Page 37

37

Will

L unch was no different than any other meal in Budapest, a long, drawn-out affair that lasted hours. With our minders stuck outside, and relative certainty that none of the patrons around us had any affiliation to the agencies monitoring our every step, we were able to relax and enjoy each other’s company.

Egret held court, telling one bawdy joke after the next, sending flushes of cherry flooding Sparrow’s cheeks with each telling. I tried to comfort her, though my own laughter at Egret’s performance made sympathy nearly impossible. Thomas sat back, sipping some liquor the waitress swore was a local favorite, a grin parting his lips throughout the entire episode.

For a brief, beautiful moment in time, we were an odd collection of friends, family really, enjoying a lunch in a town that was not our own. If I could’ve captured those moments in pictures or a sketch, I would’ve cherished them for years to come.

As Thomas and I stepped back into our hotel room in the early afternoon, each of us tossing our coats on the desk chair in perfect synchronicity, it struck me just how much we’d needed those moments of relief. Living with the ever-present worry of a misspoken word or misplaced step took its toll, even for professionals like us.

“I need a bath,” I said, peeling off my shirt. “Mucking about in city hall always leaves me feeling a bit moldy.”

Thomas chuckled. I was certain his humor was for my description of a bureaucrat’s ailments, but he could’ve been amused by my sudden shift back into character for anyone listening on the other end of the bugs in our hotel room.

I’d only made it a step or two toward the bathroom before the now-familiar notes of Hungarian strings filled the room. I turned back to find that, somewhere in the heartbeats when I’d turned away, he’d removed his shirt and undershirt.

Lean, bare muscles stared back at me.

My eyes widened in appreciation.

He stepped forward, a look I knew well in his eyes.

Hunger. Desire. Commitment to getting exactly what he wanted.

It was a look I could never resist, not in those first days back in Harvard, and not now, when our lives hung by a Soviet thread in a foreign land with Uncle Joe’s men listening.

I would never be able to resist that man.

He reached out and gripped my arm, pulling me into him, then tore open my shirt, two buttons coming unmoored and flying across the room.

“My shirt—” was all I got out before his lips smothered my words. Fuck the shirt. I wrapped my arms around him and pulled his body into mine. Bare flesh rubbed together, and I knew I needed this man more than I needed to breathe.

Strong hands gripped the sides of my head, holding me firm, as his tongue delved deeper into my mouth.

“What about—?”

“Let them listen,” he whispered before diving in again.

Well, hell, I thought, he was our team leader. Who was I to argue if he wanted to put on a show?

He shoved me into the bathroom, tearing off my shirt and hurling it like it had offended him. Before I could think, he had the tub filling and water gushing in the sink.

Steam billowed. The mirror fogged. His fingers tore at my trousers, which then found the floor almost before I knew I was naked.

Thomas didn’t wait for me to help, for my hands to undo his buttons, for me to enjoy the ritual of disrobing him. He undid his belt, climbed out of his pants, and growled as his teeth sank into the soft bits of my neck.

Stars bloomed in my eyes, and we’d barely begun.

His hardness, already leaking, smeared against my skin, pressed against my own growing erection.

I shivered as he trailed fingers down my arms and squeezed my hands, his mouth returning to my lips, his tongue to my mouth. The hardness of his muscles always drove me crazy, but something in the primal need wafting off him threatened my very sanity.

“I need you,” he groaned. “I need all of you.”

“I’m yours, babe. Take whatever you want.”

He didn’t have to be told twice.

We stepped into the filling tub, heat traveling from the water up my legs. He spun me to face away, then splashed to his knees. My cheeks were spread before I could register what he was doing. His tongue found my hole a heartbeat later.

“Oh, shit,” slipped out.

He speared into me.

My whole body tingled.

Lick after lick, stab after stab, wetness and heat drove sensations I craved throughout every part of my body. His scruff, usually too stiff to feel good, ground against my tender skin. I pressed backward, begging him for more, willing him deeper. His beard would leave its mark. It would claim me. I couldn’t feel it enough.

His hand reached up and gripped me. My cock leaped at his touch.

He pulled my balls down, gripping my base, pulling the skin taut.

My own passion leaked out.

His tongue wiggled back and forth, in and out.

The stars twinkled.

Somewhere between the bedroom and bathroom, my sneaky partner had grabbed lube or gel or hand lotion—I couldn’t tell, but it was slick.

Pleasantly, perfectly, silky smooth.

A finger replaced his tongue, and I forgot where we were.

“Oh, fucking fuck!”

He curled his evil digit, angling it so it struck that spot deep within, the one that caused mountains to form and continents to shift.

“Oh, God!” My palms slapped the tiled wall. I braced myself against it, warring pleasure and pain, as he opened me up and readied my body for the rest of him.

“Fuck me, damn it. Fuck me with everything you’ve got!”

Water splashed as he rose.

The heat of his chest filled my back.

His hands gripped my hips.

Then he pressed himself against . . .

“Holy shit, mother fuck, damn it—”

“Such a potty mouth,” he crooned . . . right before slamming into me.

“Oh, holy hell!”

He pulled back, then held there with just his tip inside me. My hole puckered, gripping at him, trying to figure out whether this was the best damn thing ever to happen—or a world of pain visited by some sadistic devil.

He didn’t give the argument time, driving himself back inside me.

His lips found my neck, kissing gently as he held himself deep within. One kiss, then a second, then a third. My head lolled back, pressing against his, reveling in the pleasure of being one person with him, and feeling his passion filling my soul.

“I love you,” he whispered. “More than anything in this world.”

A tear slipped free as my heart soared. Words were not enough. They never would be. Not for what we felt, for what he deserved.

As if sensing my inability to form thought, his lips drew back, replaced by teeth, and the thrusting resumed.

“I’m so close,” he rasped between breaths.

“Take me, please,” I begged.

He reached around and gripped me, stroked me, squeezed in just the right place to make my hardness throb.

His thrusts quickened, deepened, became urgent and desperate.

His grip tightened.

My abs clenched.

He yelled out.

I couldn’t hold back.

Warmth filled me. Thomas filled me. I felt him living inside me.

And I lost myself in his touch.