Efforts to Outsmart.
I’m not really sure how it happened.
I mean, I know how it happened. It’s hard not to since I was there, and it was pretty easy for me to put two and two together when I saw three burly guys wearing black and carrying big guns rushing toward me. It wasn’t all that hard to figure out from there, of course, that I was in trouble - and not the good kind of trouble where I could cause a scene or start a fight and somehow save my ass. No, this was the “If you make the wrong move, you’re going to have several bullets inside of you immediately” kind of trouble, and I’m pretty sure organs don’t like to have bullets in them, just in case you didn’t know that.
But I’m not really sure how they found me or anything. I mean, I was crawling through a freaking air duct, so unless they have cameras inside of them… They had cameras in the air ducts. Well, that makes complete sense and totally explains how they knew what room I would be ninja-ing my way into. I really should have thought about that more clearly. But who puts security cameras in air ducts? I mean, really. Disregard the fact that I used an air duct to infiltrate their base; it’s a classic bad guy mistake to forget about that particular entrance into their buildings, so clearly my bad guy is smarter than most, and that is always a very annoying situation to be in.
Anyway, right now, these handcuffs are cutting into my wrists because the one idiot with the stereotypical scar over his eye put them on too tight. Idiot. I scoff, and he glares at me. I feel like we’ve honestly been in this tiny elevator for hours. In reality, it’s just a really tall building, and I was in the process of infiltrating on the first floor, and one of them said earlier, in that stereotypically gruff voice, that we were going to see the boss or something. And like every spy movie you kids have ever seen, he’ll wear a beautiful three-piece suit, complete with pinstripes, his hair will be slicked back and he’ll maybe even have sunglasses he can dramatically take off while giving his monologue about how he’s going to take over the world, plans he can tell me of course since he’s going to kill me, although somehow, he never will seem to manage it.
I’m thinking about this when the elevator jerks to a stop. By the puzzled looks on the goons’ faces (faces which are normally pretty vacant), I’m thinking this isn’t really a part of the plan to deliver the prisoner to the boss man. I click my tongue, and Scar glares at me. I just shrug. I don’t know what’s going on any more than they do. I suppose it’s to my benefit, whatever it is; anything my enemies are unsure of is often something that is in my favor.
We start moving again with a rock and a groan, and they murmur grumpily when they realize we’re descending. One of them futilely presses the button for the top floor, but the elevator studiously ignores it, continuing its slow move downward. It stops with a ding a few floors down, and when the doors open, there’s nothing to see except a very lovely bad guy-esque hallway; we’re talking marble floors and gorgeous paintings and very lovely overall décor. Honestly, why don’t good guys ever have taste like this?
Something flies through the air then, from some hidden location, and lands at our feet, and in another moment, all four of us are coughing, and my eyes are tearing up, and I can’t see anything at all. I can barely breathe; it burns to try. Honestly, if this is some kind of rescue attempt, why the hell would he throw a smoke bomb in my direction? A hand grabs my wrist, and I’m tugged from the elevator, and it takes the guards a few stupid minutes to start firing their guns and by that time, we’re off down the hallway at a run, and I still can barely see, except to make out that my savior is wearing a gas mask, and all I’m thinking is, bring a spare, you tool!
My vision is mostly clear by the time he kicks open the window to the fire escape, and I follow him down toward the street, and the guards are either really stupid or really smart because they don’t seem to be trying to follow us. Gas Mask Man pulls me off into the building adjacent to Bad Guy’s, hiding us in a dank little room. He pulls off his mask so he can watch out the window, and I know, after almost ten minutes, when he breathes out a little noise of relief, that our enemies have retreated.
I relax, sighing softly. “Thanks.” My voice is quiet, embarrassed. “You really saved my ass. I never know if I’m going to make it out once they’ve spotted me.”
He grins, shakes his head, and curls that were matted down by the mask are starting to fluff up again now that they have their freedom. “Don’t mention it. Come on; I live a few blocks over. We can recuperate a bit.”
We cut in and out of buildings as we walk, not wanting to be on the sidewalk for too long, even among the heaviest of crowds, especially since they know my face, and it wouldn’t take more than a drive down the street to spot me. Seeing me would be as good as killing me. I’m still coughing slightly, and I keep my sleeve over my mouth for the most part.
He gives me this guilty little smile as he ushers me past the doorman into his building. “Sorry about that. I couldn’t think of any other way to successfully get you out of the elevator. I didn’t want to resort to guns since you were right there in the middle of them…”
“It’s fine.” Tool. “I can suffer some coughing; it’s better than being dead.”
His building is also nice, in the same bad guy kind of way. But bad guys share a high-style taste with another group of people: elite spies. They’re paid well, they get laid well, and I would be seething with jealousy right now if it wasn’t because they were just damned good at their jobs. I don’t make chump change, in any way, for the work I do; they make six figures doing work that will probably get them killed before they’re thirty-five. I kind of like being alive, thank you very much.
Naturally, he lives in the penthouse. He tells me his name is Kevin. I tell him mine is Joe. We’re both lying. We both know it, so we don’t try to pretend that we’re not. He unlocks the door, and I’m immediately impressed by his mod-style living space, which is decorated completely in black, white and red.
“We should get cleaned up. That smoke’ll stick on your clothes and make your eyes burn for a while if you don’t get showered.” I know that. Tool. “There’s a bathroom right through this way. I’ll lay out some clothes for you to wear on the bed in the guest bedroom and order some food so we can eat while we talk. Would that be okay?”
“Yeah, that sounds great. Thanks.” I always take hospitality from spies with a grain of salt. I have no doubt that once I take my clothes off, he’s going to paw through them looking for god knows what. I’m not even really sure who he’s working for. He doesn’t give off the vibe that he’s working on government orders like I am. The US doesn’t pay well enough to give him a place like this anyway. I move off to shower, not bothering to try to find anything on him. If this guy is truly an elite, I won’t find anything anyway.
His shower is marble too, with a frosted glass door, and I take my time scrubbing the smell of smoke and dust and sweat off my skin and out of my hair. When I finish, I move out into the bedroom, decorated beautifully in soft blues, and find a pair of pajama pants and a soft cotton black t-shirt, and I figure these are actually his clothes; he no doubt doesn’t entertain guests often. I’m only hoping the boxers are brand-new, because I have no interest in wearing another man’s underwear, no matter how attractive he is or in what small amount of time he could kill me.
He’s arranging cartons of Chinese food on his coffee table when I emerge from the bedroom. He looks different now, almost serene, comfortable in his skin and with the conversation. He’s wearing one of those luxurious dinner robes - the kind that you see rich old men wear while they’re smoking pipes and drinking brandy. It suits him, especially with the black dress pants and shiny leather shoes. He’s trying to impress me; that’s for sure. I kind of like it, especially because it’s working. He smiles when he sees me, ushers me over. “Sit, sit.” When I do, on a couch that seems to swallow me, he, like a good host, offers me a glass of what I assume is red wine. I sniff at it, and he laughs, falling down beside me with an ease that intrigues me. “Don’t worry. It’s not drugged. I’ll taste it myself if you want to.” He holds his hand out to me. “I’m Kevin, by the way.”
I’m practically scoffing as I shake his hand. “Joe.” There’s no way his name is actually Kevin. I mean, my name isn’t Joe. No spy is stupid enough to ever use their real name. I mean, I’m sure Kevin is the name he goes by for the most part, but his real name is no doubt tucked away somewhere that he would be able to access it, an identity he could assume in case he ever needed to disappear. I have those documents too: my real social security number, birth certificate, everything. But they are strictly for an absolute emergency. “So what’s in it for you - taking down Smith?” That’s Bad Guy’s name. Really original, right? No bad guys are ever original, you know.
He shrugs nonchalantly, reaching for a carton of fried rice. This is all so casual and comfortable; it almost makes me nervous. Other spies usually do. “I’m in it for the money.” He hands me a set of chopsticks, which I accept gleefully; I learned to use them for a mission to China last year. “I’m being paid by a rival company. It’s pretty simple, really.”
“What do they want you to do?” I shift to sit with my legs folded, picking out a carton with chicken in it. I’m starving, and I don’t really care what this guy thinks of me, so I intend to eat my little heart out. “I mean, the government’s got me on him because they think he’s manufacturing biological weapons.”
“That’s why I’m there too. I’m looking for evidence of that. There are economic benefits to my employer if I expose them.”
I nod. “Basically, they won’t have the competition anymore. I get it. So we’re on the same side, essentially. Thanks for having my back out there. I’m an idiot so I didn’t even think they might figure out how I was coming in.”
Kevin shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. I was happy to help. And anyway, I was going to go the same way, but I stopped by the security room to disconnect the cameras and saw that they’d already found you. Too bad the idiots weren’t smart enough to put someone else in the room to watch for intruders. Or… well, I guess it’s good for us.” He grins. I find I like his smile. That’s never a good thing. “So I was thinking you could stay here with me, check in with whoever you’re working with. I won’t ask for any specifics on your intentions, but it might be good for us to have each other’s backs when we head back in, you know?”
“That’s not a bad thought.” It’s an ambiguous answer, and I know he’s worked with enough spies to know I’m not agreeing just yet. “Pooling resources and information could be a good thing. And having you there to save my ass again wouldn’t be awful.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Anyway,” he leans forward to set his carton on the table again, “we don’t have to decide any of that now. You’re more than welcome to stay here for the night. I can give you the address of my apartment and the name of the agency that trained me, for you to give your employers, who I assume are the CIA.” This is a security measure for me; if I end up missing, my employers will know who’s responsible.
I agree, and conversation turns to lighter things. It’s unfortunate, really, that I find him so charming because he could betray me in the matter of seconds. Still, I like it when his hand slides against my thigh, and I lean toward him a bit, and maybe it’s stupid, but I’ve always had this fantasy of a James Bond kind of guy sweeping me off my feet, and really, he looks nothing like James Bond, with the curly hair and the hazel eyes and the crooked smile that makes him seem more like a teenager than a spy, but his is really a lovely face anyway, so when he tells me I’m beautiful and presses his mouth to my neck, I let myself melt against him.
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The bed in his room is soft and big, and I sink into the mattress when he lays me back. It really didn’t take him long at all to get me naked, which is completely okay, because you don’t come across gay spies too often, and honestly, this is just completely welcome. He’s handsome. His curls spiral a little out of control, but it’s charming, and his eyes are this mischievous hazel that makes me nervous and leaves me feeling intrigued at the same time. Spies are like that; they’re always charming and utterly annoying that way.
My hips cant against his fingers as he stretches me. I moan softly as he presses wet kisses to my neck. When he settles against me, I hold him close as our mouths push together harshly, and he presses inside of me. I pant softly, my nails scratching down his back; he groans. We rock together at a fast pace. I bite his shoulder, hook my legs around his waist and roll us over, resting my hands on his chest as I ride him.
He looks startled, and I like it. I like this elite spy on his back, subdued by me, with his hands gripping onto my waist as I roll my hips. I like his moans and growls as he watches me. His hand curls around the back of my neck, jerks me down to crush our mouths together, and I hold onto his shoulders, letting my hands slide up to fist in his hair. I pull him up into a sitting position, wrap my legs around his waist again, suck on his tongue as he pushes up into me.
He’s every bit as good in bed as I figured he would be. It’s another natural James Bond trait that all spies seem to have. They’re suave in person, well-coordinated and for the most part, trained in martial arts. His muscles are defined, and he’s comfortable in his skin and so smooth in his movements. I’m sure I’m a notch in a very tall bedpost, but that is completely okay because it’s not like I’ve never fucked one of my partners or informants. We use whatever means we can get for information.
His fingers close around my cock, and I gasp and thrust my hips up with each firm stroke of his hand until I come with a gasp, my back arching, fingers curling against his shoulders. He pushes me onto my back again, gripping my thigh, and I touch myself lazily as he rocks into me one, two, three times and stills, groaning low in his throat in a way I like. He pulls out and falls next to me, taking off the condom and tying it closed before throwing it in the wastebasket, and then rolls over toward me, smoothing my hand across my stomach and pressing our mouths together, curling his hand over mine to help me jerk off until I mewl and seize up again, my orgasm rolling through me.
We’re quiet for a long time, mostly because his tongue is in my mouth, and that really makes it hard for either of us to speak. He ends up carrying me into the bathroom so we can shower again, and I assume he likes it when I fall to my knees under the fall of water and suck him off, if his moans are anything to go by.
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We spend the next couple hours talking about our own personal vendettas with Bad Guy, which is fun in that it turns out we’re technically on the same side, but talking to someone who doesn’t really work with you is always aggravating. He wants information from me that I can’t offer, and just the same, I need him to tell me something that I can use. Naturally, we’re both left empty-handed in the conversation, since the basics about Bad Guy, we both know. We can’t help each other.
Still, I manage to find his files on him once he’s sufficiently knocked out by the drug I slipped into his wine. I’m sure he’ll be really surprised to wake up handcuffed to his bed. And the fact that I left him naked is even more fun for me. I’m sure we’ll meet again at some point, especially since we’re after the same target, and I’m sure I’ll pay dearly for the betrayal, but for the time being, I’m going to revel in outsmarting an elite spy and enjoy the pleasant feeling of knowing he’s never going to forget about me.
I mean, I know how it happened. It’s hard not to since I was there, and it was pretty easy for me to put two and two together when I saw three burly guys wearing black and carrying big guns rushing toward me. It wasn’t all that hard to figure out from there, of course, that I was in trouble - and not the good kind of trouble where I could cause a scene or start a fight and somehow save my ass. No, this was the “If you make the wrong move, you’re going to have several bullets inside of you immediately” kind of trouble, and I’m pretty sure organs don’t like to have bullets in them, just in case you didn’t know that.
But I’m not really sure how they found me or anything. I mean, I was crawling through a freaking air duct, so unless they have cameras inside of them… They had cameras in the air ducts. Well, that makes complete sense and totally explains how they knew what room I would be ninja-ing my way into. I really should have thought about that more clearly. But who puts security cameras in air ducts? I mean, really. Disregard the fact that I used an air duct to infiltrate their base; it’s a classic bad guy mistake to forget about that particular entrance into their buildings, so clearly my bad guy is smarter than most, and that is always a very annoying situation to be in.
Anyway, right now, these handcuffs are cutting into my wrists because the one idiot with the stereotypical scar over his eye put them on too tight. Idiot. I scoff, and he glares at me. I feel like we’ve honestly been in this tiny elevator for hours. In reality, it’s just a really tall building, and I was in the process of infiltrating on the first floor, and one of them said earlier, in that stereotypically gruff voice, that we were going to see the boss or something. And like every spy movie you kids have ever seen, he’ll wear a beautiful three-piece suit, complete with pinstripes, his hair will be slicked back and he’ll maybe even have sunglasses he can dramatically take off while giving his monologue about how he’s going to take over the world, plans he can tell me of course since he’s going to kill me, although somehow, he never will seem to manage it.
I’m thinking about this when the elevator jerks to a stop. By the puzzled looks on the goons’ faces (faces which are normally pretty vacant), I’m thinking this isn’t really a part of the plan to deliver the prisoner to the boss man. I click my tongue, and Scar glares at me. I just shrug. I don’t know what’s going on any more than they do. I suppose it’s to my benefit, whatever it is; anything my enemies are unsure of is often something that is in my favor.
We start moving again with a rock and a groan, and they murmur grumpily when they realize we’re descending. One of them futilely presses the button for the top floor, but the elevator studiously ignores it, continuing its slow move downward. It stops with a ding a few floors down, and when the doors open, there’s nothing to see except a very lovely bad guy-esque hallway; we’re talking marble floors and gorgeous paintings and very lovely overall décor. Honestly, why don’t good guys ever have taste like this?
Something flies through the air then, from some hidden location, and lands at our feet, and in another moment, all four of us are coughing, and my eyes are tearing up, and I can’t see anything at all. I can barely breathe; it burns to try. Honestly, if this is some kind of rescue attempt, why the hell would he throw a smoke bomb in my direction? A hand grabs my wrist, and I’m tugged from the elevator, and it takes the guards a few stupid minutes to start firing their guns and by that time, we’re off down the hallway at a run, and I still can barely see, except to make out that my savior is wearing a gas mask, and all I’m thinking is, bring a spare, you tool!
My vision is mostly clear by the time he kicks open the window to the fire escape, and I follow him down toward the street, and the guards are either really stupid or really smart because they don’t seem to be trying to follow us. Gas Mask Man pulls me off into the building adjacent to Bad Guy’s, hiding us in a dank little room. He pulls off his mask so he can watch out the window, and I know, after almost ten minutes, when he breathes out a little noise of relief, that our enemies have retreated.
I relax, sighing softly. “Thanks.” My voice is quiet, embarrassed. “You really saved my ass. I never know if I’m going to make it out once they’ve spotted me.”
He grins, shakes his head, and curls that were matted down by the mask are starting to fluff up again now that they have their freedom. “Don’t mention it. Come on; I live a few blocks over. We can recuperate a bit.”
We cut in and out of buildings as we walk, not wanting to be on the sidewalk for too long, even among the heaviest of crowds, especially since they know my face, and it wouldn’t take more than a drive down the street to spot me. Seeing me would be as good as killing me. I’m still coughing slightly, and I keep my sleeve over my mouth for the most part.
He gives me this guilty little smile as he ushers me past the doorman into his building. “Sorry about that. I couldn’t think of any other way to successfully get you out of the elevator. I didn’t want to resort to guns since you were right there in the middle of them…”
“It’s fine.” Tool. “I can suffer some coughing; it’s better than being dead.”
His building is also nice, in the same bad guy kind of way. But bad guys share a high-style taste with another group of people: elite spies. They’re paid well, they get laid well, and I would be seething with jealousy right now if it wasn’t because they were just damned good at their jobs. I don’t make chump change, in any way, for the work I do; they make six figures doing work that will probably get them killed before they’re thirty-five. I kind of like being alive, thank you very much.
Naturally, he lives in the penthouse. He tells me his name is Kevin. I tell him mine is Joe. We’re both lying. We both know it, so we don’t try to pretend that we’re not. He unlocks the door, and I’m immediately impressed by his mod-style living space, which is decorated completely in black, white and red.
“We should get cleaned up. That smoke’ll stick on your clothes and make your eyes burn for a while if you don’t get showered.” I know that. Tool. “There’s a bathroom right through this way. I’ll lay out some clothes for you to wear on the bed in the guest bedroom and order some food so we can eat while we talk. Would that be okay?”
“Yeah, that sounds great. Thanks.” I always take hospitality from spies with a grain of salt. I have no doubt that once I take my clothes off, he’s going to paw through them looking for god knows what. I’m not even really sure who he’s working for. He doesn’t give off the vibe that he’s working on government orders like I am. The US doesn’t pay well enough to give him a place like this anyway. I move off to shower, not bothering to try to find anything on him. If this guy is truly an elite, I won’t find anything anyway.
His shower is marble too, with a frosted glass door, and I take my time scrubbing the smell of smoke and dust and sweat off my skin and out of my hair. When I finish, I move out into the bedroom, decorated beautifully in soft blues, and find a pair of pajama pants and a soft cotton black t-shirt, and I figure these are actually his clothes; he no doubt doesn’t entertain guests often. I’m only hoping the boxers are brand-new, because I have no interest in wearing another man’s underwear, no matter how attractive he is or in what small amount of time he could kill me.
He’s arranging cartons of Chinese food on his coffee table when I emerge from the bedroom. He looks different now, almost serene, comfortable in his skin and with the conversation. He’s wearing one of those luxurious dinner robes - the kind that you see rich old men wear while they’re smoking pipes and drinking brandy. It suits him, especially with the black dress pants and shiny leather shoes. He’s trying to impress me; that’s for sure. I kind of like it, especially because it’s working. He smiles when he sees me, ushers me over. “Sit, sit.” When I do, on a couch that seems to swallow me, he, like a good host, offers me a glass of what I assume is red wine. I sniff at it, and he laughs, falling down beside me with an ease that intrigues me. “Don’t worry. It’s not drugged. I’ll taste it myself if you want to.” He holds his hand out to me. “I’m Kevin, by the way.”
I’m practically scoffing as I shake his hand. “Joe.” There’s no way his name is actually Kevin. I mean, my name isn’t Joe. No spy is stupid enough to ever use their real name. I mean, I’m sure Kevin is the name he goes by for the most part, but his real name is no doubt tucked away somewhere that he would be able to access it, an identity he could assume in case he ever needed to disappear. I have those documents too: my real social security number, birth certificate, everything. But they are strictly for an absolute emergency. “So what’s in it for you - taking down Smith?” That’s Bad Guy’s name. Really original, right? No bad guys are ever original, you know.
He shrugs nonchalantly, reaching for a carton of fried rice. This is all so casual and comfortable; it almost makes me nervous. Other spies usually do. “I’m in it for the money.” He hands me a set of chopsticks, which I accept gleefully; I learned to use them for a mission to China last year. “I’m being paid by a rival company. It’s pretty simple, really.”
“What do they want you to do?” I shift to sit with my legs folded, picking out a carton with chicken in it. I’m starving, and I don’t really care what this guy thinks of me, so I intend to eat my little heart out. “I mean, the government’s got me on him because they think he’s manufacturing biological weapons.”
“That’s why I’m there too. I’m looking for evidence of that. There are economic benefits to my employer if I expose them.”
I nod. “Basically, they won’t have the competition anymore. I get it. So we’re on the same side, essentially. Thanks for having my back out there. I’m an idiot so I didn’t even think they might figure out how I was coming in.”
Kevin shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. I was happy to help. And anyway, I was going to go the same way, but I stopped by the security room to disconnect the cameras and saw that they’d already found you. Too bad the idiots weren’t smart enough to put someone else in the room to watch for intruders. Or… well, I guess it’s good for us.” He grins. I find I like his smile. That’s never a good thing. “So I was thinking you could stay here with me, check in with whoever you’re working with. I won’t ask for any specifics on your intentions, but it might be good for us to have each other’s backs when we head back in, you know?”
“That’s not a bad thought.” It’s an ambiguous answer, and I know he’s worked with enough spies to know I’m not agreeing just yet. “Pooling resources and information could be a good thing. And having you there to save my ass again wouldn’t be awful.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Anyway,” he leans forward to set his carton on the table again, “we don’t have to decide any of that now. You’re more than welcome to stay here for the night. I can give you the address of my apartment and the name of the agency that trained me, for you to give your employers, who I assume are the CIA.” This is a security measure for me; if I end up missing, my employers will know who’s responsible.
I agree, and conversation turns to lighter things. It’s unfortunate, really, that I find him so charming because he could betray me in the matter of seconds. Still, I like it when his hand slides against my thigh, and I lean toward him a bit, and maybe it’s stupid, but I’ve always had this fantasy of a James Bond kind of guy sweeping me off my feet, and really, he looks nothing like James Bond, with the curly hair and the hazel eyes and the crooked smile that makes him seem more like a teenager than a spy, but his is really a lovely face anyway, so when he tells me I’m beautiful and presses his mouth to my neck, I let myself melt against him.
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The bed in his room is soft and big, and I sink into the mattress when he lays me back. It really didn’t take him long at all to get me naked, which is completely okay, because you don’t come across gay spies too often, and honestly, this is just completely welcome. He’s handsome. His curls spiral a little out of control, but it’s charming, and his eyes are this mischievous hazel that makes me nervous and leaves me feeling intrigued at the same time. Spies are like that; they’re always charming and utterly annoying that way.
My hips cant against his fingers as he stretches me. I moan softly as he presses wet kisses to my neck. When he settles against me, I hold him close as our mouths push together harshly, and he presses inside of me. I pant softly, my nails scratching down his back; he groans. We rock together at a fast pace. I bite his shoulder, hook my legs around his waist and roll us over, resting my hands on his chest as I ride him.
He looks startled, and I like it. I like this elite spy on his back, subdued by me, with his hands gripping onto my waist as I roll my hips. I like his moans and growls as he watches me. His hand curls around the back of my neck, jerks me down to crush our mouths together, and I hold onto his shoulders, letting my hands slide up to fist in his hair. I pull him up into a sitting position, wrap my legs around his waist again, suck on his tongue as he pushes up into me.
He’s every bit as good in bed as I figured he would be. It’s another natural James Bond trait that all spies seem to have. They’re suave in person, well-coordinated and for the most part, trained in martial arts. His muscles are defined, and he’s comfortable in his skin and so smooth in his movements. I’m sure I’m a notch in a very tall bedpost, but that is completely okay because it’s not like I’ve never fucked one of my partners or informants. We use whatever means we can get for information.
His fingers close around my cock, and I gasp and thrust my hips up with each firm stroke of his hand until I come with a gasp, my back arching, fingers curling against his shoulders. He pushes me onto my back again, gripping my thigh, and I touch myself lazily as he rocks into me one, two, three times and stills, groaning low in his throat in a way I like. He pulls out and falls next to me, taking off the condom and tying it closed before throwing it in the wastebasket, and then rolls over toward me, smoothing my hand across my stomach and pressing our mouths together, curling his hand over mine to help me jerk off until I mewl and seize up again, my orgasm rolling through me.
We’re quiet for a long time, mostly because his tongue is in my mouth, and that really makes it hard for either of us to speak. He ends up carrying me into the bathroom so we can shower again, and I assume he likes it when I fall to my knees under the fall of water and suck him off, if his moans are anything to go by.
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We spend the next couple hours talking about our own personal vendettas with Bad Guy, which is fun in that it turns out we’re technically on the same side, but talking to someone who doesn’t really work with you is always aggravating. He wants information from me that I can’t offer, and just the same, I need him to tell me something that I can use. Naturally, we’re both left empty-handed in the conversation, since the basics about Bad Guy, we both know. We can’t help each other.
Still, I manage to find his files on him once he’s sufficiently knocked out by the drug I slipped into his wine. I’m sure he’ll be really surprised to wake up handcuffed to his bed. And the fact that I left him naked is even more fun for me. I’m sure we’ll meet again at some point, especially since we’re after the same target, and I’m sure I’ll pay dearly for the betrayal, but for the time being, I’m going to revel in outsmarting an elite spy and enjoy the pleasant feeling of knowing he’s never going to forget about me.