Mr. Real (Code of Shadows #1) (7 page)

Did she have to be so obvious? He couldn’t pretend he didn’t see this. “Something just occurred to you, and you chose not to share it, but I can assure you that it’s in your best interests to disclose everything to me. Like it or not, you’ve caught the attention of somebody dangerous, and if I don’t know why, I can’t protect you.”

“You mean, like a crime figure?” There it was again—that nervous excitement mixed with a curious lack of surprise.

He clenched his teeth. It was as though he were in a play, giving his all to the performance, and she wasn’t bothering to be convincing whatsoever. “Yes. That is precisely what I mean.”

Dimples. “No.”

He stood and went to the window next to the fireplace, inspected the lock. “I don’t like this,” he said. “These windows lock, but the frame seems a tad rotten.” He turned. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but where is your rifle?”

“My rifle?”

He flicked his eyes up to the wall where the Russian SKS had hung—he could tell by the faint outline. Had the real Alix tried to defend herself with a ceremonial rifle?

“God, you are so observant. Everything is like, clues to you. If you read books, I bet you’d be into Sherlock Holmes.”

“
If
I read books? What do you take me for, Ms. Gordon?”

“Oh! No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” She laughed. “To insult your intelligence or, you know. I just didn’t realize you read books.”

“One tends to.”

“So what do you like to read? Do you have a favorite author?”

He smiled, thinking furiously. He read books, but he couldn’t recall any titles, or any authors’ names. Odd. It seemed he should be able to recall at least one. He knew he was a learned man. “It’s hard to pick one.”

“Who are your runners-up?”

Heat invaded his face. “Ms. Gordon, we need to talk about your situation.”

“Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to try to…really, I’m so sorry.”

Pity now?
The hairs on his neck pricked up. “No harm done. You should locate your rifle.”

She snorted. “A lot of good that’ll do.”

What exactly was the girl implying? That it hadn’t served the real Alexis Gordon? Was she trying to play the innocent or not?

He moved to another window, fiddled with the lock. In Sir Kendall’s experience, only two sorts of enemies were this sloppy: the enormously powerful and those with nothing to lose. Both phenomenally dangerous. He’d come into this with the assumption that no female spy could best him.

The assumption had made him stupid.

He turned to her and gave her a long drink of a look from afar, letting her feel his gaze on her.

She struck a contrapuntal stance, hand on hip, head tilted, playing the confident sexpot.

She was anything but.

He strode to her. He didn’t have a plan, but for now he needed to touch her, to know her. She tensed as he neared. Good. He could feel her nerves crank as he took the bottle from her fingers. Good. He placed the bottle on the table. “I don’t think you’re taking this situation very seriously.”

“I do take it seriously.” Her light brown eyes shone feverishly, and in this moment he believed her.

He drew a finger along the most tender inch of her chin, surprised at her responsiveness, the way she drew up for him, a mixture of nerves and arousal. This he could work with. “I don’t think you do,” he whispered. Finally he felt in control.

“No, I
do
, it’s just…this is slightly weird.” She moved to touch him, bracelets jangling. He closed his hands around her wrists, stilling them.

“Stay just like that. I want you to relax and let me handle everything…” He let the pause spin on. “
Everything
.”

Her breath shallowed, and she looked up at him. Yes, she responded beautifully when he took control like that. He trailed a finger down her neck, and it was as if he trailed her whole being along with it. Things were complex, and now he would simplify them.

A tentative smile played upon her lips.

He let his finger drop to the skin above the pearl button at the center of her chest, then traced over the button itself, smooth and cool. His cock strained in his pants.

She lowered her eyes to his hand, lashes clumped with too much black mascara, beer breath sweet and soft.

He pinched the button open and slid down to the next, pinched it open, then another and another. Soon the sheaves of her sweater hung open to reveal the center of a black lace bra. He undid two more buttons, allowing his fingers to graze her belly. He’d never known a woman’s skin to feel like this, so soft and alive. He felt her quiver under his touch. What was it about this place? Even the quality of light seemed unreal. He might have assumed he’d been drugged, except he’d felt like this ever since he stood on the porch.

“Sir Kendall, it really is so excellent that you dropped by.” She moved to kiss him.

He stopped her with two fingers over her lips. “Don’t say anything,” he said. “I want you perfectly still.”

“Not even breathing?”

“You may breathe.”

Stunned smile. Yes, she enjoyed being contained. Handled. And the humorous attitude didn’t fool him. Master spy or amateur, deep down this woman craved respect—he felt sure of it. The insight calmed him. He couldn’t control her as a spy—yet—but he could control her as a woman. He always controlled the woman first.

He flicked open the last button and glided four fingertips from the top of her jeans up, up her bare belly, which undulated slightly, and up to the underwire of her bra. He then coasted back down on fingernail backs.

Goosebumps became visible across her skin as she straightened, tensed, then loosened, a constant flow of movement, even when she was trying to be still. Ever so lightly, he scratched back up.

She shot her gaze up to him.

Pearl buttons on a fuzzy sweater, an exquisitely desperate woman underneath, and a day or two before he’d have to kill her. At moments like these he could almost believe there was a god in heaven.

She raised her hands to his chest, to his buttons, bracelets jangling. He grabbed her wrists, put her arms back at her sides. “What did I say?”

She turned wide eyes to the ceiling, let her lips fall open in playful disbelief. “Yeah but…I mean—”

He clapped his hand over her mouth. “If you cannot be still, my dear, I’ll be forced to tie you up and gag you. Is that what you want?” He felt her lips curl under his palm. She was used to being in charge. Playing the temptress.

He waited.

She raised her brows, a look that said,
Look at me being still
.

He removed his hand, and, as she watched, he slowly took the halves of her sweater and opened them, like a book, and then paused, staring down at her breasts—perfect teacupfuls under black lace. She swallowed. He let the pause grow; he could feel her nervous arousal mounting.

When a woman came to him in silk, he liked to put her in leather, and when she came to him in leather, he liked to put her in silk, and when she came to him nervous and kinetic, he did this. He forced her to be still.

Slowly, then, he slid the sweater over her arms and let it fall to the floor. She broke her stillness to give him a saucy look. He regarded her sternly, and she dropped the humorous face.

Good lord, could the woman not be serious for one instant?

Jeans, now. He let her feel his fingers around the snaps—one, two, three—and slid his palms over the lace covering her bum, leaving it carefully in place. He pushed her pants down, lowering himself with them, hands down the backs of her legs, until the stiff fabric was bunched up at her ankles. He urged her to step out of them, and then he rose slightly, kneeling before her, to kiss that quivering tummy. She put her hands on his hair and he removed them and put them at her sides, just as he’d done before.

“Oh wow,” she gasped.

He gripped her generous buttocks and drew his tongue in a lazy spiral around her belly button, around and around over silky skin. He slowed as he reached the center, circling the rim, letting her imagine what he might do. The bellybutton was not a particularly sensitive spot on a woman unless you drew every fiber of her keyed-up and kinetic awareness to it. He drew her attention around and around in circles, and then he poked in his tongue; she gasped and clutched his shoulders.

He grabbed her wrists lightly and put them back, yet again. “Must I start over?”

A thrill of shock in her eyes. “No!”

She’d obey now. She was dying for him to move down to her very moist target. He could detect every contour of her tense need.

He lowered himself, leaving a trail of little kisses, pausing in front of the swell of her crotch just long enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath.

And then the oven timer went off.

“Crap!” she said. “Crap.” She didn’t move.

He smiled into the lace, then composed himself and stood. “Would that be eggplant parmesan, Ms. Gordon?”

“Yeah, but…” the timer shrilled on.

In one fluid motion, he picked her up and carried her right into the kitchen, a long galley affair of green tiled surfaces and dark wood cupboards with a table at the far end. He set her on the counter, across from the sink and a wide window. He’d always been partial to kitchen counters.

She looked at the oven. “Shouldn’t I…”

“No.” He placed his hands on either side of her thighs. “It’s done, right?”

“Probably.” Her eyes darted to the left. “If you just—”

He put a finger to her lips. “I’m running the show here.” He opened the drawer she’d shown him with her big eyes and extracted a pair of oven mitts. “Let’s see, here.” He donned them and moved to the oven, just down from the sink. The door squeaked when he opened it. He pulled out the pan, set it on a burner, and closed the oven door. He stood over the bubbling cheese, perfectly brown in its raised places, forcing her to wait.

This spy impersonating Alix hated to wait, and hated to be stilled—she always needed to be moving. Constant movement and a lack of seriousness dulled sensation. This was a woman, perhaps, who felt too deeply.

He would still her movement, dampen her humor, and leave her with no resort but to feel. Sir Kendall preferred it when his lovers and his enemies felt too much. The spy impersonating Alix happened to be both at the moment.

“Well, this looks delicious.” He smiled casually at her, placing the pan on top of the stove, and, still with the hot pads on, he went to the window over the sink and opened it, letting the cool night breeze flow in. He had always found the cool night breeze a great aid in the titillation of the female species. He turned back to her, placed himself between her knees, and offered her his mitted hands, raised.

She looked confused. “You want them off?”

“We could proceed with them on, if you’d prefer.”

“Oh.” She pulled them off, and then she simply held them in her hands, staring at them, looking befuddled. “This is just so crazy, that’s all,” she said. “That you’re here, and we’re doing this.” She looked up at him, as if she expected him to agree that it was indeed crazy, that this should stop. Apparently, the spy impersonating Alix had glimpsed the folly of letting him have her so completely.

Well, that wouldn’t do.

“Yes, Alix,” he said with a wicked smile. “It is, isn’t it?”

Interest danced in her eyes. She hadn’t expected him to go that way. He lit his hands gently upon her cheeks, slid them back to cradle the back of her head, and then bent in to capture her mouth, kissing her roughly.

“It’s crazy,” he said into the kiss. He broke off to press soft kisses down her neck. “The very lewd things I aim to do to you. Crazy.” Down, down, down he kissed. “The way I plan to make you feel.” She gasped as he hit the most tender part of her neck.

He slid his hands down her shoulders to her chest. Lightly he dragged his fingernails over the lace that covered her nipples.

A sharp inhale.

She was flowing back into his grip. A bit of a hedonist, this Alix.

He said, “It’s crazy that we’ve only just met each other, and we’re taking our pleasure when others might do some tedious getting-acquainted dance.” He pulled back, looked into her eyes. “What do you really know about me? But of course that’s half the fun, isn’t it? Daring to take our pleasure where we will.”

Her lips quirked.

Still holding her with his gaze, he curled his fingers over the top edges of her bra. Her breath came quick and shallow as he pulled down the lacy fabric, exposing the soft flesh of her breasts above. “Taking our pleasure in the delicious, the forbidden,” he whispered.

Her eyes drifted closed as he ran his fingertips over one nipple.

“Sanity,” he continued, “is for the timid.”

A smile. “You do make a good point, Sir Kendall.”

And then he closed his mouth over the other nipple and sucked. Hard. With just a touch of teeth.

She squeezed the mitts, bracelet jingle muffled for the moment. He should’ve made her take them off. Never mind.

He slid his hands to her panties as he kissed her neck, snaking in over the elastic top of them, grazing her pubic hair as he used his fingertips to locate an opening in the lace. He set his other hand to work below, creating a tear.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“An alteration.” He gripped and yanked, short and sharp, tearing a gaping hole, nearly taking the whole crotch panel out, exposing her most sensitive flesh.

“Oh my god.” The oven mitts dropped to the floor. “What did you just do?”

“I’ve destroyed your panties, my dear,” he said, drawing his finger through the silky folds of her sex, now fully exposed to the air. He drew close and nuzzled her neck. “Never fear, I’ll get you new ones.”

He backed away and unbuckled her sandals. They clattered to the floor. Ever so gently, he pushed her knees apart, allowing the cool breeze to blow onto her wet nipples and wet crotch. “Though I may see fit to destroy those, too.”

She watched him, appearing not to breathe. She thought he would fuck her now. Instead, he took two small toes into his mouth, invading the tender nooks between them with his tongue.

“Oh, man,” she said. Her entire being seemed to tremble.