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The helicopter ride away from the docks feels utterly surreal. For a start, Eliot can’t erase the vision of Nate collapsing to the ground in pain, his wrist still manacled to the rail. It plays in slow motion in his brain, again and again. He was supposed to protect Nate, and Nate got hurt. Doesn’t matter if Nate cheated on his end. Getting him home safe? That was Eliot’s responsibility.
The steady noise of the blades is bringing back all manner of memories from his time in the military: dawn raids over villages in the Hindu Kush; last-minute evacs under a hail of bullets; dodging Taliban RPGs in Helmand; more than anything it underscores his failure.
He left a man behind.
Next to him, Parker and Hardison are huddled together, still shell-shocked at how this whole thing turned out; but the one who’s really worrying him is Sophie. The expression on her face is like nothing he’s ever seen before, absolute devastation; and that registers even though the haze of guilt and self-recrimination. She’s seriously fucked up, and Eliot’s ready to bet that anything she gained in her months of soul-searching has just gone up in smoke. He can’t imagine how it must have felt for her – turning up like the cavalry only to see Nate piss it all away.
“Soph, are you okay?” he shouts across to her over the din, but she doesn’t respond.
Jesus, he could punch Nate in the face right fucking now. He had no right to ditch on them. And doing a deal with Sterling, of all people, is way beyond unacceptable. Son of a bitch.
***
Hardison votes to lie low for a while, go to ground locally, keep an ear to the wires, and Parker agrees – well, she doesn’t say anything, but Eliot can see she’s ready to hang with Hardison. Besides, if anyone knows how to lie low and has a few boltholes, it’s her. Eliot, though, cannot face staying in Boston without Nate. Scratch that, he’s not even sure he wants to stay in the country with Nate in the slammer.
So he turns to Sophie, who’s bound to be heading out somewhere. She’s recovered her game face, but it’s not up to her usual standards. Her skin is sallow, her eyes look haunted, and she keeps fiddling with her rings, especially the antique garnet that Nate gave her for her last birthday. On impulse, Eliot marches to the kitchen, pulls four beers out of the fridge and pops their caps before bringing them back and placing one in front of each teammate.
“Well I’m getting out of Dodge,” he says. “How about you, Sophie?”
She takes a long pull on the beer, straight from the bottle – not often he’s seen her do that – and cups her palms around the cold glass, avoiding his eyes.
“Hell if I know,” she mutters to no one in particular. “I thought I was coming home, but apparently Nate had other ideas.”
Strange how, for all of them, home has come to mean people, when it just used to mean a place. Not to mention – and that really pisses Eliot off – how vulnerable it makes him feel.
Still. There’s no pretending that this is home without Nate.
“Hardison?” Sophie says, her voice clearer. “Do you think you could get me a ticket on a London flight this evening?”
“Make that two,” Eliot adds, automatically, and when Sophie turns to him with a raised eyebrow he waves her off. “I’m not letting you go back underground on your own. Not right now. Later, if you want to.”
He’s using his don’t-mess-with-me voice, and Sophie huffs and gives an exaggerated Gallic shrug before turning away.
“If we have to fly together, can you make it first class, please?” she asks Hardison, and he nods wearily.
“Sure, whatever,” he says, bending over his laptop and letting his fingers dance over the keyboard. “American Airlines good enough or do you want to fly British Airways?”
**********************************
The flight is uneventful and they don’t talk much (he sleeps most of the way) but when they get there Sophie lets him share her cab, and eventually allows him to drop his duffle in one of the many spare rooms of her North London house – “Primrose Hill, darling, it’s where all the rock stars live. I bought it in the 90s when it was all about Cool Britannia” – on the express stipulation that he won’t try to boss her around.
He doesn’t even try, for the first couple of days. Sophie mopes about the house, drinking too much red wine and not speaking to him. Eliot checks out a few delis, buys some interesting cuts of meat at a local butcher’s, and spends several hours trying new recipes in the gleaming kitchen that looks like it’s barely been used, despite being stocked with every appliance known to man. Sophie owns some good knives, too, which he can appreciate; and he fantasizes about slitting Sterling’s throat while he chops up onions and garlic. It doesn’t make him any less angry, but it passes the time.
On the third day, Sophie announces her intention to go to some party at Tate Modern, a corporate do organized by some scumbag she happens to know.
“The boss of Pomegranate Holdings is launching a new charitable fund, the Persimmon Foundation.”
“The guy has a thing for fruit?”
“Apparently.”
“Why would you want to spend time with the kind of City financier who asset-strips for fun?” he asks, and she smiles – a cold smile, but still, the first one she’s flashed in a while.
“These guys are worse, actually. I’m pretty sure the hedge fund that’s co-hosting this shindig is bankrolling coltan mines in Congo, and probably gun-runners on the side. They are total shits, Eliot. Let’s just go there, do a reccy, and see what we can get on them, just for fun.”
She doesn’t need to add that Nate would approve, because it’s obvious. Not that Eliot cares. Fuck Nate.
“What’s his name?”
“Greg Anhalt,” she says, and Eliot raises an eyebrow.
“Him I know. From… a long time ago. He’s a real piece of work.”
“Does he know you?”
“No.” That much he’s sure of.
“Come on then, Eliot, you can be my plus one.”
She’s almost wheedling, and he’s no good at turning down women.
“So – who exactly are you thinking of as your plus one?”
She pretends to think it through, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes he hasn’t seen since Nate had his grandstanding moment on the boat, and that alone is worth whatever she has in mind.
“How about… Dr Abernathy?”
“Dr Abernathy? ”
“Yes.”
“The guy you remember as a drunken, lecherous, ill-mannered redneck?”
“I may have been… overstating things a little…”
He resists the temptation to say anything and grins. Sophie chucks a cushion at his head.
“So?”
“Okay. Why Dr Abernathy?”
“It’s a fundraiser, there will be some nice art on show, and Dr Abernathy blends in well with those kinds of crowds…”
“You’re not suggesting we rob the Tate?”
She punches him lightly in the arm.
“No, you moron! It’s just a show of some of the foundation’s private collection. You never know, we could find some interesting stuff – something that could benefit from being redistributed to more deserving causes…”
It’s a relief to see her getting excited again, even if it’s only temporary, so how can he deny her?
“Okay, if you insist. Wes Abernathy is coming out to play tonight. Don’t ask me to practice emergency surgery this time though.”
“Scout’s honor,” Sophie says, holding up three fingers.
It turns out to be more interesting from a professional perspective than he expected – there’s some decent art on show, with mediocre security. He spots a couple of very good early Japanese engravings; a stunning Giacometti sculpture; and a series of Ed Ruscha word paintings, all of which he could probably dispose of easily through some of his contacts. Socially, it’s a bit of a bust – too many pompous bankers, a handful of banker wives, a few pretty girls but generally a shortage of interesting women. Except, of course, Sophie herself, who’s flirting her way through the party like nobody’s business.
Idly, over his third glass of champagne, Eliot lets his thoughts wander in directions he usually shuns, as he watches her laughing at something the man she’s currently focusing on just said. It’s not like he hasn’t thought of it before – Sophie’s a sexy woman, who knows how to play the seduction game, and frankly, he’s fantasized about her a few times. He’s not immune to the appeal of the sophisticated older woman, and he’s seen her in action often enough to appreciate her skill.
He’s whiled away the odd hour, waiting in the getaway car, with pretty detailed visions of Sophie in one of her high heels and little black dress combos, bent over a conference table begging for him to fuck her (she never wears underwear in that particular fantasy). Or strapped naked into one of Parker’s harnesses, dangling from the ceiling, at his mercy (if he’s honest that’s a fantasy he’s had about Parker, too, but he can’t imagine that ever happening. Sophie on the other hand…)
He snaps out of it, shaking his head to clear the all-too realistic images now imprinted on his mind. Maybe he’s spent a little too much time thinking about this.
Anyhow, she’s standing with her back to him, talking to some tall, blonde, ruddy-faced guy – probably one of Pomegranate’s bankers – and her dress is a delicate nude color, so from where he is, it looks like she’s just wearing a froth of chiffon around her waist and the top of her thighs, with some diamante detail around her neck. If he didn’t know better Eliot would bet the woman he’s staring at is in her twenties. She has fucking good legs, and an ass that girls half her age would envy.
He’s thinking about the conference table again, and it’s not doing his concentration any favors.
“Canapé?”
The waitress is blonde and pretty, and she reminds him fleetingly of Parker, so he smiles and takes a shrimp vol-au-vent, or whatever the hell it’s supposed to be.
“Thank you,” he says, and she flutters her eyelashes at him. It’s not quite enough to distract him from his Sophie-watching though, and just as well, because she seems to be moving towards the coat check with the man she’s been talking to, which for some reason is offending Eliot’s innate sense of taste and decency.
It’s not exactly that he’s feeling possessive, but that guy just bugs him, so he makes eye contact with Sophie as she glides past him, and she touches the guy’s arm and whispers something in his ear before breaking away.
“Is this really urgent?” she hisses.
“Were you going to leave without telling me?”
“Oh, for God’s sake! You’re worse than my mother!”
“I thought we were on a reconnaissance mission,” he says, because he knows it will push her buttons.
It does.
“Well let’s call this information gathering. I promise I’ll bring back something worthwhile,” she says, with a saucy grin, but Eliot isn’t in the mood.
“C’mon, Soph – he’s an asshole.”
It really irks him to see her even consider the guy. He has all the hallmarks of the banker class: sharp Savile Row suit (Eliot might dress casual but he knows money when he sees it); an athletic body honed by the gym, maybe a little tennis, but lacking any real physical toughness; and the kind of arrogant sneer on his face that says more about him than all the rest put together.
Eliot wants to punch him.
“Sometimes, Eliot, a girl isn’t looking for a nice guy,” Sophie says testily, which earns her an eyeroll.
“This guy doesn’t even have bad boy appeal,” he sighs, because, seriously? “He’s just a jerk. And he works for Anhalt, who’s a devious criminal and a fucking bastard.”
“Since when do you object to criminals?”
“I think we’ve already established he’s not your kind of criminal.”
They lock eyes for what feels like an absurdly long time, although it’s probably just thirty seconds, at most, and she gives up first, with a sigh.
“Oh, all right. But this isn’t over.”
She turns on her heel – literally, pivots on her left stiletto, very precise – and marches back into the fray, dismissing the jerk with a few contrite words, a shrug, and an apologetic smile before wandering off to the ladies, and Eliot is left feeling both victorious and irritated. The longer this goes on, the less inclined he is to cut Sophie slack.
“You getting a kick out of this?”
The jerk is in front of him, looking down his nose at Eliot and trying to project male dominance and aggression, not very successfully.
“Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You and that bitch, just now, before she sold me this bullshit about an appointment she’d forgotten about.”
“Listen, pal,” Eliot says glacially, “whatever Miss Goodrich does is her own business, and I’d appreciate it if you got out of my way.”
He’s trying, really trying, to keep this civilized, while hoping that moron here will keep pushing and he can displace some of that irritation onto a worthwhile target. He’s damn close.
“I don’t see why you had to go and put your nose in it, you fuckwit,” the asshole says, and he puts his hand on Eliot’s chest and pushes him.
Eliot smiles.
“I really wouldn’t do this if I were you.”
“Well lucky I’m not you, then,” the guy retorts with another push, and that’s it.
“You might want to rethink that,” Eliot says before punching him in the solar plexus, and adding a jab to the nose for good measure.
The guy folds in half, blood pouring from his nose, and emits a series of distressed and angry noises, none of them very impressive.
“You fucking arsehole,” he groans when he’s recovered the powers of speech, at which point Eliot hands him a handkerchief. Sophie is approaching rapidly and he doesn’t want to be seen as the ungracious winner.
“Wes!” she calls out, her face rigid with disapproval, but he can see a hint of laughter in her eyes. “What have you done?”
“My dear Valerie, I’m afraid there was a misunderstanding with our friend here. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
Luckily the asshole has some shred of survival instinct left and he merely nods abruptly at Sophie before making a beeline for the restrooms, the hankie pressed to his nose.
“Doctor Abernathy,” Sophie says sotto voce, “I thought you were the kind of man I could take to events like this one without any risk of, well, these kinds of shenanigans.”
She’s doing her best to sound scolding, but Eliot isn’t having any of it.
“The guy insulted you, then me. He had it coming.”
“Really? What did he say?”
“Called you a bitch and frankly Soph, I don’t need much more of a reason. Plus he shoved me.”
Her eyes soften – as he knew they would – and she lays a hand on his arm.
“Aw, Eliot, my white knight in shining armor,” she purrs, stroking him with light fingers.
It feels good, good enough that if he didn’t think about it he could let himself relax under her touch, and that really isn’t what is needed right now, when they’re still in character, checking out a putative con scene. Not to mention the angry guy probably looking for vengeance, if he hasn’t checked out already.
Christ, he’s letting her get under his skin.
“So,” he says, businesslike, “are we gonna do something, or is the evening a bust?”
In the end, he talks Sophie out of swiping any of the art – although she argues it would be so easy to walk out with one of the Japanese prints, and Eliot knows that if Parker had been around, she’d have already done it. Instead, they work the room together, gathering enough information on the activities of the Persimmon Foundation to fuel future action.
***
Later that evening, when they’ve returned to Sophie’s house, pleasantly buzzed on vintage champagne, Eliot sends a couple of emails to Hardison about Persimmon, and is gratified by the response.
“Hardison’s going to make sure Persimmon’s Congo operations pings a few anti-terrorist radars,” he calls out to Sophie across the living-room. “The kind that gets the CIA and MI6 excited. He’s already started flagging some of their more dubious connections: Somali Al-Shabbab militias, some shady Pakistani intermediaries… I’d be surprised if they even get a chance to set up their bogus relief agency before they’re investigated for arms trafficking.”
“I feel like a snitch,” Sophie says from the depths of the cream sofa where she’s taken up residence, along with a last glass of champagne – this time from her own supplies. She’s looking deliciously seductive, her skirt riding up her thighs in a manner guaranteed to keep Eliot’s attention, and this is troubling him.
Clearly, she’s doing it on purpose, has been for a while now, and he doesn’t quite know how to react. The obvious line to follow is to just take the bait and go for it – which he’s sorely tempted to do, but he suspects there is something at work here. After all, they’ve been working together for a couple of years now, plenty of time to have overcome that initial attraction thing; and both of them are grown up enough to know this would only complicate matters.
On the other hand, Sophie in seduction mode is pretty much impossible to resist.
He pretends not to look at her, staring blankly at the computer screen in front of him, tapping the keyboard occasionally, but all he’s thinking about is stealing glimpses of her long tanned legs as she crosses and uncrosses them, burrowing into the cushions, trying to make herself comfortable, more likely just aiming to distract him. She’s reading something, a glossy magazine with a pouting model on the front cover, and Eliot’s ready to bet she hasn’t paid attention to the last ten pages she’s flicked through.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, there’s Nate, and the looks he gives Sophie when he thinks no one’s watching him (but which she notices); Nate, who’s at Mass General under armed guard according to Hardison’s latest bulletin, recovering slowly from the gunshot wound Eliot failed to prevent; Nate, who lied to them all, made a deal with fucking Sterling, and sacrificed his own stupid self in the bargain.
It’s enough to drive a man insane.
“Top me up, Eliot?” she drawls, holding her glass aloft, and that does it. He knows he’s being manipulated, but there’s only so much teasing he can take.
He marches across to the bar, where the wine is chilling in an ice bucket – Sophie doesn’t do things by halves – and picks the Ruinart bottle by the neck before turning back to her. He closes the gap between them and looks down at her, looming over the couch.
“What are you playing at?” he asks, and he doesn’t miss the brief look of alarm that she immediately suppresses.
She just holds out her glass, silent, waiting for him to refill it, which he does.
“I mean, seriously?”
Sophie takes a long swallow before putting the glass down on the side table, and shrugs.
“Why not? It’s not like you haven’t thought about it, Spencer,” she says drily, and that’s certainly the truth.
“There’s thinking, and there’s doing something about it,” he growls, and her answer is to lunge across at him and grab the tie he’s still wearing.
“Well maybe I got tired of waiting,” she snaps, tugging him in, and all his carefully-constructed (but already shaky) defenses collapse when their lips meet.
There’s something deliciously forbidden about the whole setup, and the very fact that Sophie – calm, controlled Sophie, in-charge Sophie, sensible Sophie – is the aggressor is making the blood positively thrum in his veins. Eliot’s as alpha male as they come – most women expect him to make the first move, and he usually does – but he can fully appreciate the role reversal, and he lets her lick her way into his mouth, surrendering under the assault just long enough for her to assert her claim before his tongue comes into play.
Her hair is still pinned up and he takes a perverse delight in running his fingers through it, dislodging hair grips and clips, teasing stray strands until it tumbles out in a sleek dark mass onto her shoulders and he can grab a whole handful of it. He relishes the feel of it in his hands, fingertips brushing her scalp as she leans back into his touch. Eliot deepens the kiss, hungry for more, and Sophie shifts on the couch, making space for him to lie next to her rather than continue in the awkward hunch that’s killing his back.
“Oh fuck,” she murmurs when they break off for air, only to resume the kissing with renewed energy, and this time Sophie’s the one winding her hands in Eliot’s hair, pulling him in closer as he molds his body to hers.
There’s all sort of alarm bells going off in his head, but Eliot’s chosen path has led him to disregard many of the warnings his brain send him, not least when it urges him to run away from danger. This might be a different kind of threat – don’t mess with your crew – but his mind is equally likely to give up under the combined assault of adrenaline and testosterone. He wants this, has ignored it for too long, and the fact that she too wants it is sapping what little resistance remains.
Sophie’s mouth tastes of wine and, faintly, lipstick, as he explores it at leisure with his tongue, and her hands are light on his head, stroking his scalp. He runs one hand down the side of her face, her neck, the back of her shoulder, then down her arm, and he can feel goosebumps rising under his fingertips. When he reaches her waist, she shudders and presses closer against him, hips rolling into his erection.
Goddamn, but Sophie Devereaux is hot.
She’s also impatient and lets go of his hair to start scrabbling at his buttons, undoing his shirt without a break in the kissing, which leads Eliot to follow suit and unhook the back of her dress before unzipping it to the waist. They have to pull apart to remove the offending garments, which gives him a chance to get rid of her bra. He cups her breasts into his hands, teasing a nipple with his thumb, and brings his mouth down to it, pushing her onto her back and straddling her.
He uses teeth and lips and tongue to make her nipples peak, and she arches into his mouth with a gasp.
“Eliot,” she pants, and the sound of her broken voice triggers a flash of male pride. He’s never heard Sophie like this, almost begging, and he wants to hear more, so he lets go of her breast with a pop and looks at her. She’s gorgeous and disheveled under him, the picture of debauchery, eyes closed and entirely focused on his touch, as he slips one hand down the soft swell of her belly, under the fragile wisp of lace that passes as underwear.
“Eliot,” she says again, and then, “please, oh please, yes…” and he smiles as he strokes her with one finger, then two, curving along her sex and into her cunt. She’s slick and hot and eager, her legs parting to allow easier access, and when he pushes up inside, fingering her slowly, she gives out a long low moan that goes straight to his cock.
He very carefully avoids thinking about Nate; about the anger and betrayal, the grief and the guilt; about the team. He’s too raw inside to handle it, and he needs to numb this, to forget it all. Fuck thinking, and planning, and grieving, and pretending to keep it all together.
So he reaches blindly over Sophie’s shoulder for the half-full bottle and swigs it, drinking deep. He’d offer her some but judging by the expression on her face, alcohol is not needed to make her happy right now; instead he adds another finger, and she bites her lip and comes, just like that.
Her eyes flutter open as the last contractions ripple around his fingers and Eliot smiles at her.
“Feeling better?”
“Much,” she breathes out. “I think it might be your turn to have some fun.”
He’s not going to argue with that.
Fun is certainly something Sophie knows how to deliver – first with agile fingers that breach his jeans in five seconds flat, and wrap themselves around his raging erection as though they had been made for it. Then – and this is the bit that really has him surrendering to her – with her luscious mouth.
“Soph,” he breathes out when she licks his cock slowly, and then again when she parts her lips and takes him in, an inch at a time, all the way, at which point he swears and digs his nails into his thigh to stop himself driving deep into her throat.
“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re good at this,” he says, and he feels the vibration on his cock as she snorts.
“I should hope so,” she says, letting go of him. Her eyes are sparkling, wicked, and he reads the challenge in them. “I have my pride.”
So does he, though, and while he doesn’t object at all to being worshipped with her mouth, and he lets himself enjoy her skills to the full, eventually it makes him want to reciprocate, and up the ante.
The second time he makes her climax, under his tongue, he spins it out as long as possible with featherlight touches and ghosting fingers, until Sophie begs for mercy. She’s still shaking and throbbing when he spreads her legs and sheathes himself inside her, and she mutters a string of unintelligible words interspersed with Eliot, and Jesus and fucking hell, that rise to a crescendo as his thrusts become more erratic. Sophie’s spread out underneath him, her hair fanned out on the couch, sweaty and flushed and gorgeous in her sexual ecstasy, and if things were different, he would like this to happen again, and often.
But they’re not – this is just the two of them dealing with loss and grief and anger, coping as they best can, and he would do well to remember that, somewhere in the back of his mind. Right now the inexorable rise of his orgasm is pushing everything else away.
Sophie bites him on the shoulder, hard, muffling a scream as she comes again, just before he lets go in a blinding spasm of pure pleasure that leaves him wrung dry, his body flooded with endorphins. He’s got just enough wits left to roll off Sophie and dispose of the condom before collapsing.
“God almighty,” he hears her mutter, her voice muffled against the cushions. “You don’t do anything by halves, do you?”
“No ma’am,” he replies drowsily, a foolish grin on his face.
If there’s a better way to clear his mind – even for a short while – he’s yet to experience it.
*****
They stay in London for another couple of days, largely spent in bed, fucking lazily, drinking more wine, sleeping off the booze and sex before starting all over again, with occasional romps in the shower for basic hygiene. Eliot learns every mole on Sophie’s body (she has a lot, and he likes to play connect the dots on her back when she’s sprawled out, sated and happy, after their latest bout). She ties him up with silk scarves to the wrought iron bedstead and tortures him at length with her tongue, but he never cries mercy (he’s practiced at resisting actual torture, which gives him an unfair advantage). It turns out that they are pretty evenly matched in skillset and willingness to experiment, and they enjoy teaching each each other new versions of old tricks.
When she lets him escape the bedroom, he cooks extravagant breakfasts, no matter what the time of day, and serves them to her in bed: scrambled eggs with smoked salmon and chives piled on thin slices of toasted bagel; grilled kippers with freshly made soda bread; eggs Benedict with a delicate side salad of baby spinach, washed down with fresh coffee and mimosas (they never run out of champagne).
They never talk about Nate, or the future. Instead, they discuss past adventures and worthy enemies, art they wish they’d stolen (some that they did); and their favorite long cons – Sophie, unsurprisingly, has a soft spot for the Lost Heir, while Eliot favors the Skagway Shuffle. They agree to disagree.
On Sunday morning, it all comes to a screeching halt when Eliot finally checks his emails and finds a blueprint of the jail hospital Nate’s being transferred to.
He looks up from the pale glow of the screen towards Sophie, who’s spooning the last of her kedgeree while flicking through the review section of The Observer.
“Hardison emailed,” he says. “Nate’s being moved to some jail hospital. I guess he must be healing.”
She looks up at him, an indefinable expression on her face.
“You think we should head home?”
Eliot nods. Much as he hates the thought, they’ve had a chance to lick their wounds, and it’s time to get back into the fray, to rejoin the team. Nate may be a bastard, but he’s still their bastard, and he needs them as much as Eliot needs to recover the man he left behind. The interlude has lasted long enough.
“Shall we call it a day, then?” she says.
They both knew this was coming, but it seems unbearably bittersweet all of a sudden, and Eliot’s not sure he’s quite ready to let it go. He closes the laptop and pads across the thick bedroom carpet to join Sophie on the bed, shifting the breakfast tray to her side table as she watches without saying a word. He wraps an arm around her shoulder and pulls her close.
“It’s not like this can go on,” he murmurs into her hair, and she sighs.
“Yes, I know. What happens in London stays in London.”
“But we are still in London,” he points out, as his other hand comes into play, slipping her nightie’s flimsy straps off one shoulder, then the other.
“You’re bloody insatiable,” she complains, but she doesn’t sound all that upset and the kiss she gives him is most definitely interested (and slightly curry-flavored).
Their last time is slow and unhurried and tender. Eliot makes sure he maps every inch of Sophie’s body with his mouth and tongue, lavishing special attention on all her erogenous zones, until she begs for release, and he relents.
She straddles him and he pushes into her, hands spanning her waist as he holds her in place. She’s fierce and beautiful above him, her face taut with anticipation and she gasps when he is fully inside her. They fuck leisurely, with long slow strokes that make him want to go on forever, and that keep her teetering on the edge of orgasm for ages before she breaks apart in a seemingly endless climax.
It’s the goodbye fuck to end all goodbye fucks, he thinks before his brain dissolves in the white heat of his own release.
Afterwards, it takes all his willpower to get himself out of bed and into the shower, and Sophie refuses to move until he comes back wrapped in a fluffy white towel.
“I’m not going anywhere right now,” she states. “You’ve fucked me senseless. I am utterly spent.”
“C’mon. You’ll feel better after a shower.”
“I will feel better after another night’s sleep, and a deep tissue massage. Actually, I know this great Thai masseur…”
“You know we have to.”
“I know,” she says, making a face. “I just...”
“Me too.”
Eliot sits on the edge of the bed and takes her hand, one finger tracing the lines in her palm.
“I’ve got to admit, I haven’t had that much sex in such a short amount of time since I don’t know when,” he says.
“Really? And here I was thinking you did this all the time...”
“Hey, I didn’t say never – it’s been a while, is all.”
“Relax, Casanova,” she says, squeezing his hand. “Your reputation is safe with me.”
He returns the squeeze, but all he can think of at this point is that it’s going to be hard to forget what Sophie looks like naked, and that he’s not looking forward to going back to Boston at all. He’d love to be able to blame that on Nate, but unfortunately it’s pretty much his own doing.
“Go on then, book us a flight home, will you?”
“Can’t we ask Hardison?”
“Not for another three hours or so, unless you want to fly coach and get stuck with a baby on the seat next to you.”
She has a point. Eliot gets up and tucks the towel more securely around his midriff before heading back to the computer, which he eyes suspiciously as it boots up.
“So, are you going to insist on British Airways again, or can we fly domestic this time?”
In the end, they fly Virgin, and Sophie sleeps all the way back, while Eliot devises tricks to stop himself thinking about her breasts (he fails dismally). He worries about what's going to happen back in Boston.
But when they pass customs and find Hardison slouching next to Parker, who’s wearing a peaked cap and holding a board marked “Welcome back, Roy Chapel”, Eliot can’t stop himself grinning. It’s going to be okay. They’re home.