Agent of Desire (Jessica Booker) (9 page)

If he woke me up, he would move slow and steady, because that’s how I like it in the morning. Take my time and enjoy it. He would fondle my sex, brushing over it lightly, petting its folds. The heat builds between my legs as I run my fingers along the opening.

He would leave a trail of kisses down to the insides of my thighs, teasing me and getting close. I would spread my legs wide, and he would make me wait until I begged. Finally leaning in and kissing me between my legs, flicking his tongue quickly over my clit, making me feel so good that I would have to hold onto the bed sheets for dear life.

And then he would crawl on top of me, kissing me with his warm, wet mouth as he rubbed the head of his cock against the mouth of my pussy. I move my hands between my legs. I am so wet just thinking about him.

He would push himself inside me—gently at first, moving slowly but pushing hard, all the way in. I’d spread my legs wider so that he could push in farther. He’d pump harder and harder and faster and faster and...

“Oh!” I cry out as the thought of him inside me makes me come. I clench my teeth and stifle the moans as the spasms continue, until they slowly fade and I’m just breathing heavily.

Straightening my clothing, I look over the back of the chair to make sure he’s still asleep. He is. And he still has a hardon. I can’t stay in the room with him like that all night. I’m liable to give myself finger cramps from playing with myself.

I get up and head back downstairs and outside for another walk around the cottage.

The next morning is Saturday, so the family is staying home. After breakfast, I take another walk around the cottage. I’ve already worn a path around the place, but the walking helps me clear my head and keeps me alert.

When I come back inside, I find Geoffrey sitting on the couch with Toby. They are both crouched over what looks like a handheld video game.

“Cool!” Toby says.

“What’cha playin’?” I ask.

Geoffrey looks up at me sheepishly and his eyes flash to the floo
r where my backpack sits, open. The hair on the back of my neck stands up before I can register what his body language is saying. My heart is beating so fast I think I may have a heart attack.

I dive on the device they are so intently hovering over. “FUCK!” I manage to yell really loudly in front of a five-year-old.
Shit
. I rush to switch off my phone, but I know it’s too late. All Sims needed was a few seconds to locate us. It’s done.

Now we are all in danger.

“Come on, Geoffrey, grab your things.” I’m already moving. I grab Toby’s hand and walk him into the kitchen where his parents are entertaining Bea. “Mr. and Mrs. Frank, thank you for your hospitality. I am very sorry to have to inform you that you need to leave your house now. And I mean
right now
. You are about to have some visitors. Not the nice kind.”

They look up at me with their eyes open wide, trying to comprehend what I’ve just told them.

“Geoffrey, get the bike ready,” I shout out to the living room, then grab Mrs. Frank and pull her up from her seat at the table, forcing her to her room. “Pack now. Only what you can get together in the next five minutes, because then you’re leaving.”

Mr. Frank has followed us. “Where are we supposed to go?” he asks.

“Get cash at the next town. As much as you can, then drive as far as you can and find a hotel that takes cash. You don’t want to be near family, or anyone they might trace you to. This should all be over in a few days. I’m so sorry.”

“Why are they coming here? Why will they come after us?” Mrs. Frank asks.

“You have to trust me. Please, just go!” I yell and then I have to turn and leave because if I don’t I will end up packing them up myself and taking them with us. Which is no good for either of us. I grab my bag and jog outside where Geoffrey is on the motorcycle, ready to go.

“Where to?”
he asks.

“North or south. Anywhere but here.” I get on the back of the bike and he pulls out onto the main road. I watch the house as we go. The Franks have finally started moving. They are madly throwing half-packed bags and their children into their car. Thank God.

We drive for several hours, not stopping. We don’t talk. We couldn’t if we wanted to because of the wind, but I’m glad we can’t because I’m busy playing the blame game in my mind. How stupid was I to leave the phone lying around without at least telling Geoffrey how important it was that it remain off? I’m going to have to take the battery out so that doesn’t happen again.

We stop finally at a gas station. I fill the tank and Geoffrey runs in to pay.

While he’s inside I make use of the station’s pay-phone, dialing Lincoln’s number.

“Jessica,” he answers. His voice is slow and relaxed, like there isn’t a life or death situation playing out right now. It’s annoying, but at least he’s awake this time.

“We had to leave your friends’ house. We’re on the move. Do you have anything new for me?”

“Wait, what happened?” he asks with a bit more urgency in his voice.

“Geoffrey turned on my phone.”

“Idiot!”

Lincoln calling Geoffrey an idiot annoys me more than it should. “He was just playing with one of the kids. He didn’t know.”

Lincoln blows out his breath into the phone. I can tell he’s beginning to understand the urgency of the situation.
Finally
.

“I’ve got your location right now. I’ll start looking for something for you in the area.”

“Forget it,” I say. “Don’t worry about us. I’ll find a place. You focus on getting Sims off the street so that Geoffrey can go home.”

“Fine. Call me in
twenty-four hours.”

“Sure.” I hang up the phone.
Crap
. If Lincoln already knows where we are, it’s a good bet Sims does, too. We’re going to have to do some more driving, get us as far from this payphone as we can.

Geoffrey comes out with a bag of chicken-flavored potato chips and mint soda. As if I need reminding that French junk food really ha
s that certain
je ne sais quoi
.

“I got supplies,” he announces.

I roll my eyes and try not to barf as I put the “food” into my pack and then offer to take over driving.

He nods and takes the pack, shrugging it on. “But how far are we going? How long do we have to keep running?” he asks.

“As long as it takes,” I say, which I know is a cliché answer, but it’s true. “We can’t stop while those guys are out there trying to get you. Because whatever it is they think you can do for them, it can’t be good. Letting them have you is not an option.”

He nods, resigned. I climb on the bike and flip the ignition. The bike roars to life. He climbs on behind me. I can barely feel him back there. He is sitting as far back as he can and his hands are holding onto the back of the seat. It’s a racing bike, and there is nothing back there to hold him on if I speed up fast.

“You’re gonna want to hold on,” I say.

“I’ll be fine.”

I give the bike some gas and throw it in gear, deliberately jerking the bike forward so that he almost tumbles off the back, hopefully proving my point. I jerk to a stop and he falls into me. I wait, and he finally wraps his arms around my waist, locking his arms in front of me like a good boy.

I’m not sure if it’s because I am softer and smaller than he is, but having his strong arms around me feels like the most intimate we’ve been in twenty-four hours. It warms me inside and makes me want to lean back into him, getting lost in his arms. I can’t help but notice his muscular chest pressed up against my body, and the hint of a bulge just a bit lower.

I pull out more smoothly this time, and continue south. I love riding, but having someone else on the back can be tricky. Riding on two wheels requires you to lean the bike when you turn. That means that anyone on the bike needs to lean
with
you. If they don’t, you can lose control, and you both die.

The passenger has to trust the driver to lead. I’ve given a few other chicks rides on my bike, and they all get it. But the few guys I’ve ever given rides to—even if they ride themselves—resist the lean like it’s going to give them herpes.

I try to remember that Geoffrey’s been through a lot in the last few days, and take it easy on him the first half hour. I creep slowly into the first few turns, but escalate my speed a little each time. An hour in, he is leaning with me like it’s as natural as breathing.

I don’t think I’ve ever ridden with a guy who was so smooth before.

By late afternoon, we are far enough away that I start looking for a place to stay the night.

We find a room at an inn off a minor highway. It’s one of those quaint, small-town French affairs, almost like a bed and breakfast. The place is run by a couple who don’t even think to worry why we want to pay cash.

Our room only has one bed, which is fine since I don’t plan on sleeping anyway. Now that we really are on our own, there is no way I’m going to let him talk me into it. I curl up in a plush chair in one corner, and he sits down on the bed.

After riding with Geoffrey for several hours, it feels like the distance between us has lessened a little.

“You’re a pretty good rider,” he says. The distance between us narrows even more.

“I’ve been riding since before I was of legal age,” I say, then realize I’m talking about myself. Not only is he not supposed to know the real me, but I don’t talk about myself to guys. Ever. I decide now isn’t the time to start, and let the awkward silence that follows grow.

“Right,” he finally says. He takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes. “You don’t mind if I take a little nap, do you?”

I shake my head.

He lies back on the bed and rolls over away from me. I stare at his back, and wonder why I feel the way I do around him. Why I do stupid things like telling him about myself. He’s just a job, right?

My thoughts are interrupted by shouting downstairs. I didn’t hear what was said, because I was so lost in thought. The yelling has stopped, but now I hear footsteps pound up the stairs and down the hall toward our room.

I have to think fast. My gun. Where the hell is my gun? Why am I sitting here thinking about stupid guys when I need my gun? I manically search the room until I find my bag over by the door where Geoffrey must have dropped it. I’m out of the chair and halfway across the small room when the door crashes open.

I dive out of the way of the swinging door and see a flash of two—no, three—men in the hall. They’re armed with semi-automatics. I make it safely to the wall on the other side of the doorway and, as the first person steps in gun barrel first, I grab the rifle and twist it toward the ceiling while kicking at the side of the man’s leg with all my weight.

He screams in pain as his leg bends sideways. He collapses to the floor, and I disarm him, but not before the other two have their rifles pointed at my head.

I slowly put down the gun. They haven’t shot me, which is a relief, but no assurance that I’ll live through this. In fact, I know from training that, most likely, the only way out of this alive is escape. It’s part of the deal of being an agent. You get caught, you die.

“Lori?” Geoffrey’s voice comes from the bed behind me, and I take note of the gunmen’s minute eye movement toward the bed. I know I don’t have enough time, but I’m dead if I don’t try, so there’s nothing to lose. I lift my leg and kick at one of the guns while grabbing the other with my hands, shoving down hard.

One of them fires and I think the slug must have hit the wall because I feel nothing at first. The gun slips out of my hand as the owner reclaims it. The other man lands on the ground from my kick, but he’s still armed, and stands up quickly. Both of the men retrain their weapons on me.

“Lori!” Geoffrey yells and jumps off the bed toward me.

“Down!” One of the men says, and shoves Geoffrey back on the bed with the nose of his gun.

Then I feel it, a little trickle of something running down my arm. I know what it is before I turn to look—but still, I have to look. The blood is coming from my upper arm. The bullet grazed it, leaving a long, deep gash. My arm heats up and starts to burn. All at once, the pain hits me.

“No,” Geoffrey yells, lunging forward.

I feel a hard smack on
the back of my head, and it jerks forward with a shooting pain. I can’t see anything anymore. The world has gone black.

I wake up with the worst headache ever. I reach for the throbbing pain at the back of my head, but my arm screams in protest, and I recoil from it.
Shit
.

“Stop moving.” Geoffrey leans over me. I’m in his lap, and he’s holding me close, like I might die. “I have to apply pressure. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

Seeing the fear in his eyes throws me into a panic, until I remember what my arm looked like before I blacked out. It hurts like shit, and I’m bleeding, but it’s just a flesh wound. I’ll survive. I have got to stop blacking out on him.