Say the Word(123)
“Yeah.”
“Turns out his name is Agent Conor Gallagher — he’s with the New York field office. Organized Crime.”
“He wants to know what we found at Labyrinth,” he deduced.
“I have to send him the pictures.” I reached up and knocked harder on his front door. “Are you going to answer your door, or not?”
“What?”
“I’m literally standing at your front door freezing my ass off in this damn, uninsulated hallway, waiting for you to open up. I’ve been knocking for three minutes.”
I heard the sound of his footsteps echoing through both the door and the receiver at my ear. He pulled open the door and stared down at me, surprise etched on his features and not a stitch of clothing covering his chiseled, naked body. I whispered into the phone, a huge smile stretching across my face.
“Took you long enough.”
“Sorry, I was a little distracted between waking up to find my girlfriend missing from my bed in the middle of the damn night and hearing about her clandestine meetings with federal agents.” He grinned down at me so warmly, I decided to ignore his casual use of the g-word, for the moment.
“You about done with your super-spy antics for the night?” he asked.
“Just about,” I said, hanging up my phone.
“Good.” He placed his phone on the small table by the entryway, removed mine from my hand, and tossed it alongside his. Before I could retreat, he bent forward, propped his shoulder against my stomach, and threw me over his back in a fireman’s carry.
“Bash!” I squealed. “What are you doing?”
He kicked the door closed with one bare foot and carried me across the loft to the bed. As we went, he pulled the over-large sweatpants from my legs and tossed them to the floor. I squeaked in protest when I felt cool air against my suddenly exposed backside.
“Bash! Put me down!”
“Gladly,” he muttered, tossing me onto the bed and settling above me. He straddled my thighs, staring down at me with a look I couldn’t quite decipher. With one hand, he reached down to move a strand of flyaway hair from my face; with the other, he began to slowly unbutton the white shirt I’d borrowed.
“I like my clothes on you.” His voice was deep, his eyes dark with lust.
When his hands moved beneath the fabric, I arched up into his touch and felt my eyes droop to half-mast, my gaze still locked on his face.
“I like you in my bed,” he added, slipping the shirt down my arms and casting it quickly aside.
I felt my limbs turn liquid beneath the heat of his gaze, as his eyes roamed my body. A small, distant thought niggled at the back of my mind, nagging that there was something I had to do — something important — before I could lose myself between Bash’s sheets for the next several hours.
Agent Gallagher’s scowling face flashed in my mind — Ah, yes. The Labyrinth photos.
“I have to email those pictures to Conor,” I managed to mumble between gasps, as Bash lowered his head to kiss the column of my naked throat.
“He can wait,” Bash muttered. “I can’t.”
I opened my mouth to object, but all that escaped was a breathy moan of pleasure as Bash thrust into me and my mind went blank.
***
I walked into Swagat the next day with an immovable grin on my face. My cheeks had begun to ache from my constant smile several blocks ago, but nothing in the world could dampen my spirits today.
“Hey, Mrs. Patel!” I called as the door swung shut behind me.
She waved begrudgingly from her post behind the cash register. Her sari was purple today, covered from the waist down with her usual dull brown crocheted blanket, and her hair was twisted into a high knot at the crown of her head.
“Love that color on you. Purple looks great with your skin tone.” I grinned at her as I walked past the counter and headed for the frozen section, chuckling when I heard her responding grunt of acknowledgement. The doorbell chimed overhead, signaling the arrival of another customer, but I was far too busy contemplating ice cream flavors to look up.
“What do you think, Mrs. Patel? Black cherry or chocolate chip cookie dough?” I called, opening the clear refrigerated door and swirling my index finger through the icy condensation on the glass. “I know I usually get the cookie dough, but today feels like a perfect day to switch things up.”
I wasn’t surprised that she didn’t answer as I made my decision and pulled the carton of black cherry from the shelf— she rarely did. But I was surprised to hear a man’s voice close to my ear, to feel the heat of his body press against my side far too intimately for a stranger.
“I would’ve gone with cookie dough, personally,” he whispered, one hand clamping down on my arm in a rough grip. He whipped me around so fast the carton slipped between my fingers and clattered to the ground, rolling down the aisle and coming to a stop beneath a shelving unit. Pressing me close to the fridge, he brought one meaty hand up to cover my mouth before I could scream for help. I struggled, thrashing so hard my vision went blurry, but managed to make out one distinct feature on my assailant’s face.
The nose — more mangled than Rocky Balboa’s after a fight, hit one too many times and never set properly. In my peripherals, I saw another man hovering just behind my attacker — big, strong, and silent, waiting to step in if his partner couldn’t control the situation. My veins flooded with panic as I realized that I knew these men.