Her Spy to Have (Spy Games Book 1) (15 page)

She’d tell Garrett tonight, in private, after everyone else went to bed. She’d ask for his help with a problem. She’d admit he’d been right about her father. There was always the possibility he’d withhold where he got the information from, and why the phone had been tapped. Yes, tapping the phone was illegal. But CSIS dealt in information. They didn’t always act on everything they learned.

They’d be terrible spies if they did.

* * *

Later that night, when the house was silent, Isabelle stood outside Garret’s door, gathering her courage. Earlier, he’d been lifting weights with Peter in the basement gym. She hadn’t noticed him come upstairs, but she’d heard his shower running, then stop. She’d waited a few minutes, giving him time to dress, but not enough to fall asleep if he’d gone straight to bed.

She didn’t know what she’d say to him. How she’d start. Maybe—you were right?

She knocked on the door, a soft rap in case he had gone to bed and wasn’t interested in being disturbed. A small thrill of excitement chased up her spine, leaving her hands shaking.

You might discover I’m not bluffing, he’d said to her.

The door swung open. A small lamp beside the sofa was the only source of light in the room. He’d been reading. He stood a few feet from her, wearing a pair of drawstring pajama bottoms riding low on his hips and nothing else. She’d seen him in less. This was different. His sun-bleached brown hair had been towel-dried but not combed, and was still damp. A shadowy sprinkling of chest hair over a layer of muscle had her fingers itching to touch him.

Warm hazel eyes caressed her. She’d grabbed the same shapeless T-shirt and shorts she’d had on when she first met him. Clean and comfortable, they gave her a sense of protection, which was why she owned them. They were nondescript and didn’t draw male attention—the feminine version of a suit of armor. Yet, when he ran his eyes over her, she felt naked.

His smile, slow and lazy, lit his face, making him appear much younger and less…overwhelming. But still dangerous. More so, in fact.

“This is unexpected,” he said. His gaze narrowed. “What’s wrong?”

She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t betray her father. Not more than she already had.

“Nothing.” She took a step back, wishing she hadn’t come. She couldn’t expect Garrett to keep such a thing to himself. Not when it involved his sister and her family. He couldn’t help her. “Never mind.”

“I think I do mind.” He caught her hand and drew her into the room, shutting the door behind her with a decisive click. He leaned against it. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll have to guess.” His eyes darkened with humor. “You’re calling my bluff.”

Her lips curled into a reluctant half smile. He was trying to put her at ease and it was working. “You wish.”

“Yes,” he said. “I do.” His voice deepened and went smoky, sending shivers through her. “But first, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I think you might be right about my father.” Her answer came out on a soft exhale. The admission hurt her.

“I see.” He didn’t ask about her sudden change of opinion. He moved closer, placing a hand on the small of her waist as if urging her to dance. His fingers tightened in a quick squeeze of reassurance. “I also told you things will be okay. It will all work out. I’ll be right about that, too.”

“You can’t be right about everything.”

“Of course I can.”

He sounded so smug and confident. She had the sudden urge to unsettle him. She pressed her forehead to his chest, resting her hands on his hips above the drawstring of his pajamas, and felt the corresponding increase in the beat of his heart as her reward.

“For instance,” he said, keeping his tone conversational, “I know that if I were to kiss you right now, this time, you’d stay the night.”

It was true. There were so many reasons she shouldn’t be here. Yet she wanted him to kiss her anyway. She turned her face upward. As she did, their bodies connected. He bent his head. She rose on the tips of her toes and parted her lips in invitation.

He hesitated, a question in his eyes. Are you certain this is what you want?

Of course she wasn’t. That was what made it all the more exciting.

“I call,” she said. “Do your worst.”

Chapter Nine

He kissed her, deep and hard and with a thoroughness that left her head in a mixed-up state of confusion.

She forgot why she’d come to him. Why she should leave, although that moment had passed. She lifted her hands to the back of his head, wanting more. She heard a quiet sound—a small sigh of air—and realized it came from her.

He lifted his head. “I warned you,” he said, his voice raw. “Last chance.”

He wasn’t bluffing. She could feel the hard evidence against her abdomen. She shivered, already anticipating what was to come, knowing she could no more walk away than she could stop breathing. She slid her hands down the broad length of his back, pressing tighter against him. “You’re talking too much.”

His hands went to the hem of her shirt. She caught her breath as he peeled it, slowly, over her head, his knuckles brushing against her skin, his thumbs stroking the sensitive undersides of her arms. The T-shirt landed on the floor. He kicked it aside. His fingers found the clasp on the back of her bra. As he undid it, he kissed the curve of her neck. A sharp, delicious knife of heat lanced through her abdomen. The lacy wisp of fabric followed her T-shirt. Her nipples, peaked and hard, rubbed against the crisp hairs of his chest. The exquisite sensation was torture.

His hands were on her hips now, holding her as he kissed first one breast, then the other. His head dipped lower, his mouth blazing a trail of fire in its wake. He swirled his tongue around the piercing at her belly button. Isabelle’s knees weakened, and she had to prop her hands on his shoulders to steady herself. His thumbs hooked into the waist of her shorts, dragging them over her hips and down the length of her legs. She stepped out of them, and was left wearing nothing but a brief pair of panties. He ran a palm up the inside of her thigh, but stopped a breath shy of the thin fabric. His thumb wisped across the warmth of her opening. She gasped, arching her spine.

“You don’t talk enough,” he said. “I want to hear you ask me for this. No,” he corrected himself. “I want to hear you beg.”

“Nous allons voir qui est la mendicité,” she whispered back. We’ll see who is begging.

“We will soon enough.” He stood, and in a quick motion, swept her into his arms. She crooked an elbow around his neck.

“You should have more care with your back,” she said.

The corners of his mouth kicked up. “My back isn’t the part of me I’m most concerned about right now.”

The door to his bedroom was open. In a few strides, he’d carried her into the room and deposited her on the bed. He paused to look at her. She could see his face in the pale light of the moon through the open curtains, but couldn’t begin to guess what he was thinking. It had to be strange to him to be so physically attracted to someone it was impossible to trust. Already, he might be regretting this.

He reached down with one fingertip and skimmed a line from the base of her throat to the tip of one breast, then to her navel. He toyed with the ring at her belly.

“You always surprise me,” he said softly, “with how very beautiful you are.”

His thoughts hadn’t gone at all where she’d feared. Her insides glowed with pleasure, as much at the sincerity of the compliment as from the heat in his eyes. “You almost have me begging. But not quite.”

He hooked her panties in his thumbs and tugged them down her legs. He tossed them aside. His pajamas followed them. Then he was on the bed, kneeling over her, naked and as beautiful to her as he claimed she was to him. He leaned forward and kissed her lips, then her jaw. He traced his tongue over the rim of her ear, nuzzling the sensitive spot beneath it with the rasp of his chin.

She smoothed her palms upward over his ribs, brushing her thumbs along his sternum. His body felt much the same as his personality. Solid. If only things were different between them. That this was real and not a moment she was stealing from him because she was selfish.

He took both her hands in one of his, extending her arms over her head. He kissed her throat, beside her ear. From there, he focused his attention on her breasts. He swirled the pad of his thumb around the nipple of one. He drew the tight bud of the other into his mouth, and gave a light tug with his teeth. As he did, his hand slid between her thighs. He stroked a light finger along the dampness of her cleft, then again, gently exploring at first, before probing deeper. She gasped. A jolt of desire had her arching her hips forward in a silent demand.

This was torture.

His movements stilled. “Tell me what you want from me.”

She couldn’t begin to describe what she wanted. She had no right to ask for it.

“I want more,” she said.

His eyes gleamed in the faint light. “More…what?”

Everything.

She wanted his hands on her. She wanted him inside her. “More of you.”

“Then don’t move.”

He rose from the bed, naked and gorgeous. Isabelle heard him go into the bathroom. Seconds later, he returned to the bedroom, a small packet in his hand. He opened it and extracted a condom.

She extended her hand. “Let me have it.”

He held it out of her reach. “Are you begging?”

She considered it. “No. You can do it yourself.” She dragged a finger down the length of her torso, from between her breasts to the juncture of her thighs. Hungrily, his gaze followed the movement. “But trust me. It won’t be as enjoyable for you.”

He tossed the condom in his palm, moving closer to the edge of the bed. “If I give it to you, are you willing to call it a draw?”

“No.”

She got to her knees, and settling her hands on the solid curves of his buttocks, dragged him closer. She kissed the hard, flat plane of his stomach, then, trailing kisses lower, she flicked her tongue across the tip of his erection. He sucked in a ragged breath. She cupped him with one hand, drawing the head of him into her mouth, running the tip of her tongue around his rim.

He knotted his hands in her hair, uttering a groan. “Oh, my God.”

She looked up at him, a smile on her lips. She ran her tongue from the base of his shaft to its tip. His entire body shuddered.

“Are you begging?” she asked.

“You’re trying to kill me. Yes,” he bit out through gritted teeth. He tumbled her onto her back, pinning her down with his weight. He nudged her thighs apart with his knee as he fumbled with the condom in good-humored frustration. “But this isn’t over. It’s my turn.”

He placed the tip of his sheathed erection at her cleft. Instead of thrusting inside her, however, he rubbed it the length of her slickened folds, over and over, until she had to clench her fists to keep from crying out. He entered her deliberately, an inch at a time. Her internal muscles tightened in impatient expectancy. Before she could draw in the full length of him, however, he withdrew. He did it again, even more slowly this time.

Isabelle dug her fingers into the tense muscles bunching at his shoulders, desperate for all of him. “More. Harder. Don’t stop.”

“Are you begging?” His voice came out sounding strained.

She was beyond caring who won a silly game. “Yes.”

That was all the encouragement he seemed to need. He plunged his full length deep inside her, again and again, establishing a rhythm that left her breathless and on the brink of release. She arched against him, meeting his thrusts. Spears of pure pleasure shot to her core. She clutched his shoulders and cried out his name as her orgasm shook through her. He stiffened, and with a muffled groan, he came, too.

She trailed her fingertips along the bumps of his spine. A line had been crossed. Tears blurred her eyes. She wished she could think of something to say that would articulate the enormity of what had just happened, at least for her.

She didn’t dare say anything.

* * *

She’d held back. Kept something of herself from him. Why would she do that when she’d allowed things to go as far as they had?

Moonlight flooded the bedroom. She sprawled on his chest, her crown beneath his cheek, her breath warm in the crook of his neck. The blankets had been kicked back so that the sheets tangled around their legs. One of her knees pressed against his inner thigh, hugging his leg between hers. Her toe tickled his calf. He ran a finger up and down the line of her hip, enjoying the silkiness of her skin and the slight tremors that shivered through her whenever he caressed the sensitive spot near the small of her back.

“When I was a little girl,” she said, breaking the silence, “my mother and I lived in a small town in Quebec with my
memère
and
pepère
. My grandparents. My father wasn’t around much. Memère and pepère didn’t like papa. They didn’t say nice things about him. My mother always defended him, saying he was working hard to make a better life for us. She died in a car accident when I was three or four. Papa came, and I remember him crying at the funeral. That was my first real memory of him. My second was of a big fight he had with memère and pepère. Right after it, he took me away with him and I never saw them again. But for the next few years, every year, we’d go back to the cemetery where maman was buried. He’d stand at the grave and he’d cry. I hated it. I asked him why he came if it made him so sad. He told me he wasn’t sad, he was angry. He said maman abandoned him and he couldn’t forgive her for it.” She spoke to his throat. He heard the slight hitch in her voice, a very faint tremor. Then it strengthened. “I know my father is a weak man, Garrett. But I can’t abandon him, too. He’d never forgive me for it, any more than he forgave my mother.”