Page 12 of Rescued By the Operative
He has me where he wants me, and he knows it. “There is no more single women’s dormitory. Ever since the local authorities started investigating accusations of false imprisonment, they moved everyone to live in the biological households of their mothers.”
His thumb slowly creeps across my clit. “We know. But we’re gonna drive them back to the compound, to the abandoned dormitory, and we’re gonna get them out that way.”
The man curls his fingers and finds the ultimate, unreachable itch.
“Oh god!…it’s…it’s not abandoned. And this is the place. It’s solitary confinement for wayward women now.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it, Blondie?”
I swear to god, if he stops again, I could bite him, pull his hair—I don’t know what I’ll do.
This stranger is joyfully filthy and completely delusional.
“Shut up,” I hiss. “Shut up and stick to what you know.”
The humming against my throat tells me he knows exactly what I’m getting at. He knows how to please a woman.
Again and again, he strokes me with expert fingers, hitting my deepest pleasure point, working out all my fear and pain and rage. I hate him for making me cry.
It’s more than physical. This man is on another plane of existence.
My senses are overloaded with him. His scent of sweat and dirt. The wild, pulsing rush of pleasure as he pushes me closer to release.
Through it all, I find myself wishing the lights were on. I want to see his face. I’m trained to know what people are thinking by scanning their eyes, their body language. Fuck worrying about attachments, I just want to know what this man is thinking as he comes.
What does his face do when I grip his dick hard? I just want to see what that does to him.
“Blondie, I’m gonna…oh…oh, shit…”
I can’t hold back another second as I feel him getting ready to explode.
My cry echoes in the dark chamber. I beg for mercy as his thumb sweeps over my aching clit once more.
I am undone.
The cowboy comes in hot, angry spasms, flattening me against the wall, his mouth crushed against my throat.
Pleasure rings in my ears.
In the end, he gently helps me return to standing, kindly making sure I’m steady on my feet in the darkness. He helps me adjust my ugly dress, smoothing it down.
He steps away and puts himself back together. I feel a slight pang of loss when I hear the zipper close.
That’s it. That’s the end of our little love story.
“You should go,” I say.
“When can I see you again?”
“Never, unless you want to get killed.”
“Nah, I won’t get myself killed. I’ll have to be especially careful, now that I’ve met you.”
Feeling the need to warn him away from this insane mission one last time, I tell him, “It won’t work. It’s a terrible plan.”
“Bullshit. Unlock your phone.”
If Agent Williams were to hear any of this, I’d probably be immediately reassigned. But since I turned off my wire, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.