Agent of Desire (Jessica Booker) (7 page)

I lay back as he grabs my hips, positioning me on the car, spreading my legs and lifting my feet up over his shoulders. I can’t wait for him to enter me. And he doesn’t make me wait, sliding in slowly. He’s so big he fills me up, but I want to feel him deeper. As if sensing my need, he grabs onto my thighs for leverage and thrusts deeper, pumping again and again, then picks up speed, bringing me almost to the edge before he pulls out.

“Don’t come yet,” he orders.

Does he know how hot it is that he told me not to come? Now I try to hold back as he thrusts into me again, slowly at first, then picking up speed. I’m reaching above my head trying to find anything to hold onto because I am going to lose it.

“Not yet,” he says, and then to taunt me he slows down again, and then stops.

“Don’t stop,” I beg. “Please.”

“I wanted to try something,” he says.

I should be nervous, but this is the kind of thing I love to hear in the bedroom. Or in some stranger’s garage at three a.m. Wherever.

“What do you want?” I ask.

Instead of telling me, he pulls out, easing me off the car and turning me around, then bending me over the hood of the car.
Oh
. I’ve had it from behind before, but never while on my feet. This could be really good.

He spreads my legs open and places one hand on the small of my back, easing his way in. Grabbing my hips, he pushes forward slowly, sliding in and out.

As he gradually picks up speed, I brace myself against the hood of the car to meet his thrusts with my own. He reaches down with one hand and cups both of my breasts together, letting them bounce in his hands as we thrust. I don’t think I can hold on much longer, and am wondering if he’s okay with me coming soon when he reaches his other hand down between my legs, massaging my clit with his fingers. He thrusts even harder, ‘til I can’t take it anymore. I come, crying out as the spasms take over my body. At that moment he lifts me up, pulling my body back into his. I can tell by the way his body jerks that he’s coming, too.

Riding on the back of Geoffrey’s motorcycle with my arms around his waist should feel intimate, especially considering what we’ve been through in the past few days. But it isn’t like that. In fact, I’ve never felt so distant from someone I held so close.

Being with him in the garage back there felt so good, and so gratifying. But it didn’t feel
right
.

In training, they told us to trust our instincts when reading people. My gut told me he wanted something more than a one-night stand, but we both wanted to be close so badly that he was willing to lie, and I was willing to let him.

Now something is definitely off between us. One-night stands are my normal. Never get too close, never let them get too close. Love ‘em and leave ‘em. That’s the way I like it. Most men don’t have a problem with my preference.

Something about this, though—I don’t like it. Not one bit.

We’d left Geoffrey’s friend’s house at four in the morning with directions to a house outside Paris. Lincoln hadn’t been able to nail down an official safe house, he’d explained. This was a friend of a friend.

I didn’t remind him that we, in the CIA, don’t generally have friends, instead deciding to be thankful we had somewhere to go.

The people we are to stay with know very little about our business. Only that it’s a matter of international security and they shouldn’t ask questions. They are expecting us for breakfast and will put us up for a few days while Lincoln works with headquarters to plot our next move.

It took two hours to drive there. The sun rose at our backs as we rode. The first hour took us through the sprawling suburbs of Paris, one unfolding to the next. It got to the point that I wondered if the houses would ever thin. But they did.

The second hour was spent driving through farmland which, save for the cute French cottages and the French road signs, resembled rural Wisconsin with its vast greenery and rolling hills. It amazes me how different each culture is, having its own architecture, customs, and beliefs. But when left on its own, the earth seems to resemble itself over long distances and across oceans. We might be different, but the earth only knows one way to be.

The people who put us up, the Franks, are a young couple who live in a country cottage surrounded by nothing but wilderness on all sides. The nearest neighbor is just barely in sight through a field and on the top of the next hill.

The Franks’ house is a little one-story three-bedroom, with a guest room above the garage.

As they welcome us into their home
, my eyes scan the space and I almost lose my shit. Sitting on the sofa in front of the television are two small children, a girl who looks no more than three, and a boy of maybe five. I turn on my heel and rush back outside.

“Lori,” Geoffrey calls out after me. “Where are you going?”

I don’t want to answer. I can’t answer—I can only think about one thing. I hate thinking about it, and most of the time I manage to keep those memories buried, but now they rise up and I have to remember the day I lost my parents. The day they didn’t come home.

The embassy bombing killed two hundred and twelve people, and injured over four thousand. It was one of the most lethal U
.S. embassy bombings in history. That’s what the news said. They reduced my parents to a number. I was only nine when I lost my mom and dad. Just a little older than the Franks’ kids.

“Lori, are you okay?” Geoffrey puts his hand on my shoulder, but when I turn to him he takes a step back, and won’t look into my eyes. The distance between us is still there, but he needs me.

I can’t let him think I’m vulnerable. I’m his protection. I need to be strong. I take a deep breath and force my memories back down into the dark place they reside. I nod. “Yeah, I just needed to get some air. I guess it’s been a long day.”

Geoffrey doesn’t look convinced, so I smile, trying to reassure him.

I’m not sure if he believes I’m okay or just understands that I need space, but he doesn’t push it. We head back inside, because even though I don’t like the idea of putting this family in danger, we need a place to hide, and until I get ahold of Lincoln we have nowhere else to go.

After they load us up with breakfast, Mr. Frank takes the older kid to school on his way to work. Mrs. Frank, sensing how exhausted we are, sends us up to our room.

The room has one small window that looks out into the surrounding fields. The light from the window, even in the daytime, is so minimal that the room feels more like a cave with its low ceiling. There’s a double bed, a chest of drawers, and a large comfy chair set near the window. We both stare at the bed.

Being alone with Geoffrey again, only a bed between us, causes my mind to veer slightly off course. He’s still wearing the jeans and T-shirt he wore when I snuck up on him the day before. Only now there is a bit of grease on the thigh of his jeans. I wonder if it’s from our bike ride. Or if it’s from our encounter in the garage. I try not to replay it in my mind, but his jeans are tight, and they pull me back to the dark side. I feel a throb between my legs, and have to cross my arms to cover up my hardening nipples. Now’s not the time.

Geoffrey clears his throat, making my eyes travel back up his body to his face. As much as I want to be with him, the need in his eyes doesn’t match mine. He desires something more, almost like he wants to take care of me, but he’s scared to. And now there is something bad between us. I have no idea which one of us is responsible for it. Did I push him away? Or does he finally see through me? Can he tell what a mess I am? Unable to love anyone, or keep them close, because I don’t trust them to be there tomorrow.

“You go ahead and take the bed,” Geoffrey offers, his shoulders tense. As if the thought of sharing it with me is unsettling.

Even though he’s offering me the bed out of chivalry, the comment hurts. Is he so repulsed by what we did in the garage, in his living room the night before, that he can’t stand the thought of lying next to me?

I shake my head. “I won’t be sleeping. You take the bed.”

His face softens. “Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll be fine.”

“No, I’m here to protect you. I can go several days without sleep. You, however, look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m fine,” he says. “If you’re supposed to be my warrior, you need to rest up and get your strength.”

I take a deep breath. “Geoffrey, I appreciate the chivalry, but you don’t get it. It’s not about me; it’s not about you. It’s about saving the world from the next nine-eleven.” It comes out a bit harsher than I mean it to. “Look, I’m sorry to be so unkind, but I have to do a sweep of the area and plan for a possible emergency escape. I don’t have time to sleep. I need you to, though. Please.” I say the last words a bit more gently, hoping that I sound caring, but I’m too busy making calculations to know for sure.

It’s easier for me to think about my next move than to worry about what we mean to each other.

Geoffrey finally relents and I tuck him in, leaving him my backup gun just in case.

I do a walk-through of the house. The place is full of windows, which is both good and bad. It means we will be able to see anyone coming, but it also means they will be able to see us.

There are two doors leading outside, one in front and one in the back. The doors combined with the windows make this place chock full of exits. In an emergency, we can take our pick. There is only the one road, but we passed several cross-roads just a little ways back. As long as we can get to the bike, we’ll be fine.

The three year old—I think her name is Bea—runs through the house squealing as her mother chases her. The mother is trying to get her shoes on so that they can go to the market, but Bea has turned it into a game.

It hurts to think about the danger we are putting them in, just by being here. I clench my jaw, remembering my priority. It’s Geoffrey. I have to do everything I can to keep him safe. It’s not about this little girl and her mother—it’s about the bigger picture. If Sims gets ahold of Geoffrey and if Geoffrey really can get them the information they seek, it could mean the next nine-eleven, the next embassy bombing, the next attack. This is why I joined the CIA. If they’d only known what was coming, if the CIA had been ready twenty years ago, my parents would be alive today.

But it doesn’t seem fair. What could Geoffrey possibly know that is so important that this innocent little girl and her mother rank dead last next to him?

Some parts of the job are a lot harder than others.

I do a sweep of the perimeter and then decide that now is the best time to check in with Lincoln. I’l
l have to drive several miles to the nearest town to use a pay phone. I can’t turn my phone on. Even though my phone is way more secure than your typical smart phone, it can still be traced, and Sims is sure to be doing exactly that. I don’t dare use the Franks’ phone. I’ll have to leave Geoffrey here alone, but better now while the Franks are out than later, when Sims has had time to narrow his search for us.

I need to know what we are doing here, why we are here, and what our next move is. I sneak back into the bedroom and liberate the bike keys from Geoffrey’s pants, which lay at the end of the bed. Geoffrey is fast asleep. I allow myself a moment to stare at him. The blankets have fallen back and show him in a T-shirt and boxers, hugging a pillow. Even relaxed in sleep, the definition in his tanned biceps warms me.

I force myself to turn and leave. I’ve got work to do.

* * *

They teach us how to ride almost any kind of vehicle in training, but I knew how to ride a motorcycle even before that. I have always enjoyed the freedom and quasi-reckless feeling I get when speeding up just a little too fast into a turn.

I try to control my speed on the way into town, reminding myself that I’m not supposed to stick out. Nothing would screw me up more than being pulled over right now. My alias would be entered into the system, and then pretty much anyone who has friends on the French police force would be able to locate me. Not a good thing. I drive painfully slow to town and have to ask around to locate the sole payphone.

“Jessica,” Lincoln grunts. It sounds like he’s half asleep. Great.

“Wake up
, Lincoln. I need you.”

Lincoln clears his throat. “Sorry. I just closed my eyes for a second.”

“I may not get to sleep for a week while you guys figure this out. Why do you get to nap?”

“I said I’m sorry.”

He sounds more alert now, so I decide to let it go. “What do you have for me? Anything new?”

“Not much. We know that Sims has another agent working with him. The agent you saw, she goes by T
rish. He also has a few people working inside Intelex. He has some connection with the police here in Paris, and a few more unknowns.”

“So basically, you don’t know anything. What are we paying you for, Lincoln?” I’m only half kidding. Seriously, I’d already figured all that out on my own. “Do you at least know what they want with Geoffrey? I assume the box containing the NATO intel is secure and they’ll never get to it, right?”