**Maturity Warning** Adult Content**17+**
July 1st, 2021
2200 hours
Quinn stared at the ceiling, his eyes adjusting to the dark room, waiting for his bed partner to fall asleep.
It was his job to know his suspects, and, at times, to know them, intimately. Unfortunately, his job required him to perform less than admirable acts at times in order to acquire information. It was something he was used to; he even prided himself on it. Technically, his art, if you could call it that, was frowned upon by the bureau. However, he had excelled at the art of seduction and as such, the Deputy Director turned a perfunctory eye when it came to Quinn. His results were always sound: thus far his prowess had not failed to provide exceptional results.
This truth plagued him as he laid still, eyes glued to the spider-web spackle on the high vaulted ceiling, the drone of the rotating fan resonating through his disturbed thoughts.
Even if the sex hadn't been good, which, admittedly, it had, he wouldn't have been able to sleep. He had a mission to accomplish. Now, though, Quinn found it staggeringly difficult to concentrate on the subject at hand.
Quinn tipped his head up from the pillow, taking in the pale beauty spread out next to him. Raven hair flowed around her naked shoulders, her milky skin gleaming in the moonlight, the sheet draped around her full curves. He noticed the steady rise and fall of her chest and shifted cautiously away from her still form, perceiving that it was safe to move.
Lynne Ellis was a well rounded beauty: she'd done things to him he'd never experienced in bed, and he had experienced a lot. But, as her sexy hips had rolled pleasurably against his, bodies rocking against the dresser, sweat rolling down his back, his mind was preoccupied.
He hadn't gone to bed with Lynne that night: at least, his mind portrayed the encounter in an entirely different manner. The full figure had been replaced with a thin, athletic, lithe body. Long, tanned legs wrapped around his waist instead of the solid white ones. Slim arms draped over his neck, blonde hair tickling his shoulders in lieu of the dark, curly mane as he thrust ravenously. The dark eyes staring back into his as he climaxed had even taken on a blue hue, the face thinning, the cheekbones becoming sharper, her lips fuller and pinker. The heavy, veined breasts melted away into small, pert ones, the dark nipples hardening as he brushed his rough, pale hands against their perky edges.
Physically, Quinn Jones had fucked Lynne Ellis. Mentally, he had made love to Robyn Bourke.
The later stuck in his mind and his thoughts drifted to those hours previous, specifically the moment involving the look of complete disgust and hatred on her face. He didn't blame her: in retrospect, it was a rather rash motion for him to kiss her like that. She was hopeful, for a brief moment, and he saw it in her eyes. Perhaps that's what undid him: he hadn't meant for that kiss to become so involved. The look on her face as he ravished her expectant lips, the quiver he felt run through her skin where he'd caressed it, the unexpected arousal he felt as she responded to his embrace; that was unprecedented. Quinn never became involved with anybody near or extraneous to an investigation, at least, not emotionally. Sure, he had sex with willing females, to get information from them, but never had he felt such emotional connection to a woman.
Not since his wife died, leaving him a mourning widower. He imagined that perhaps it was this commonality with Robyn that endeared her to him: but then, from the moment her swirling blue eyes had blazed a fiery green with anger at his intrusion into her lab, he'd been entranced. Her hair had been snaking out of her bun that day; the Audrey Hepburn style she'd achieved was becoming disheveled, tendrils of hair escaping around her ears and at the nape of her neck, because of his mere presence. He liked that he had that effect on her, and in that brief moment, with her wayward hair shinning like a halo around her beautifully angry features, he was sprung. She wasn't perfect; Robyn had a fragile temper, raging mood swings, and the infuriating ability to make him feel completely incompetent. He didn't let on that she had that effect on him, but he'd felt so mediocre in that cold exam room, fighting to keep his wits enough to compete with the equally intelligent female before him. He'd managed it, and left her seething, but he had felt a stirring of devilish longing in his loins even then. When her sharp, dissecting eyes met his, he knew his goose was well and truly cooked.
It was that feverish intensity with which he'd imagined her making love, and substituted Lynne's aging body with her youthful, spirited one.
He felt remorseful, which was not in his nature: guilt was reserved for the weak or the guilty. The regret emerged, not from having sex, but for screwing someone who wasn't the person he so very much longed to have, whom he knew ached with desire for him in a similar way.
For the first time in his life, as his mind replayed the shock and confusion in Robyn's sad, dejected eyes, Quinn felt dirty. He felt like a whore or a prostitute. He wasn't sure which; all he was aware of was that what he'd done, despite what it meant for the investigation, wasn't right for two people. One lay between sweaty sheets that smelled of degrading sex, the other probably gazing unblinkingly at her ceiling, dejected tears flowing softly from her eyes and onto her pillow.
Quinn shook his head and slid deftly from the bed, covers barely moving as he extricated himself from them.
He paused as Lynne snored gently and rolled over. He stood perched, half on the bed, one foot solidly on the cool floor, for several minutes before continuing. He padded stealthily across the room, eyes roving possible hiding places for the briefcase.
There was a clothing closet to his left and a chest of drawers near her side of the bed. Both seemed unlikely places for her to conceal an object: she was an intelligent woman, a very smart, devious, conniving bitch. He doubted she would hide it in an obvious place.
He inspected the richly furbished room, eyes searching for a more inconspicuous place in which to stash something.
Lynne slept on as he rummaged through the bathroom, the closet, and even under the bed. She didn't stir: he had slipped her a prescription strength pain killers during their extremely boring, wine induced pre-intercourse flirtation earlier.
He smirked at the incongruity of the situation: he, an agent sworn to obey and uphold the law, drugging a woman during a sexual encounter.
It was purely for investigatory purposes, of course, and had required the Director's approval. He didn't need drugs, or alcohol, to coerce a woman into his bed, or any bed, for that matter, nor anywhere at all.
He felt a twinge of regret and disappointment with himself as the image of Robyn standing stiffly near the food table, her eyes clouding with regret, repressed anger, and a hint of yearning as he quickly seduced Lynne. The dress she was wearing was slutty in comparison to the one Robyn donned. The slit went so far up the side that if she'd bent over, or twirled around, he'd been able to see her cat. And it wasn't the meow, of that he was sure.
Robyn's gown, on the other hand, had been stunningly perfect. Every male eye had been glued to her form the moment she'd walked in. Part of the reason Quinn was attracted so wildly to her was that she had no idea. She never saw the lust filled eyes of the male population in the ball room as she stepped daintily down the stairs, one hand bunching the material slightly along her left thigh, unknowingly exposing a small sliver of toned, tanned calf. Her indescribable innocence in regard to her sexual appeal was the glorious cherry on top; the whole package was, indubitably, the most amazing, indescribable thing he had ever seen. That night Quinn had been the envy of every man there with that untapped, raw, innocent beauty on his arm.
The gorgeous woman that he had felt gazing at his retreating form with unbridled sexual tension, as he'd guided Lynne up to the elevators, had been unjustly cast aside. Quinn couldn't believe Robyn graced him with a dance, moreover, he was wildly surprised to see her desire for him. Later, he sensed, rather than saw, her intense stare from across the room. Robyn's distressed gaze was diverted and didn't notice his longing look, but his neck now had a crick in the muscle from cranking it around to rest his gaze on her goddess-like presence. His heart had pounded wildly, groin jumping with the thought of tearing that twilight dress from her trembling, eager limbs, and taking that desperate mouth with his. He almost spun around and took her right there, imagining himself shoving her roughly against the far wall and hiking up that dress around her slim waist. He would unsheathe himself and brush her thong to the side, claiming her wholly right there in the ballroom for the world to see.
But he hadn't, because dedication to his job drew him toward a room, with the far less appealing female that clung to his arm. Quinn felt that resentful stare the whole way.
He padded back to the bed and sat heavily, head hung in his hands. He knew he'd blown it with Robyn: she wasn't one to pine after a man. That much he had gathered from speaking to her. She was defiant, smart, and quick witted. She was observant and intellectual, sure and self-conscious at the same time. She was the epitome of beauty, and he'd left her despondent. Not just let down; he was sure he'd crushed what semblance of normalcy she had regained since her fiancé's death. Of course he went and smothered her flame. She, still burned bright in his mind, and loins.
He was spent from the momentous task of pleasuring Lynne, yet he felt himself becoming hard as he thought of Robyn, partially clothed and angry, standing above him tauntingly. God, he longed for those lips to meet his, to travel down his chest, into his treasure trail, finally coming to rest on his penis, bringing him into her hot, wet throat.
He groaned, realizing that his aching prick was very hard and one hand was wrapped around it, stroking frantically.
Fuck...he cursed. I can't do this...get your head together, Quinn.
He couldn't bring himself to focus. He sat pathetically on the edge of the bed and carried himself to the most glorious orgasm as he imagined silky, corn husk colored hair dancing teasingly around his groin, a warm mouth bringing him wholly into its welcoming depths, the soft brush of tiny breasts rubbing seductively against his thighs as he climaxed.
Quinn couldn't recall the last time he'd cum so hard. He moaned with unadulterated pleasure, ropes of semen flying from his rock hard dick in never-ending waves.
He felt ashamed after, not because he masturbated right there by the woman he'd had rigorous sex with earlier, but simply for the fact that she wasn't the woman he wanted. He coveted Robyn more than anything he could remember ever craving. In fact, he was fairly sure he needed her, that his longing transcended playful companionship and demanded something secure and out of this world; something tangible, something real, something cosmically glorious. She unraveled his sound fundamentalism and threatened the fabric of his existence. He relished every moment that she challenged him. That thought both excited and frightened him to his core.
"Fuck." He moaned as he finished, hand wet, dick growing limp. He kicked the bed frame in frustration and was met with a hollow thump.
He quickly tucked himself back into his pajama bottoms, bending double and squinting inquiringly at the solid wood. He brought his hand to the frame and began making small knocks, listening to the shallow sounds of solid wood. He stopped as he heard an empty, echoing thump revolve back.
He quickly felt along the bottom, top, and inside of the frame. Finally, his deft fingers found a seam in the oak and he yanked hard, ripping the panel away. He smiled triumphantly as his hand groped inside a small, hidden compartment. They latched onto the handle of something, and he quietly slid a thin, dust covered case out of the concealed orifice.
He pulled it into his lap and glancing tentatively at the woman next to him. She hadn't noticed him.
"I'm sorry." He whispered, glancing back at the prone figure snoring soundly. He wasn't thinking about Lynne, though, as he apologized: he had a far more precious gem on his mind.
He only hoped that Robyn wasn't too angry. He knew, without a doubt, that sex wouldn't help him. He had to prove to Robyn he really wasn't an ass.
As he glanced back, almost gagging in disgust at the woman he'd willingly ravished while longing for the touch of another, he doubted himself.
"I'm such an ass." He grumbled sadly as he shut the door and made his way back to Robyn's beach house. The act of what he'd done was downright dirty, jacking off like an adolescent who didn't know the pleasure of a real woman's embrace. Quinn couldn't get over his lapse in decency. Reflecting on it, that had to have been the most disgusting, impulse driven thing he'd ever done, and he wasn't one to let urges inhibit his ability to be a good agent. In fact, his remarkable ability to distance himself made him great: he could stand back idly in any situation and completely remove himself from it while portraying a feverish involvement. Essentially, he was an actor molded by the government to do its bidding, though of late he had been rather disheveled mentally. He was uncomfortable with this absolute feeling of misdirection. It didn't suit him.
"Damn you, Robyn." He growled lowly. She'd unraveled the fabric of his existence. He blamed his wandering focus on her, though he knew the frustration he felt at the situation was met with an equally galling sense of longing. Quinn wanted her, albeit somewhat begrudgingly.
Robyn...he wouldn't have been surprised if she chased him off with a twelve-gauge upon his arrival. He almost expected it. Robyn was a fiery soul, devout in her ignorance and defiant to her core. She was the living definition of fury and a woman scorned, and he had no doubts he would get his. He was equally sure he deserved it.
Robyn was hot as hell when she was angry. He had already noticed the way her eyes changed color slightly in accordance with her moods: blue-grey for confusion, sparkling aqua with happiness, deep turquoise with anger.
God, those blazing eyes were so tempting when she was angry. It made him want to keep pushing her buttons until she caved and folded into his embrace. He wondered vaguely what color her eyes turned when she was lustful.
Quinn shook off the thought and continued, noticing despairingly that he was becoming aroused again at the thought of her staring him down the barrel of a shotgun, thin silk pajamas hugging her slight curves, the outline of her pert nipples just visible under the fabric.
"Jesus!" He blurted, readjusting his penis in his pants. "I'm such a dick!"
Nobody had ever made him come unglued the way Robyn did.