Willow knew how to torment him. The feel of her fingers in his hair had always soothed
him and calmed the storm of emotions he felt after a mission. Her touch now was anything
but calming. Goose bumps rose on his arms. Every part of him ached to take her.
She tilted her head and studied him, her eyes dancing with mirth and passion. “You
Italian lovers are more reserved than I’ve been led to believe. I thought you liked
to talk with your hands. Talk to me now, Con.”
“Right now, I’m happy just listening.” His voice came out hoarse.
“Listen well.” She pulled his shirt loose from his jeans and ran her hands up his
bare back. Before he could move, she dragged her nails down his back, roughly, until
he shuddered.
“Like what you’re hearing?” she said.
Damn her, she knew what he liked and she was playing dirty, trying to get him to break
his cover. He was on the edge as it was, hanging on by the thinnest thread of self-control,
trying to remember his training on resisting torture. Sadly, NCS had never trained
him to resist mind-numbing, mind-bending pleasure.
She unbuttoned his shirt. He stood as still as the
David,
and definitely more erect, itching, aching to touch her as he tried to remember everything
he’d been taught about how not to crack under interrogation. He had to imagine he
was someplace else. Not here, alone with the wife he loved and longed for. He couldn’t
act, not even as Con, until he was certain he wouldn’t crack.
She could torture him with pleasure, but he would not move.
“It must be excruciating standing still. Dance with me.” She danced him around until
he faced her closed closet doors—her mirrored closet doors.
When she had him in perfect mirror-viewing position, she kicked off her shoes and
shimmied out of her jeans as he stood mesmerized by the movement of her hips. And
then by the sight of a thong panty that disappeared between the shapely cheeks of
her butt.
She pulled her blouse over her head, drawing his gaze from the mirror to her body.
She held the blouse out at arm’s length by a finger. And then with a seductive, teasing
smile dropped it onto the floor and winked.
She wore a see-through lace bra that matched the tiny triangle of her thong panty.
He couldn’t breathe. If she made one more move toward him, he was done for.
Time for some mental evasive action. He forced his thoughts to places they shouldn’t
roam. Back to how bad he was for Willow.
The thoughts came a second too late and were too obvious in his expression. Willow
knew his coping tactics. A frown passed quickly over her face and then her eyes lit
with determination.
She slid her hands over his chest and pulled his shirt off his shoulders and arms,
dropping it to the floor as she bent to suck his nipples.
He had a perfect view in the mirror of her hair falling over her back, her narrow
waist, and her bare bottom as her tongue teased his nipples.
He groaned and his breath caught. “What about the dog? Won’t she see?”
“You Europeans really aren’t living up to your rep. I thought you had no body or embarrassment
issues. Don’t tell me you’re shy about a little dog watching us?” Willow gave his
nipple another quick lick.
He threw his head back. His mouth was dry. “I don’t want to disturb her.”
“Don’t worry.” Willow unzipped his jeans and thrust her hand down them, grabbing and
stroking his bulging member. “We won’t. The vet gave her something to make her sleep
so she could rest and recover.”
Jack had always told her it turned him on when she took charge and she’d taken his
admission to heart.
Shit.
“Besides, I think it’s time she learned something about the birds and the bees.”
Willow was definitely playing dirty and going for broke, not caring whether he thought
she was a bad girl or not. She’d once told him women were intimidated during sex because
they wanted their men to see them as good-girl girlfriend/wife material. He was intrigued
to see how far she’d take this act, knowing it would mean his downfall.
It would be hell to stop her now. He liked this game of heavenly torture, wanting
to see just how far she’d go to make a point. His flesh was willing and his spirit
weak with desire. He wanted her.
She stood up straight, reached behind her, unlatched her bra, pulled it off, let it
fall to the floor, and smiled. “Don’t move.”
As if he could.
She went to the nightstand and removed a tube of sexual lubricant. A new tube, Jack
couldn’t help noticing. A brand-new tube.
She used the lid to pierce it. Piercing gave him a mental image he tried to resist.
In the dim light he couldn’t read the label, but he got the feeling, from the way
she was grinning, it was something that would do him in.
She walked over, boldly, like a femme fatale spy on a mission, and pulled his member
out, sliding her lubricated hand along it with one hard, smooth stroke after another
while he watched her do it in the mirror and gasped with pleasure. Then she put her
other hand on and stroked with both. And then …
* * *
Every couple has a signature sex move. This was theirs. Willow watched Jack’s eyes
as she put her second hand on him. Sure enough, recognition lit them. He knew what
was coming. His eyes dilated. And not just from the dark.
Resist this, Jack.
She’d used the heated, for men’s pleasure, lubricant. She’d bought it hoping she’d
get a chance to use it on Jack, to prove he was Jack.
He was showing unusual restraint. This had to be killing him. At least, she hoped
it was. She wanted to break him. She had to get him to toss his cover aside again
and she was going to use every dirty trick in the book.
She began to twist her hands in different directions as she corkscrewed them up his
shaft. Jack gasped and froze. But she refused to stop. Twisting. Stroking.
“Damn it,” he muttered, and pulled her hands free from him.
He slid out of his jeans and underwear, scooped her into his arms, and carried her
to the bed.
My hero,
she thought, wanting him to ravish her completely, utterly, totally.
Give me everything you’ve got, Jack. Show me that you’re the man I know you are.
He tossed her onto her back on the bed with her head to the foot of it so that he
had a perfect view of them in the mirror.
“A man can only take so much.” His voice was ragged.
He stared down at her, smoothed her hair as it fanned out on the bed, stooped, and
gently kissed her mouth, her neck, trailing down to her breasts, kissing them in the
way Jack knew how to do.
She cupped his head and arched against him. “Now, take me now.” She was ready, so
ready.
He didn’t need any more encouragement. He lifted his head and watched them shadowed
in the mirror. Grinned. And plunged in.
It had been two years. She felt like the first time, only with none of the pain.
And then it was just the two of them lost in pleasure—her and Jack on top of her,
thrusting in the way he knew gave her the most pleasure. Quick. Hard and dirty. Fast.
Suddenly slowing, lingering, gentle. Thrusting and pausing. Cupping her bottom so
that he could slide in deeply to the spot that always made her gasp with ecstasy.
She didn’t have much experience with other lovers. But no one but Jack could move
like this, move her like this.
She clamped her legs around him, pressing him deeply into her. Her legs fit around
his long waist just as perfectly as they had around Jack’s.
She knew the feel of her husband. And this was him. Even though his body was scarred
and his chest hair was gone, he was unequivocally Jack.
She sighed and moaned.
Jack stiffened. She could feel him getting ready to crash over the edge of delight.
He completely covered her, thrusting fast, and hard.
She bit his shoulder and grabbed his butt, holding on hard as the pleasure built and
built. She gasped. “Jack, Jack, Jack!”
He grunted as he climaxed and collapsed on top of her. But he made absolutely no chuffing
sound.
None.
Willow’s heart sank. “Jack?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Willow felt as tight as a virgin, Jack realized with happy satisfaction. She probably
hadn’t had sex in two years.
The thought, and his name on her lips, made him unaccountably happy. And then he heard
the doubt, saw it written on her face, and realized …
He hadn’t chuffed. What the hell had happened? It surprised him as much as it did
her. The explosion in Ciudad, which had given him a foreign accent and a gravelly
voice, had stolen his chuff. He was no longer her tiger.
Willow had gotten what she wanted—her chance to prove that he was Jack—and fate had
ripped her off and tripped her up. No chuff, no Jack. He could keep his cover, refuse
to reveal himself. Just walk away as he’d planned. Let Willow think he was Con, a
man so similar to Jack it was eerie.
He wasn’t even tempted. He wanted her to know he was her husband. He reacted, gently
put his fingers on her mouth, and shook his head. “Shhhh, Wills. It’s me. I can’t
be Jack anymore. Jack’s dead; you know that. And apparently, so is my chuff.”
Her eyes went wide and welled with tears. Of joy, he hoped.
She smiled up at him with relief. “It’s really you?”
He nodded.
“I knew all along. You could never fool me, tiger. Never.”
“You doubted for a second there, when you didn’t hear the chuff. Admit it.”
“Never.” She brought his face to hers and kissed him. “I love you. Don’t leave me,
Jack. Take me with you wherever you’re going next. We’ll be whoever we have to be.”
He kissed her lightly. How could he leave her?
“I love you, too, Wills.” His voice broke as he ran his fingers through her hair.
“I always will.”
“Stay the night, at least,” she said as she caressed his cheek.
* * *
Willow wrapped herself around Jack. There was no chance of escaping, or refusing her
request. Not that he had any will to leave her.
Jack lay back on the bed, thinking hard. He’d carefully staged the explosion that
would take place in the morning to look like an accident. Willow had never known he
was an assassin, just that he was a spy. There was no reason for her to connect the
explosion and Kennett’s death with him. He stared at her, drinking in the sight of
her and her blissful expression. He had an audacious plan. But would she go for it?
“No recriminations?” he asked, marveling at her ability to forgive. If she’d left
him for two years, he’d damn well expect an explanation, at the very least. “You’re
not mad?”
“No. You’re back. That’s all that matters.” She ran her fingers along his chest. “I
may not like the business you’re in, but I understand the need for secrecy. I understand,
too, that sometimes you have to do things that hurt other people, for the good of
all. Sometimes you even have to hurt me.” She kissed his shoulder.
He cupped her face and looked deep into her eyes, wanting her to know he hadn’t planned
this. He would never have agreed to intentionally hurt her the way he’d ended up doing.
“It wasn’t like that, Wills. I wouldn’t have done this to you on purpose. After I
was blown up, things evolved. Some locals took me in. They knew enough to hide me
from the drug lords we’d been after. They smuggled me out to the country.
“No one thought I’d live. I was unconscious and delirious for weeks. I was in a coma
for several more. Even the Agency and Emmett didn’t know I was alive or where I was.”
“But they told me you were dead. Did they believe that?”
Jack sighed. “They did that to protect both of us. The operation had gone bad. They
had no idea how much the drug lords knew or who was feeding them intel.
“If I was still alive somewhere, the fewer people who suspected it the better. Emmett
told me later no one in NCS believed I could have survived that blast, especially
given Drew’s eyewitness account.
“Even my best friend thought I was gone.”
“Oh, baby. What you’ve been through.” She rested her head on his shoulder and stroked
his chest with soothing, featherlight stokes, massaging the scars the plastic surgeon
had been unable to fix.
Her sympathy almost broke him completely. “By the time I recovered enough to know
I was going to live, I was a wreck. And you’d already buried me and moved on—”
“I never moved on.” Her hand stilled on his chest.
He covered it with his and squeezed it. “I know. NCS and I couldn’t resist the cover
of death. I thought you’d have a better life without me in it. I know you never agreed
with all the things I did as a spy.”
“Jack, how could you think that?” She lightly kissed his shoulder. “My life is empty
without you.”
He smiled at her. If she knew the whole truth …
“The past really doesn’t matter to me. You’re back now with a new nose and a sexy
accent that you never break out of. But I do miss the chuff.” She gave him a playful
smile.
“Let’s hope the next time I’m blown up it comes back.” He stroked her cheek.
“Let’s hope there isn’t a next time. I can live without it as long as I have you.”
She studied him. “How do you keep your accent? You can talk to me in your regular
way now; no one will hear and I’m not going to tell.”
He shook his head. “I can’t. I have Foreign Accent Syndrome. It’s a side effect of
the injury.”
She frowned. “Drew was right, then,” she whispered, half to herself. “You’ll never
sound like my Jack again?”
“No. Think you can live with that?”
She grinned. “If I have to.” She paused. “Jack, why did you come back? What’s your
mission here?”
“To see you and make sure you’re safe,” he said without hesitating. Well, it was the
truth. The partial truth.
Her eyes misted. “But you can’t stay.”
“Not as myself.” He sighed. “And I can’t take you away from this life. I’ve seen how
happy you are here.” He stroked her hair. “I have a crazy idea, though. How would
you like to be part of Aldo’s extended family?”