Page 10 of Rescued By the Operative

I’m not sure when I ended up being the one pinned against this dirt wall. And I hate that I like the way he towers over me. “I don’t like the sound of that. I don’t like the idea of people talking shit to you,” he says.

“I don’t need anyone getting pretend-outraged about it just to flirt with me. It doesn’t work on me.”

Okay, it’s working on me a little bit.

“What does work on you?”

Reaching up, I take off that stupid headlamp that keeps bumping me and toss it to the ground.

I lick my lips, and he gets closer. “Just tell me you want to fuck me. That’s all it takes.”

He groans and leans into me, sniffing my throat. He reaches back and fists my braid. “I want to fuck you, sweetheart.”

I really hate the way my pussy weeps when he uses the word “fuck” in the same sentence as “sweetheart.” It’s preposterous.

But damn, I’m worked up.

I reach between us and move aside his heavy quilted flannel shirt, then rub the palm of my hand over the front of his jeans.

It’s too dark to make eye contact, but that’s for the best. I don’t need it. I’ll only get attached. On this assignment, attachments can get you killed.

I tug at the button of his jeans. He’s closer now, and I realize that he’s resting both hands on the wall, propped up on his forearms. So close to kissing me.

But I don’t dare let my lips meet his. I’m not a needy schoolgirl.

I don’t need any kissing. I just need to feel better about this bleak assignment.

I unzip his jeans and reach inside, running my hands over the bulge there. He presses back against my hand and lets out a soft groan.

“Holy fuck, you’re hot, you know that, cult girl?”

I struggle with the long skirt, cursing this ridiculous uniform they make us wear.

“Let me help you with that.” He hikes up the denim skirt and runs the back of his hand between my legs.

My god, I don’t even know his name. But if I did, I’d be moaning it.

He laughs. “I knew you weren’t wearing the garments.”

“What?” I ask.

“The special undergarments to keep you modest.”

“You seem to know a lot about your neighbors.”

His big hand grips my thigh, hoisting it upward and hooking my leg around his waist. I grind against him.

I feel him shift around. I hear the snap of the waistband of his underwear, and the next thing I know, he has his cock in his hand.

“Give me that,” I say, wrapping my hand around his length and savoring the low, dangerous groan from him. His forehead makes contact with the wall behind me.

“God, I need to fuck you now, baby.”

“First, tell me what the hell this tunnel is about?”

“Shit.”

“I mean it, cowboy.”