power here. She was conquering him. Noting every reaction, every place where his control slipped.

“I need you. Come up here and ride my cock, Mrs Ashford,” he commanded.

She gave him one last teasing lick and tugged her nightdress over her head. “So demanding tonight. What’s gotten into you, Mr Ashford?”

“Five months is a long time to want something,” he said.

She straddled him, not taking him in yet but settling her weight on his thighs. “Yes. I distinctly remember someone not letting me finish.”

Lowering herself, she moved her hips in a slow grind. Still teasing him with the maddening friction. He dug his fingers into her hips hard enough to bruise, fighting the urge to flip her onto her stomach and pound into her until she screamed.

“My husband has peculiar tastes, you see.” Her lips brushed his ear. “He likes his poor, defenceless wife in chains. Does unspeakable things to her body.” Another grind. “Then leaves her aching.”

“Sounds like a monster,” he managed.

“What would you suggest I do with such a cruel husband? Make him watch while I touch myself? Make him lose his mind?”

“You should stop tormenting him and sit on his cock before he flips you over and takes what he wants.”

“One question first.”

He groaned. “Of course there is.”

She held his gaze, suddenly still. “Have you been with anyone since the steamer? Tell me the truth.”

Another lover? He nearly laughed. When she’d infected his every thought since Hong Kong? When even sleep offered no escape?

He leaned in, whispering, “My body is yours.”

She went still. An emotion flickered across her face – a crack in Isabel Dumont’s perfect mask. Just for a moment, he saw something raw underneath. Something that terrified him more than any knife at his throat ever could.

He’d said too much. Been too honest.

But then she kissed him. Soft. So soft. As if she were asking him a question. Are you mine? Would you be mine if I asked?

Yes. Always yes.

Then she lifted up and took his cock inside her.

He muffled a groan. He had memories of how wet she was, how tight, how warm, and none compared to this moment. She rode him slowly with her hands braced on his shoulders, her gaze fixed on him.

As if she needed to see him come apart beneath her.

“Is this what you wanted?” he whispered, sliding his hand to her nape. Kissing her again. “This hard enough for you? Or do you need it deeper?”

“More,” she gasped.

Good.