Page 41 of Beehive
“Exactly.” Will poked a finger into my chest. “What he can, not what he knows. I don’t like going behind enemy lines based on what someone is allowed to tell us. I want to know everything we can before we risk our lives. This whole thing makes me itch.”
“That’s why you have me.”
“Huh?”
I grabbed him and pulled him in to me, then started scratching his back in a most exaggerated way. “You itch. I scratch. We’re perfect.”
He snorted and shoved me away. “I’m being serious.”
“So am I.” I propped myself up on one elbow. “Manakin is telling us what he can. If it’s not everything, we have to trust there’s a reason for that. Our job is to use what we have to accomplish the mission, not worry about whatever we don’t know.”
When he stared silently at the ceiling, I added, “Besides, you might be right. Maybe the Soviets don’t even know what they’re looking for. Maybe alltheyhave is ‘the Keeper,’ just like us.”
He grunted again but didn’t turn away from his staring contest with the ceiling.
I reached over and traced the line of his chest with my finger.
The only light in the storeroom-turned-bedroom was a small lamp on the desk. In the dim glow, Will’s chest was more shadow than skin. Something about the way the light hit him was even more alluring than if he’d been streaking through the yard at noon.
His body shivered when my fingertip scraped over his nipple.
“Somebody’s sensitive tonight.” My voice held a grin.
“Hello, I’m trying to work here.”
I pinched his nipple, and he jerked.
“Ow!”
I leaned over and bit it.
“Thomas!”
My hand shot down beneath his undies and gripped him. He was soft and thoroughly wrinkled but pulsed beneath my palm.
“Wakey, wakey,” I singsonged.
I expected him to protest, to insist we remain serious and focused on our mission; but instead, he lifted his arms and propped them behind his head. It was the last thing he didbefore my lips smothered his, and my hand stroked all the worry out of his stiffening erection.
15
Will
The straps of my satchel dug into my shoulder. I reached up to adjust them, anything to keep my hands from trembling.
Across the narrow, dusty street, Thomas leaned against the side of a battered truck. His hat cast a shadow over his face, but his posture was the relaxed kind that said, “I’ve got all the time in the world.”
Me? I felt like a fish flopping on a bank.
As casually as possible, I stepped onto the street and crossed to lean against the truck a few feet from Thomas.
“You’ve got the look of a man who just swallowed a bad oyster.”
“I’m fine,” I lied, straightening my tie and smoothing down my jacket. Thomas was always so brave, almost to the point of stoicism. In our first mission, when we rode a rickety submarine across Nazi-infested waters, Thomas never showed the slightest fear. I tried to put on a good show, but inside, I felt like a small boy who shouldn’t be anywhere near any of this. “I’m just . . . taking it all in.”
“You take it in any harder and I’ll get jealous.” He didn’t bother hiding his smirk. “Relax, Will. We’ve done all this before.”
“Not here. Not like this.”
