A muscle ticked in his jaw. His eyes had gone intense and needful and practically fucking me with a glance. “You’re playing with fire, love.”
Love. The endearment did strange things to my insides. I didn’t stop though, didn’t let up. I trailed my foot along the inside of his thigh, reveling in the way his muscles tensed and pulsed beneath my toes.
His lids lowered. He muttered a curse under his breath.
I smiled, feeling worldly and entirely sexual. I’d never found feet particularly sexy before, but this was something else. He found it sexy, and so I did too. The way he responded, as if I’d done the hottest thing possible, as if I’d blown his mind, made it so worth it.
Men had responded to blowjobs with less obvious enjoyment, closing their eyes and remaining stoic. Not Ian. I didn’t have my mouth on his cock. We were both wearing all our clothes. But his cheeks were flushed, his eyes shadowed with arousal. He stared at me, begging, demanding. He muttered curse words in English and Spanish, like music to my ears.
I felt the ridge of his erection and wriggled my toes. His breath stuttered audibly, and his body jerked in the chair. God, he was beautiful. Held by the string of his arousal, helpless at my feet.
A knock came from the front door.
I jolted up, immediately nervous. My foot fell to the ground. What if Brody had decided to follow me home and convince me to come back? What if someone at the Bureau had decided to look into Ian after all?
Ian looked pissed at the interruption, but I felt his alertness as well, a subtle flexing in his body. He looked like a man frustrated he wasn’t getting sex, simple as that, but his concern bled through. This was how he managed to fool everyone. But I had gained intimate knowledge of his body, like truth-colored glasses that allowed me to see the real him.
Straightening, I brushed off my hands. I schooled my expression to calm.
At the door, Lance stood on the porch. The screen and its curlicue metal design obscured him, but I could see his fierce expression. He looked older somehow. And taller.
“Lance,” I murmured, opening the screen door. “How are you?”
He nodded in greeting. His gaze inspected me, searching for something. Signs of abuse, maybe. Old bruises.
I drew his attention up, speaking gently. “Hey. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the office?”
“I had to see you. Brody told us you weren’t coming back.”
Damn, that was fast. Not that I minded, exactly. It was a bit like ripping off a Band-Aid. Better to do it fast, even if it hurt. Like taking off a mask. Better to do it off-stage, so the audience never saw the real me.
“I’m sorry,” I said. And I was. I’d liked working with Lance. But I loved Ian.
I felt his presence behind me. He rested his hand on the doorframe, sort of leaning over me, protective. Possessive. Men—in every culture, they were the same. Whether law-abiding or criminal, the same. Like Martinez had done for Mia. I had to admit, I kind of loved it.
Lance didn’t, though. His eyes darkened at the sight of Hennessey in my house. Hair rumpled. Wearing a white undershirt. Clearly he had stayed the night.
“Can I speak to you privately?” Lance asked me in a low voice.
“Sure.”
With a warning look at Hennessey I stepped onto the porch. I may have found Hennessey’s possessiveness endearing, but the last thing I wanted was a pissing contest. For one thing, there was always a chance it could lead to more questions about Ian. The farther we got away from the FBI, the better.
But I also felt guilty. I hadn’t wronged Lance. If anything, he was the one who ratted me out to Brody. Still, I felt responsible for what had happened. For involving him. For existing.
Transitive guilt.
I sighed, accepting. “I’m sorry.”
His gaze sharpened. “For what?”
“For not telling you first. You’re my friend. You shouldn’t have had to hear it from Brody.”
“I don’t give a shit about who I heard it from. I care that you’re not coming back. Why? Are the…are your injuries not getting better?”
“That’s not it. I’m healed.” What a strange concept, healed. If I’d ever been broken, it had been years ago. Ancient history, like some sort of Egyptian myth. Bad spirits trapped in the tomb of my body, and Carlos, the grave robber, had set me free.
Lance ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sure it’s tough…dealing with it. I can’t even imagine. We can get you help, though. I want to help—”
“Lance,” I cut in gently. “It’s not that either. I don’t want to go back. I realized I’d become an agent for the wrong reasons.”
His expression fell. “God, Samantha. Him? I didn’t like him even before…well. Before. And I know you said you had the phone, but I still think he’s dirty. I tried opening up an investigation with internal, but they were—”