Beautiful Redemption by Jamie McGuire
He kissed me as he carried me to the couch, and then he gently laid me onto the cushions. "Comfortable?" he asked, nearly breathing the words.
When I nodded, he kissed me once and then left quickly to fish a square package from his wallet. When he returned, he ripped it open with his teeth. I was glad he'd brought his own. Even if I had thought to purchase condoms, I wouldn't have had the foresight or optimism to buy any in his size.
He quickly unrolled the thin latex over his length and then touched his tip to the delicate pink skin between my legs. He leaned down to whisper in my ear, but he only let out a faltering breath.
I reached around to his tight backside and pressed my fingers into his skin, guiding him, as he slid himself inside me. It was my turn to let out a sigh.
He groaned and then put his mouth on mine again.
After ten minutes of maneuvering on the couch, sweaty and red-faced, the stranger looked at me with a frustrated and apologetic smile. "Where's your bedroom?"
I pointed to the hallway. "Second door on the right."
He lifted me, holding my thighs, and I tightened them around his middle. He padded down the hall in his bare feet, passing boxes and plastic bags along with stacks of plates and linens. I wasn't sure how he kept from tripping in the dim light of an unfamiliar condo with his mouth on mine.
As he walked while still inside me, I couldn't help but cry out the only name I could, "Jesus Christ!"
He smiled against my mouth and pushed open the door before lowering me to my mattress.
He didn't take his eyes from mine as he positioned himself over me. His knees were a little wider apart than they had been while we were on the couch, allowing him to go deeper and to move his hips so that he touched me in a spot that made my knees quiver with each thrust. His mouth was on mine again as if the wait had been killing him. If I hadn't just met him half an hour before, I would have mistaken the way he touched me, kissed me, moved against me for love.
He touched his cheek to mine and held his breath as he concentrated, building up to an end. At the same time, he was trying to prolong the senseless, foolish, and irresponsible but amazing ride we were both on. He pushed against the mattress with one hand and held my knee against his shoulder with the other.
I white-knuckled the comforter as he thrust himself inside me, over and over. Jackson hadn't been unfortunate in size, but without a doubt, this stranger filled every inch of me. Every time he buried himself, it would send a rush of fantastic pain throughout my entire body, and every time he pulled back, I'd nearly panic, hoping it wasn't over.
With my arms and legs wrapped around him, I cried out again for the dozenth time since he had climbed the stairs. His tongue was so forceful and commanding in my mouth that I knew he'd done this many, many times before. That made it easier. He didn't care enough to pass judgment on me later, so I wouldn't have to either. Once I'd seen what kind of body was under that button-down oxford, I couldn't really blame myself, even if I were sober.
He rocked into me again, his sweat mixing with mine, making our skin feel like we were melting together. My eyes nearly rolled back into my head with the devastating mixture of ache and pleasure surging through my body with every movement.
His mouth returned to mine, and I was easily lost in thoughts of how eager yet smooth and amazing his lips were. Every flick of his tongue was calculated, practiced, and seemed like it was all in pursuit of my pleasure. Jackson hadn't been a particularly good kisser, and even though I'd only just met this man above me, I would miss those longing kisses once he ducked out of my condo in the early hours of the morning--if he even waited that long.
While he wonderfully and mercilessly fucked me, he gripped my thigh with one hand, spreading my legs further apart, and then he slid his other hand between my legs, tenderly rubbing his thumb in tiny circles over my swollen, sensitive pink skin.
A few seconds later, I was crying out, raising my hips to meet his and then squeezing his waist with my trembling knees. He leaned down and covered my mouth with his while I moaned. I could feel his lips turn up into a smile.
After a few slow movements and tender kisses, his restraint was gone. His muscles tensed as he thrust himself inside me, each time more powerful than the one before. With my climax impressively achieved, he concentrated only on himself as he thrust harder and ruthlessly against me.
His groan was muffled inside my mouth, and then he pressed his cheek against mine while he rode the wave of his orgasm. Gradually, he lay still above me. He took a moment to catch his breath, and then he turned to kiss my cheek, his lips lingering for a while.
Our encounter had gone from a spontaneous adventure to painfully awkward in less than a minute.
The silence and stillness in the room made the alcohol disappear, and the reality of what we'd done weighed down on me. I'd gone from feeling sexy and desired to an embarrassingly eager, cheap score.
The stranger leaned down to kiss my lips, but I lowered my chin, pulling back, which felt ridiculous since he was still engaged.
"I," I began, "have to be at work early."
He kissed me anyway, ignoring my shamed expression. His tongue danced with mine, caressing it, memorizing it. He deeply breathed in through his nose, not at all in a hurry, and then he pulled back, smiling.
Damn it, I would miss his mouth, and I suddenly felt really pathetic for that. I wasn't sure if I'd ever find someone who could kiss me that way.
"Me, too. I'm...Thomas, by the way," he said softly. He rolled over and relaxed beside me, his head propped by his hand. Instead of getting dressed, he looked as if he were ready for conversation.
My independence was slipping away from me every second the stranger became something more. Thoughts of reporting my every move to Jackson flipped like television channels in my mind. I hadn't transferred thousands of miles away to be chained to another relationship.
I pressed my lips together. "I'm"--Do it. Do it, or you'll just kick yourself later.--"emotionally unavailable."
Thomas nodded, stood up, and then walked into the living room to dress in silence. He stood in the doorway of my bedroom with his shoes in one hand, his keys in the other, his tie hanging askew from his neck. I tried not to stare, but I did, so I could study every inch of him to remember and fantasize over for the rest of my life.
He looked down and then chuckled, judgment still absent from his expression. "Thanks for a great and unexpected end to a shitty Monday." He began to turn around.
I pulled the blanket across me and sat up. "It's not you. You were great."
He turned back to face me, a smirk on his shadowed face. "Don't worry about me. I'm not walking out of here, doubting myself. You gave me fair warning. I wasn't expecting anything more."
"If you wait a second, I'll walk you out."
"I know the way. This is my building. I'm sure we'll run into each other again."
My cheeks paled. "You live in this building?"
He peered up at the ceiling. "Just above you."
I pointed up. "The next floor up, you mean?"
"Yes, but," he said with a sheepish grin, "my place is right above yours. But I'm rarely home."
I swallowed, horrified. So much for a strings-free one-night stand. I began nibbling at my thumbnail, trying to think of what to say next. "Okay...well, I guess good night then?"
Thomas flashed an arrogant, seductive smile. "Night."
DRINKING AWAY JACKSON'S GUILT TRIP the night before my first day in the San Diego field office proved not to be the most intelligent thing I'd done.
I arrived with only my vest, and I was given a sidearm, credentials, and a cell phone once I'd checked in. Assigned to Squad Five, I found the only empty desk, vacated by the last agent who hadn't meshed with the infamous Assistant Special Agent in Charge, who we referred to as the ASAC. I had heard about him all the way in Chicago, but it would take more than a bad temper to scare me away from a chance at a promotion.
Only a few sections of the desk's surface
"That's pathetic," a female voice said, making me wonder if I'd spoken my thoughts aloud.
A woman, young but slightly intimidating, stood with her arms crossed and resting on the ledge of the four-by-five fabric-covered wall that separated my cubicle from the main hallway that was used to get from one end of the squad room to the other. Her shiny but otherwise ordinary brown hair was pulled into a low bun at the nape of her neck.
"I can't disagree," I said, wiping the dust away with a paper towel.
I had already put my vest in my locker. It was the only thing I had brought from the Chicago office. I had moved to San Diego to start over, so it didn't make much sense to put my old life on display.
"I don't mean the dust," she said, watching me with her hooded green eyes. Her cheeks were a bit chubby, but that only gave away her youth. She was certainly fit everywhere else.
"I know."
"I'm Val Taber. Don't call me Agent Taber, or we can't be friends."
"Shall I call you Val then?"
She made a face. "What else would you call me?"
"Agent Taber," a tall, slender man said as he walked by. He smirked as if he knew what would follow.
"Fuck off," she said, pulling a file from his hands. She glanced at it and then looked back to me. "You're the intelligence analyst? Lisa Lindy?"
"Liis," I said, cringing. I had never gotten used to correcting people. "Like geese but with an L."
"Liis. Sorry. I hear you got fast-tracked." Her voice was laced with sarcasm. "I call bullshit, but it's not really any of my business."
She was right. Being a female federal agent who specialized in languages had all but rolled out the red carpet for my transfer, but I had been instructed not to mention my specialization to anyone unless I had approval from my supervisor.
I looked over at the office of the supervisor. It was even more barren than my desk. Getting any approval from an empty office would prove to be difficult.
"You're correct," I said, not wanting to get into specifics.
It was pure luck that Squad Five had needed a language expert the moment I'd decided to leave Chicago. The stressed discretion meant there was likely an issue within the Bureau, but assuming wouldn't have helped score a transfer, so I'd filled out my paperwork and packed my bags.
"Great." She handed me the file. "Title Three for you to transcribe here. Maddox also wants a FD-three-oh-two. The first email in your inbox should be from the welcome wagon, and the next should be an audio file from Maddox. I went ahead and brought you copies of the FD-three-oh-twos and a CD until you get used to our system. He wants you to get started right away."
"Thank you."
Title Threes, known to Hollywood and the general public as phone or wire taps, made up a large portion of my function at the Bureau. Recordings were created, and then I would listen, translate, and write a report--also known as the infamous FD-302. But the Title Threes typically given to me were in Italian, Spanish, or my mother's language, Japanese. If the recording were in English, the OST--the squad secretary--would transcribe it.
Something told me that Val thought something was off about an analyst interpreting a Title Three, because curiosity--or maybe suspicion--was flickering in her eyes. But she didn't ask, and I didn't tell. As far as I knew, Maddox was the only agent who knew about my true purpose in San Diego.
"On it," I said.
She winked at me and smiled. "Want me to show you around later? Anything you didn't get to during the orientation tour?"
I thought about that for half a second. "The fitness room?"
"I know that one. I frequent there after work--right before I frequent the bar," she said.
"Agent Taber," a woman with a tight bun said as she walked by.
"Fuck off," she said again.
I arched an eyebrow.
She shrugged. "They must love it, or they wouldn't talk to me."
My mouth pulled to the side while I tried to suppress a laugh. Val Taber was refreshing.
"We have a squad meeting first thing in the a.m." She pondered that for a moment. "I'll show you the fitness room after lunch. It's sort of off-limits between eleven and noon. The boss likes to focus," she said, whispering the last bit and making a show of putting her fingers to one side of her mouth.
"Twelve thirty," I said with a nod.
"My desk," Val said, pointing to the next cubicle over. "We're neighbors."
"What's with the stuffed bunny?" I asked, referring to the gangly white rabbit with Xs sewn on for eyes, sitting on the corner of her desk.
Her slight triangle of a nose wrinkled. "It was my birthday last week." When I didn't reply, her face screwed into disgust. "Fuck off." A grin slowly stretched across her face, and then she winked at me before rounding the corner to return to her desk. She sat in her chair and turned her back to me, opening her email on her laptop.
I shook my head and then unzipped my headphones case before placing them over my ears. After connecting them to my laptop, I opened the unlabeled white binder and pulled a CD from a plastic sheath before slipping it into the drive.
As the CD loaded, I clicked New Document. My pulse fluttered as my fingers curved over the keyboard, ready to type. There was something about a new project, a blank page, that gave me a particular enjoyment that nothing else could.
The file indicated the two voices speaking, their background, and why we'd sought a Title Three in the first place. San Diego's Squad Five was heavy in organized crime, and although it wasn't my preferred field of violent crime, it was close enough. When desperate to leave, any door would do.
Two distinct deep voices speaking Italian filled my ears cupped by the headphones. I kept the volume low. Ironically, inside the government agency that had been founded to unveil secrets, the four-by-four cubicles weren't conducive to keeping them.
I began to type. Translating and transcribing the conversation were only the first steps. Then, my favorite part came. It was what I had become well-known for and what would get me to Virginia--analysis. Violent crime was what I loved, and the National Center for Analysis of Violent Crime in Quantico, Virginia--also known as NCAVC--was where I wanted to be.
At first, the two men in the recording stroked each other's egos, talking about how much pussy they had each procured over the weekend, but the conversation quickly turned serious as they discussed a man who seemed to be their boss--Benny.
I glanced at the file Val had given me while I typed, getting only a quick glimpse into how many points Benny had made in the mafia game while being a decent player in Las Vegas. I wondered how San Diego had stumbled onto this case, and I wondered who was doing the groundwork in Nevada. Chicago wouldn't have much luck whenever we had to make a call to that office. Whether gamblers, criminals, or law enforcement, Vegas kept everyone very busy.
Seven pages later, my fingers were itching to start my report, but I went over the audio again to check for accuracy. This was my first assignment for San Diego, and I also had the added pressure of being known as an accomplished agent in this specific area. The report had to be impressive--at least in my own mind.
Time had gotten away from me. It seemed like just half an hour had passed before Val was eyeing me over the short partition between our cubicles, this time tapping her nails on the ledge.
She mouthed words I couldn't hear, so I pulled off my headphones.
"You're not turning out to be a very good friend. Late for our first lunch date," she said.
I couldn't tell if she was joking or not.
"I was just...I lost track of time. I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't put a greasy cheeseburger in my gut. Let's get moving."
I walked with her to the elevator, and Val pushed the button for the ground floor. Once
"Nice," I said. "You must get paid a lot more than I do."
"It's used. I bought it from my brother. He's a cardiologist. Asshole."
I chuckled as she navigated out of the property. After passing the building next to the entrance gate, she waved to the guard, and then drove to the closest burger joint.
"Don't they have burgers at the office?"
Her face twisted into disgust. "Yes, but Fuzzy's Burgers are the best."
"Fuzzy burgers? That doesn't sound appetizing at all."
"Not fuzzy burgers. Fuzzy's Burgers. Trust me," she said, turning right.
Then, she made a left before jerking her wheel into the parking lot of a quaint burger joint with a homemade sign.
"Val!" a man called from behind the counter as soon as we'd walked in. "Val's here!" he yelled.
"Val's here!" a woman echoed.
We barely made it to the counter when the man tossed a small round object wrapped in white paper to the woman in a pristine white apron standing at the register.
"BLT with cheese, mustard, and mayo," the woman said with a knowing smile.
Val turned to me. "Disgusting, right?"
"I'll have the same," I said.
We took our trays of food and found an empty table in the corner, near the window.
I closed my eyes and let the sunshine pour down on me. "It's weird that the weather is so beautiful, and it's barely March."
"It's not weird. It's glorious. The temp has been higher than average for this time of year, but even when it's not, it's perfect. Everyone would be happier if the world had San Diego's weather." Val dipped her golden curly fry into a small cup of ketchup. "Try the fries. Dear God, try the fries. They are so good. I crave them at night sometimes when I'm alone, which is more often than you'd think."
"I don't think anything," I said, dipping a fry into my own small cup. I popped it into my mouth.
She was right. I quickly grabbed another.
"Speaking of, do you have a guy? Or girl? I'm just asking."
I shook my head.
"Did you? Have you ever?"