Page 13 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Will

T he door clicked shut behind us as we entered the flat, and the silence that followed felt heavier than the marble corridors of the embassy.

Thomas was already moving, his energy sharp and focused as he kicked off his shoes, rolled up his sleeves, and started pulling our travel bags out of our armoire.

I dropped the folders on the coffee table and collapsed onto the couch, the cushions exhaling beneath me.

Manila covers stared up like mute witnesses.

I stared back, unsure whether I wanted them to speak or stay silent forever.

The room smelled faintly of Thomas’s aftershave and the burned edge of the espresso from earlier that morning.

It was familiar and comforting but strangely distant with the knowledge we had to leave in hours.

I’d never wanted to live in Paris, but from the moment we moved into our flat, it had become home.

Romance wrapped around us like a comfy blanket, and the safety we felt stood in stark contrast to the constant danger while on missions.

After a year living in the cultural capital of the world, the thought of leaving tugged at my heart in so many unexpected ways.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Thomas said, not looking up from the neat row of shirts he was folding and stacking across the bed. “That’s never a good sign.”

I thumbed open a folder, flipping past the new ID with my fake smile and false name. “Barker,” I muttered. “Seriously. I’m a pissed-off dog.”

“Could be worse. You could be Snead.” Thomas chuckled. “I’d take a dog name over sounding like phlegm.”

I glanced up. His movements were so methodical, they were almost hypnotic. “You really think we’re getting the full picture here?”

“Of course not.” He stopped mid-fold and cocked his head. “We never do.”

I leaned my head back, staring at the ceiling.

“Two heads of state. Two completely different profiles. Different enemies, different policies, different everything. Both dead. One in private, the other about as public as it gets. One without any trail, the other with some symbol no one recognizes or understands. Someone’s sending a message, but it’s like they’re speaking a language no one’s ever heard. ”

Thomas moved around the coffee table and sat beside me. “And we don’t know who the message is for, either. It might have nothing to do with America or the West or anything related to us. For all we know, these are old Nazis trying to resurface.”

“Or Soviets taking out pro-Western leaders before their ideals can take root.”

Thomas grunted at that.

I flipped to the last page, the one with information on the burn fund, extraction routes, and everything we might need for the mission—except clarity.

“Red said this isn’t a war, but it sure feels like one—and not just boots-on-the-ground, something deeper.

I don’t know . . . it feels like something . . . older . Does that make any sense?”

Thomas’s hand brushed mine as he reached for his own folder. “You thinking religious?”

“No . . . maybe . . . I don’t know what I’m thinking.” I ran both hands through my hair while the folder remained splayed in my lap. “But that casing Red showed us? That etching? It wasn’t military. It was ritualistic. It meant something to the person who engraved it.”

Thomas didn’t answer right away. He simply stared at the folder in my lap, his jaw tight. “We’ll figure it out,” he said eventually. “We always do.”

I wasn’t so sure. Churchill had described Soviet intentions as “a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.” 1 I doubted any man had ever spoken truer words, words that echoed in my head as I sifted through what little we knew so far.

Still, I nodded, because that’s what we did.

We nodded.

We packed.

And we walked into fire.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the shutters.

A storm was coming.

I’m not sure how long we sat there, neither of us giving voice to our thoughts or doubts or fears. I’d lost myself so completely that I didn’t notice Thomas’s fingers weaving into my hair before massaging my scalp—at least, not until a knot further down in my neck decided to release.

“Start that and you’ll end up doing it for an hour,” I said, reveling in his touch.

“We won’t have moments like this for a while, but we have all night tonight.” His voice was silk teasing my skin, warming my chest, and tickling bits far below.

“Thomas—” was all I got out before his mouth covered mine.

I knew I should push back, shove him off, focus on memorizing and practicing our covers. I knew better than to waste valuable hours before the proverbial gun sounded and we raced off into danger. I knew we were never truly alone, no matter how closely we held our private lives.

But his fingers . . .

The pressure on my neck . . .

His lips and, oh damn, his tongue . . .

He pulled back and lifted his shirt over his head. Thomas’s normally tanned skin was pale and taut across the muscles of his chest and arms. Paris was stunning, beautiful in ways no other city could match, but our time there wasn’t exactly conducive to maintaining a golden glow.

And still, Thomas was the definition of gravitational pull.

He drew me in with a glance.

One flash of flesh and I was useless, hopeless, and unable to resist anything he might ask. He was the world around which my heart revolved, and I loved him with every fiber of my being.

“We really should focus—”

His forefinger covered my lips. “You should focus on your husband.”

Husband.

It was such a simple word.

Millions, perhaps billions, spoke it, enjoyed it, served in its capacity. So many took it for granted as a title one simply obtained if only he spoke the right words before an altar or judge .

It was also as out of reach for us as any star in the heavens. We could see them, admire them, aspire to reach them one day—but never know them.

But in private, in the sanctity of our home, we knew what we were to each other. Thomas knew what he was to me, and I to him.

Husbands.

In every sense of the word.

In ways many married couples could only dream of achieving.

In ways he appeared poised to prove to me, right there on our couch, with or without classified documents blocking his path to my not-so-Irish pot of gold.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he breathed as his teeth sank into my earlobe.

“God, you’re impossible. I hate you so much.” I squirmed, not really resisting but feeling the need to put on a show before surrendering completely. No husband should think he had an easy path to victory. They always relished the hunt, and who was I to deny mine his?

“Don’t make me strip you right here,” he purred, one hand teasing my nipple through fabric. “I’m bigger and stronger and far more horny. I will rip those clothes—”

“Fine.” I grinned, closing the folder and tossing it onto the coffee table before flipping the top button of my shirt. “No tearing. I love this shirt. ”

“More than you love me?” he crooned, fingering the buttons below where I worked.

“Maybe.”

Teeth dug into my neck.

“Ow!”

“That’s for lying.” His grin was feral.

“Fine, I love you more than my shirt. Better?”

“Much.” He nodded. “Now, get out of those pants so I can suck you like a milkshake.”

“You’re so bossy before a mission.”

Viselike fingers clamped onto a nipple and twisted.

“Holy shit! Fine!” I leaped off the couch, freeing my throbbing titty from clearly unlawful torture. My trousers had barely hit the floor before Thomas’s mouth was smothering my cock, slurping and licking and sucking and . . .

“Jesus, that feels good.”

One of his hands cupped my balls, pulling them taut. Sensation danced through me as he lapped saliva off my head. Thomas’s other hand reached up and squeezed my chest, his fingers digging and clawing, nails scraping trails I knew I would see in the morning—and enjoy seeing for days.

“What’s your name?” Thomas asked, coming up for air.

“What?”

He thumped a ball.

“Ow. Fuck!”

“What’ s your name?”

“Will. My name is Will. Are you—?”

He flicked again. “Your name?”

Oh, right, my new cover name.

“Will Barker.”

He took my cock in his mouth again.

The ache of my balls ebbed as pleasure crashed like a wave in my chest.

“Where are you from?” he asked, again looking up from his task.

“Ohio . . . somewhere small . . . somewhere where men don’t stop in the middle of—”

His hand smacked my ass hard enough to leave a print.

“This is a test. If you can’t remember your cover while I do fun things, how will you remember it under the pressure of a rifle?”

I laughed.

Yes, with a man cupping my balls and slurping saliva from a blow job dribbling down his chin, I actually laughed.

“What?” He cocked his head, clearly missing the double entendre of the gesture.

“Fear is one thing. I’m used to that. Having someone try to suck the life out of me while drilling me on my cover is completely different. Do you honestly expect the Greeks to sex-torture us for information? ”

“The Greeks have always been creative in that way.” His merciless hand squeezed my balls. “Besides, it could be fun. Maybe we should ask for ‘diplomatic cover,’ if you get my meaning.”

The eyebrow waggle did it.

I was toast.

Laughter tumbled out of me so hard that I fell over sideways onto the couch. Any semblance of a sexy scene flitted away as though an invisible hand had flicked a dandelion and sent our passion fluttering on the wind.

Thomas dove, his evil digits targeting my exposed ribs.

Before I knew what was happening, my vile, repugnant, irreverent husband was tickling the ever-loving shit out of me, and tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t remember ever clenching that hard, but even the tiniest relaxation would’ve had me spewing pee all over our living room.

“Thomas, stop!” I cried through gasps.

He straddled my naked body, his half-clothed weight pinning me down as he dug even deeper.

I sprang a leak.

It was tiny, only a drop or two.

Until it wasn’t.

Then Old Faithful erupted, and Thomas’s chest was coated in acrid yellow liquid.

“Oh, fuck, Will! You could warn a guy. ”

“I did!” Though I rather enjoyed him being the one off-balance for a change. “Just be glad we didn’t eat asparagus last night. You’d stink a lot worse.”

He hopped off me, scowling at what dripped off his abs and onto his trousers, then did the most dignified, loving, deeply marital thing:

He raised his middle finger and stormed off toward the bathroom.

1. In a radio broadcast in October 1939, Winston Churchill said, “I cannot forecast to you the action of Russia. It is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma; but perhaps there is a key. That key is Russian national interest.”