With one hand, he unfastened the khakis, then raised his head and held her mesmerized by the blue-hot intensity of his eyes as he took her hand, placed it on himself, and moved it up and down. He lifted his hand away, but hers remained and stroked him. He hissed a curse of surprise and delight when her thumb rubbed the tip.
Leaning into her, with his mouth against her ear, he whispered, “I think I’m gonna like the way you fuck.”
They kissed recklessly and hungrily as he kicked out of his pants and whipped the T-shirt over his head. He removed her T-shirt and bra just as quickly, then dropped to his knees and undid her jeans and pulled them down her legs along with her panties. He pressed a kiss just below her navel as he drew her down onto the floor.
Moving between her thighs, he stretched out above her, then thrust into her. Once. Because, as he did everything, he acted without hesitation or apology to claim her entirely. Her eyes went wide and her breath caught. Holding her gaze, he pressed himself deeper, barely easing back before pressing deep again.
She loved his weight on her, loved the heat of his clean skin, the feel of the hair on his chest against her breasts, the pressure he applied from inside and out, the smell and rough texture of his body, his maleness. Boldly, he pushed her knee back toward her chest, changing the angle of his thrusts and heightening the friction, and the pleasure increased tenfold.
It was immense. Almost unbearable. She bit her lower lip. She covered her eyes with the back of one forearm, while with her other hand she tried to get a grip on her spinning universe by attempting to dig her fingers into the hardwood floor. But she continued slipping, slipping, slipping toward…
“Honor.”
Gasping, she lowered her arm from over her eyes and looked into his face.
“Put your hands on me. Pretend this means something.”
With a whimper, she wrapped her arms around him and clutched his back, then slid her hands down over his ass and drew him even deeper into her. He groaned, buried his face in the hollow of her neck, and rocked his body against hers. An orgasm burst through her at the same time he came.
She pretended nothing.
Chapter 38
For Clint Hamilton the wait was agonizing.
An hour ago, an agent in the Lafayette office had called to inform him that the scheduled meeting between Honor Gillette and Tom VanAllen had ended disastrously with a car bomb explosion.
Since receiving the staggering news, Hamilton had been alternately pacing his Washington office or sitting with his elbows propped on his desk supporting his head while he massaged his forehead. He considered taking a shot from the bottle of Jack that he kept in his bottom desk drawer. He resisted. Whatever the forthcoming update from Tambour was, he needed to receive it with a clear head.
He waited. He paced. He wasn’t a patient man.
The anticipated call came shortly after 01:00 EDT.
Unhappily the update confirmed that Tom VanAllen had died in the explosion.
“My condolences, sir,” the agent in Louisiana said. “I know you had a special regard for him.”
“Yes, thank you,” Hamilton replied absently. “And Mrs. Gillette?”
“VanAllen was the only casualty.”
Hamilton nearly dropped the phone. “What? Mrs. Gillette? Coburn? The child?”
“Whereabouts unknown,” the agent told him.
Mystified, Hamilton processed that, but couldn’t come up with an explanation. He asked, “What is the local fire department saying about the explosion?”
He was told that an arson inspector from New Orleans had been asked to assist in the investigation. ATF agents had also been summoned. There were many unanswered questions, but of one thing the authorities were certain: Only one body was discovered in the burned-out car.
Hamilton asked if VanAllen’s wife had been notified. “I want to call her myself, but not before she’s been officially informed.”
“Two agents have been dispatched to the VanAllen home.”
“Keep me posted on that. I also want to know anything else you hear, whether it’s official or scuttlebutt. Anything. Especially about Coburn and Mrs. Gillette.”
He ended the call and slammed his fist onto his desk. Why the hell hadn’t Coburn called to advise him of his present position and situation? Damn the man! Although, he grudgingly admitted to himself, a car bomb wouldn’t exactly inspire an agent’s confidence in his agency, would it?
Hamilton decided that the situation down there could no longer be handled by long distance. He needed to go himself. In hindsight, he wished he had jetted to Louisiana immediately after receiving that first SOS call from Coburn. Since then, the shit had only gotten thicker.
He placed a series of calls and secured clearance from his superiors. He asked for a squad of agents trained for special ops. “No less than four men, no more than eight. I want them at Langley, geared up and ready to board the jet at 02:30.”
Everyone with whom he spoke asked why he was flying men and equipment down there when he could use personnel from the district office in New Orleans.
His answer to all of them was the same. “Because I don’t want anyone to know I’m coming.”
When her doorbell rang, Janice VanAllen ran to answer it, mindful that she was wearing only her nightgown, but uncaring about her lack of modesty. She had her phone in her hand and a look of concern on her face when she pulled open the front door.
Two strangers looked back at her. One was male, the other female, but their dark suits and serious expressions were practically identical.
“Mrs. VanAllen?” The woman palmed a leather ID wallet and extended it toward Janice. Her partner did the same. “I’m Special Agent Beth Turner, this is Special Agent Ward Fitzgerald. We’re from Tom’s office.”
Janice’s chest rose and fell on several short breaths. “Where’s Tom?”
“May we come in?” the woman asked kindly.
Janice shook her head. “Where is Tom?”
They remained silent, but their stoicism spoke volumes.
Janice made a keening sound and gripped the edge of the door for support. “He’s dead?”
Special Agent Turner reached for her, but Janice jerked her arm back before the woman could touch her. “He’s dead?” she repeated, this time on a ragged cry. And then her knees gave way and she crumpled to the floor.
The two FBI agents lifted her and supported her between them, half carrying her into the living room where they deposited her on the sofa. All the while Janice was screaming Tom’s name.
Then Agents Turner and Fitzgerald began asking her questions.
Is there someone we can call to come be with you?
“No,” she sobbed into her hands.
Your minister? A friend?
“No, no.”
Is there a family member who should be notified?
“No! Just tell me what happened.”
Can we make you some tea?
“I don’t want anything! I only want Tom! I want my husband!”
Is your son…
Clearly they knew about Lanny, but didn’t know how to phrase a question regarding him. “Lanny, Lanny,” she chanted mournfully. “Oh, God.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Tom had loved their son. As hopeless as it was that his love would ever be returned, Tom’s love for Lanny had never wavered.
Special Agent Turner sat down beside her and placed a comforting arm across her shoulders. Fitzgerald had moved away and was now standing across the room with his back to them, speaking softly into a cell phone.