E-2 Hawkeye
OOC: Before you read this, be warned - this is really long (5000 words), really rambling, and... yeah, there's smut. Okay. Click at your own peril.
The sound of her cell rattling its way across the nearby windowsill made Myra slowly come to her senses in the morning light. Still half-awake, she answered it without even looking to see who was calling her.
"Hello?" she said, her voice sounding scratchy.
"Myra?" It was definitely a question; the caller wasn't sure he'd gotten the number right.
She sat up, brushing her hair out of her face. "Yeah, who's this?"
The answer brought smile immediately to her lips. "It's Ian."
Hawkeye, she thought, making a mental note to save the number as such later.
"They let you back into the country?" she asked, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Her hand gently parted the curtain in front of her to peek outside, both to gauge the weather and to see if he was outside.
"I'm in New York," he told her. "How fast can you get up here?"
She let the curtain fall closed again and flopped back onto the bed. "Depends, what do you want me to look like?"
He chuckled a little. They'd met in the humidity of Cuba, where sweat dripped and hair stuck to your forehead. It wasn't the worst she'd ever looked, but it was fairly close.
"Whatever you want to look like," he said finally. "But bring something nice to wear. I want to take you out."
That surprised Myra. Ian hadn't struck her as the romantic type, and she'd made it clear to him that she wasn't. But if he wanted to take her out in New York City, she wasn't going to object.
"It's a four hour drive," she told him. "Give me another one to make myself presentable."
A timeline settled on, Myra hung up the phone, tossing it onto her pillow. After a long yawn, she got off the bed, making her way to the bathroom with a quick detour to the kitchen to start some coffee. The t-shirt she'd slept in was peeled off and tossed into the hamper along with her panties while she waited for the shower to get warm. She stepped in, letting the water run down her back for a few minutes before she actually set about washing herself up. Her mind wandered back to Cuba, to Ian, to his quarters at Guantanamo...
This is gonna be a great weekend, she told herself as she stepped out, wringing out her hair over the sink before wiping off the fog covering the mirror. She took a long look at herself in the mirror, wondering if she'd changed any since he'd last seen her. Maybe a couple new scars, but nothing noticeable. Wrapping a towel around her, she walked into the bedroom, careful not to drip on anything as she made her way to the closet. She reached up to the shelf above the rack, pulling down her overnight bag, and began rummaging through her wardrobe to see what was wearable. A black cocktail dress that was classy but still hugged her like it was painted on. Black peeptoe stilettos to match. A matched set of very expensive, very impractical underwear that she had no intention of keeping on for very long. A nightie that would do nothing to keep her warm. And for the next day, an extra t-shirt and practical panties.
Satisfied that she was finished packing, she took the towel off and wrapped her hair up in it before selecting her outfit for the drive up. She settled on a pair of dark skinny jeans, and a white fitted button down, unbuttoned just far enough down to give a tease of cleavage, accented by the black lace bra she chose to wear beneath it. A cup of coffee and a peanut butter and blackberry jam sandwich later, she was slipping on her sneakers, overnight bag in one hand, keys in the other. She locked up the door then headed down to the garage to get Chester, taking the stairs from the sixth floor. Across the garage, she could her car parked just where'd she'd left it five weeks earlier, at the end of the row, against the wall, shielded from scratches by the custom cover thrown over it. She pulled it off in one swift motion, revealing the black cherry paint job, and stuffed the cover in the trunk. Sliding into the driver's side, she set her bag at the foot of the passenger seat and started the car. She took a moment to make sure her mirrors were set, then slipped on her sunglasses, started her drive playlist blaring over the stereo, and tore out of the garage like a bat out of hell, destined for New York City.
The drive was fairly uneventful. The traffic through Baltimore and the backup at the Delaware toll crossing was nightmarish, which threatened to set her time back by at least half an hour. But she made up for it as she shot up the Turnpike, weaving in and out of lanes like a pro. As she approached the Lincoln Tunnel, she gazed out the window at the Manhattan skyline beyond and called him.
"Where are you?" There was no need for pleasantries or formalities.
"Two minutes from the tunnel," she told him. "Depending on the traffic, I'll either be there in fifteen or next year."
He laughed. "Hopefully fifteen. Room 3701. I can't wait to see you."
He hung up then, and Myra cut her speed as she approached the toll booth to enter the tunnel. Twenty-five minutes later - it was a Saturday afternoon in Times Square, after all - she had pulled up to the valet station at the Marriott Marquis. She gave the attendant her keys and Ian's room number, then strode into the hotel, bag held over her shoulder. The elevator bank was easy enough to find, and two minutes later, she was standing in front of the door to room 3701, knocking gently. On the other side, she could hear the rapid approach of footsteps, the quiet pause as the peephole was checked, then the sliding back of the security chain and the click of the deadbolt being unlocked. Finally, the door swung open, revealing Ian, much cleaner and better dressed than she'd last seen him.
"You look good," she said with a smile.
"And you look amazing," he replied, opening the door wider so she could slip in. "Of course, I don't know why I'd expect any different."
The door swung shut behind them. Myra dropped her bag, turning to lock everything up, and was pleasantly surprised when Ian wrapped an arm around her waist, nuzzling her neck while his free hand helped hers slide the security lock into place.
"You smell amazing," he murmured.
He pressed his body against her, pinning her to the door. She smiled as she managed to undo the rest of the buttons on her shirt, starting to shrug out of it before he pulled it off, moving his lips to the big dipper tattoo on her bare shoulder. The hand at her waist crept slowly up, slipping under her bra to cup one of her breasts, his palm grazing the nipple and making her gasp. Her hand slid between them to grasp at the hem of his t-shirt, and she turned so she could pull it up over his head. His shirt out of the way, he kissed her fiercely, passionately, slamming her back against the door. Myra was happy to let him control her, own her, for the short time they were together. As she reached one hand behind her to undo her bra, she wondered just how soundproof the room was, and hoped there were no children staying on this floor. With her bra tossed aside, she kicked off her shoes and undid her jeans, shimmying out of them and her underwear as Ian's mouth moved from hers to her collarbone, and finally her exposed breasts. The feeling of his tongue slowly circling her nipple before flicking lightly against it made her back arch, and she pushed him back just enough to get a hold of his belt, undoing with expert skill. She could tell he was getting hard as her hand grazed the front of his pants, making him straighten, grab hold of her hair at the back of her head, and push her slowly to her knees. She happily complied, undoing his khakis and pulling them to his ankles as she sank down, licking her lips as his cock sprang free.
"No hands," he told her, and she obeyed. Her mouth opened wide and he slid his cock in, hissing as her lips closed around it. His hand still tangled in her hair, he pumped his cock in and out, as Myra sucked like a pro, her tongue drawing intricate patterns along the shaft. After a couple minutes, he pressed his cock hard into her mouth, and she opened her throat, swallowing as he hit the back of it with a satisfied moan. They stayed that way for a long moment, his balls tickling her chin, until he pulled out, letting her draw a gasping breath before he pushed her back down. When he pulled out the second time, she let her teeth graze ever so lightly against his him, which elicited a grateful sigh before he grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet, the tip of his cock teasing her clit. She grinned as he pressed her against the door again, wrapping one leg, then the other, around his waist.
"Oh my God," she breathed against his ear as he slid into her. She wrapped her arms behind his neck, pulling him closer as his hips angled to find just the right spot. When her back arched and a low moan escaped her, he knew he'd found it. She was tight around him, and he loved the feeling as he fucked her against the door, watching her tits bob up and down. Her eyes had fallen shut, her breathing was coming in shorter and shorter gasps, and he knew she was close. He fucked her harder, faster, and when he felt her tense up around him, coming with a hissed, "Oh fuck," he thrust hard one last time, coming with his own muttered curses. He buried his face against her neck, savoring the smell of her perfume mingling with the sheen of sweat coating her body. Slowly, he pulled out and helped her get her feet back on the ground.
"I'm a mess now," she laughed, brushing away some of the hair that had stuck to her face.
"You look like you did in Cuba," he told her. "Like a goddess."
That made her laugh more, and she gave him a gentle push, moving him out of her way so she could stumble to the sofa in the living room. She collapsed onto it with a happy sigh, looking around the large suite, noting the conference table against the wall, strewn with papers, the desk against the window where his computer sat.
"They really set you up here," she said. "Are you running an op from here?"
"Maybe," he said smugly, joining her on the sofa. "It's only for a couple weeks."
"Are they sending you back?" she asked, stretching out, laying her legs in his lap.
"No," he said. "They haven't told me where, but I'm pretty sure it's not back there."
She nodded. "What about your wife?"
"She's coming in tomorrow," he told her. "I wanted to see you first."
Myra sighed, turning her head to look out the window. "You're not getting all mushy on me, are you?"
"Of course not," he said with a satisfied smirk. "There were just some things I needed to get out of my system before I saw her."
"Like getting head in the entryway?"
"Like getting head, period," he said, which made her laugh. "I love Jeanine, but she couldn't pass for a $10,000 hooker, like you."
She kicked her heel into his thigh with a smile. "Like you know what that's like."
He just grinned. "Hey, I've worked undercover ops, too. You'd be surprised what the Company will pay for."
"Well, if they'll pay for that, then they have to pay for room service," she said, reaching behind her for the phone perched on the side table. "I didn't stop for lunch, and after that? I'm starving."
She dialed for room service and placed their order: two cheeseburgers with fries, a side salad, and two Cokes - one regular, one diet. Then she placed the phone back on the table and stood up to take a look at the view. It was an incredible view, this high up in the middle of Times Square. She watched the people milling about below, not caring that she was standing naked in a floor-to-ceiling window.
"I never get up here enough," she sighed. "I'm either stuck in DC, or out in the middle of nowhere."
"Cuba isn't nowhere," he said from the couch, taking advantage of the space to spread out. "And you managed to have some fun there."
"With you, sure," she said, turning away from the view to face him. "I'd hardly call the rest of it a vacation."
"It wasn't supposed to be," he told her, his voice taking on the tone of an experienced field operative. "But you're good at your job. That makes things a lot easier, especially in those situations."
Her gaze wandered back outside as she recalled "those situations", standing in a barren concrete cell with a gallon jug of water and a young Islamic militant shackled at the hands and feet, trying to convince him to return to his cell in Yemen as a spy for the United States. She didn't consider it one of her finer moments.
The silence was a clear signal to Ian that her mind was elsewhere. He joined her at the window, standing behind her, a much gentler version of their earlier positions. His hands wrapped protectively around her waist, and he kissed her shoulder softly.
"You got the job done," he assured her. "And from what I hear, there's been some really good intel coming in."
"There was," she said, and left it at that. He understood, and let her go when she moved to break free of his embrace. She returned to the entryway, picking up their discarded clothing and her overnight bag.
"Do you mind if I take a shower?" she asked, walking into the bedroom.
"Not at all," he told her, walking in behind her to grab a bathrobe. "I'll be waiting."
She smiled and shut the bathroom door in his face. Twenty minutes later, she emerged in a plush white robe to match his, toweling off her hair. Ian was seated on the edge of the bed flipping channels, the food perched precariously beside him. Myra climbed onto the bed, grabbing her diet Coke as she lay back against the head of the bed.
"I can't believe you drink that stuff," Ian said, scooting up next to her.
"I like the way it tastes," she told him, giving him a little jab in the arm with her elbow. They spent the rest of the afternoon making fun of the bad spy movie that they stumbled across on one of the cable channels. A little after five, he announced that they should get ready and disappeared into the shower. When he emerged a few minutes later, he was stopped in his tracks by the sight of Myra in her special underwear before it disappeared beneath her dress.
"Oh, I can't wait to tear that off you later," he said with a grin. She just smiled sweetly back and went to her bag to find a hair clip, taking it along with her makeup bag into the bathroom. She took her time with her hair, making sure it had that just right balance between disheveled and neatly done. Her makeup she kept light and fresh, with just a touch of shadow, a brown eyeliner, and peach colored lipstick. When she stepped out, Ian was dressed in stylish dark jeans and white shirt, his black blazer laid out on the bed.
"You're too old to dress like a yuppie," she teased him, kissing his cheek as she passed him.
"Come on, I'm not that old," he said defensively.
"Older than me," she told him, slipping on her shoes.
"By, what, six years? That doesn't count."
"It's basically a whole other decade," she said with a smile, putting her clutch together. Cell phone, money clip, lipstick. There was a small handgun in a thigh holster in her overnight bag, but she decided it would just look paranoid. It was also a deterrent to any hotel staff that might decide to rummage through her bag while they were out.
"Ready?" he asked, pulling on his jacket.
"Yep," she said, taking the arm he'd offered. "Where are we going, anyway?"
"Where else?" he said, twinkle in his eye. "The classic New York combo: dinner and a show."
They caught a cab downstairs, getting out a couple blocks from Central Park. Dinner was at a well-appointed steakhouse, followed by another cab ride to the Off-Broadway theater. The play was funny, sexy, and dark, and served as an odd parallel to their own relationship in a way.
"I don't know about you, but I could use a drink after that," Myra said as they left the theater.
"I know the perfect place," Ian replied, and hailed yet another ubiquitous yellow cab. A few minutes later, they arrived at their penultimate destination for the evening: Victor's Cafe, where Ian steered them directly to the bar.
"It's like Cuba, but without the despots," she said as she settled on a bar stool.
"All the good parts with none of the headaches," he agreed, ordering them two mojitos. "So tell me, what's your life been like without me?"
Myra laughed. "You're assuming you made that much of an impact."
"Hey, you drove four hours to see me," he answered with a smirk. "I made an impact."
She had to concede that point. The truth was, Ian was one of a very small number of men Myra had actually considered asking a last name from. He'd taken care of her at Gitmo, and for that she was both eternally grateful and bonded to him. Even though she'd translated for interrogations in intelligence, it was very different from being the one with all the power. It bothered her that she'd had to threaten torture to get the young man to turn, even if she hadn't needed to resort to it. Ian had talked her through it, before and after. That night they'd given in to the heightened emotions, like so many agents before them, but there hadn't been any illusions. He hadn't tried to hide his wedding ring, and they'd talked about his wife and his hope to be transferred back stateside so they could start a family. Still, they shared a connection that his wife would never understand, the bond that every covert operative shares.
The muted clunk of their glasses being set on the bar brought her back to the moment at hand. Ian held up his glass.
"A toast," he said brightly. "To a lovely evening with a lovely person."
"Likewise," Myra said, letting her glass clink against his before taking a sip. "So if this is what you're doing with me, what's left for Jeanine?"
"Dinner at the hotel restaurant and Mamma Mia," he admitted, with only the smallest grimace. "Jeannie's been dying to see it ever since the movie came out."
She stifled a giggle as she took another sip. "So I get S&M and she gets Abba. How do you manage this double life of yours?"
"With lots of practice and lots of alcohol." He killed his drink and waved to the bartender for another one, then looked at Myra, as if to say, "Keep up."
"Too bad you can't handle your rum very well," she said, following suit and - as elegantly as possible - drinking the remainder of her drink, which was essentially all of it.
"So, you know all this stuff about me," Ian said as they waited for round two. "I don't know anything about you."
"You know what I do for a living," she reminded him. "That's more than most people."
"Well, yeah, but that doesn't count," he said. "We've got this connection, I feel like I should at least know more than your name and your job."
"Fine," she sighed, nodding her thanks as the bartender dropped off their new drinks. "Two truths and a lie? Let's see if you're better than a polygraph."
The toasted again, and Myra thought up her first round. "I'm fluent in seven languages because my parents knew it would help me later in life. I love the color purple, and... I wanted to fly F-18s in the Navy since I was six."
Ian watched her face closely, noticing the slight smile that came with the last one. "That's a lie. You're so not a plane person."
"Oooh, so close," she said. "Dad took me to see the Blue Angels, and I was in love with naval aviation."
He laughed away his defeat. "Seriously? Wow, I think I just might leave my wife for you now." It was a joke greeted with a playful punch in the arm from Myra.
"Now it's your turn," she told him.
"No, no, you have to catch up to me," he protested. "You still know way more about me."
"Fine, you big baby," she chuckled, taking a moment to think. "My car is named for Arthur McArthur, I've snuck into Arlington Cemetery after hours to see my parents, and I learned to pick locks when I was twelve."
Ian contemplated a moment before deciding that the first fact was false. Myra affirmed it, informing him that it was, in fact, named for Chester Nimitz. And so the night progressed, with Ian learning that Myra's parents had been highly regarded operatives and that she was allergic to morphine, and Myra learning that Ian had graduated with an Art History minor from Yale.
Satisfied that he now knew enough about Myra, Ian asked her to dance with him to the music playing over the speakers. They began a slow salsa, not caring that they were being watched by the other patrons. Lost in the music, they danced for what felt like an eternity before the passion of the evening caught up with them and they made their exit. They made their way down seventh avenue, hands entwined, pointing out all the places they could be ambushed or sniped from and laughing at their stereotypical spy paranoia. As they reached the hotel, they separated, doing their best to look like nothing more than two colleagues relaxing at the end of a long day; after all, he didn't want anyone to put two and two together when his wife arrived the next day.
In the elevator, it was a different story. With nobody else around, he pulled her close for a passionate kiss. They exited onto his floor in a burst of giggles, immediately hushing themselves as they remembered it was late and people were probably sleeping.
"Or watching porn," Myra whispered as they reached his door. Instinctively, they both scanned the suite as they entered, before deciding that nobody was lurking in the shadows, sharing a lighthearted, "Clear."
Myra was first into the bedroom, setting her clutch down on the dresser. Once again, Ian was at her back, kissing her neck as he unzipped her dress, watching appreciatively as she stepped out of it to display the lacy, barely there underwear she was wearing.
"Ten k, easily," he murmured with a smile. "The Agency could make a fortune with you."
Myra chucked a stiletto at him, narrowly missing his head. "I will not be pimped out for budgetary reasons."
With a laugh, he playfully pushed her onto the bed, kissing her as she pushed his jacket off. He stood up, the better to undress himself, putting on a little show as he stripped away his shirt, pants, socks, and finally, boxer-briefs. When Myra moved to remove her own last vestiges of clothing, he reached out to stop her.
"Keep it on," he told her with a devilish grin. Then he sank to his knees, his hands gently holding her legs in place at the edge of the bed, kissing his way up the inside of her thigh. Myra bit her lip in anticipation, feeling the heat of his breath inching closer. Ian pulled her panties to the side and lowered his lips lightly on her clit, sending shivers up her spine before he started in proper, running his tongue along her pussy. She sat up a little, wanting to see his head buried between her legs. She was rewarded by the sight and the feeling of his tongue sneaking inside her. When it curled as he pulled it out, she fell back to the bed, one hand reaching down to rest on his head, encouraging him to keep going. He slid his middle finger into her, massaging her g-spot to great appreciation, lapping at her clit all the while. Once she was really wet, he added another finger, then another, much to her moaning, sighing delight. He fucked her that way, knowing she liked it hard, his tongue flicking at her clit until her back arched, her hands and toes trying to find purchase as she tried her best to stifle a very satisfied scream.
That was when he plunged into her, fighting to keep from coming as her pussy still throbbed around his cock. She pulled him down for a deep, frenzied kiss, wanting to taste herself on his lips as he fucked her. He moved slow at first until he regained control. Then he held nothing back, holding one of her legs to his shoulder, pounding her as he rubbed at her clit, watching her come again and again. Finally, he felt his own orgasm building in his groin, his thrusting became even faster. He came with a final thrust as he gasped her name, collapsing on top of her as they rode out the aftershocks. When he regained his strength, he pulled slowly out of her, letting her panties fall back into place and laid back on the bed next to her.
"Get everything out of your system?" Myra asked with a smug smile.
"Yeah," Ian sighed. "Thanks."
They lay in silence for a long time before Myra decided they could both use some water. As she got up to head to the kitchen, Ian gave her ass a smack, which led to her straddling him, her bra finally removed but the panties still in place. She rode him as he teased at her nipples, both of them coming to less spectacular, but no less enjoyable, orgasms. Deciding her panties had served their fetishized purpose, she stripped them off and strode naked into the kitchen for a glass of water. Ian joined her, and they stood in the dim light of Times Square filtering in through the window.
"When you're ready," she said with a wink, "I want you to fuck me against the window."
"I think I can manage that," he said, watching her walk to the window in the living room. He finished his water and started to stroke himself slowly, gazing at the way the garish neon lights illuminated her body. The shadows gave a sensuous definition to her curves, and it wasn't long before he stood behind her, his cock rubbing up against her ass. She savored the feeling for a moment before angling her hips back so he could slide into her pussy. It was tight, but it was amazing. He felt that much bigger, and she breathed his name against the glass, watching their reflections as he fucked her from behind, her tits pressed against the window. For a moment, she wondered if there was someone in the building across the way watching them in secret, but then Ian had found her tits and her own hand slid down to her clit, and all she cared about was the fact that she'd be going home the next afternoon thoroughly fucked. He whispered her name again as he came, his hands covering hers as they pressed against the glass. Stepping back, he smiled as she turned around to face him, silhouetted by the light.
"I wish I was a photographer," he said. "You look absolutely gorgeous right now."
"Careful," she chided. "Or I'll think you're starting to fall for me."
"Never," he said, taking her hand and pulling her in for a gentle kiss. "And always."
She knew what he meant. Their relationship, in this form, was a perfect match, but if they tried anything else it would be a disaster. It pained her every now and then, the realization that her relationships inevitably revolved around sex and, on occasion, espionage. But she would remind herself of the heartache her parents had caused her, and each other, and she felt justified, if not better, about her decision to ignore any genuine romantic entanglements. It was easier not truly knowing who people were.
They found their way to the bed, collapsing onto it. Myra rolled over to turn off the light, then rolled back onto her side, smiling as Ian curled against her, spooning her. It was the best night's sleep she'd had in a long time, and she woke the next morning feeling relaxed and refreshed, if a bit sore. She slid carefully out from under Ian's arm, being careful not to wake him, and stepped into the bathroom. He was still asleep when she got out of the shower twenty minutes later. It was the sound of her digging in her bag for her t-shirt that finally woke him, and he looked at her with a bit of dismay.
"Taking off already?" he asked, sitting up.
"I want to be long gone when Jeanine gets here," she said. "To make things easier for you."
"Oh, right," he said, trying not to be hurt. He knew the rules she had, but it didn't stop him from feeling disappointed that she wasn't staying longer. As much as he loved his wife, he loved his time with Myra just as much, brief as it was.
She slipped the t-shirt on over her head, then went about packing the rest of her things up.
"Can I at least buy you breakfast?" Ian asked, finally waking up. She looked up and smiled.
"Sure."
The sound of her cell rattling its way across the nearby windowsill made Myra slowly come to her senses in the morning light. Still half-awake, she answered it without even looking to see who was calling her.
"Hello?" she said, her voice sounding scratchy.
"Myra?" It was definitely a question; the caller wasn't sure he'd gotten the number right.
She sat up, brushing her hair out of her face. "Yeah, who's this?"
The answer brought smile immediately to her lips. "It's Ian."
Hawkeye, she thought, making a mental note to save the number as such later.
"They let you back into the country?" she asked, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Her hand gently parted the curtain in front of her to peek outside, both to gauge the weather and to see if he was outside.
"I'm in New York," he told her. "How fast can you get up here?"
She let the curtain fall closed again and flopped back onto the bed. "Depends, what do you want me to look like?"
He chuckled a little. They'd met in the humidity of Cuba, where sweat dripped and hair stuck to your forehead. It wasn't the worst she'd ever looked, but it was fairly close.
"Whatever you want to look like," he said finally. "But bring something nice to wear. I want to take you out."
That surprised Myra. Ian hadn't struck her as the romantic type, and she'd made it clear to him that she wasn't. But if he wanted to take her out in New York City, she wasn't going to object.
"It's a four hour drive," she told him. "Give me another one to make myself presentable."
A timeline settled on, Myra hung up the phone, tossing it onto her pillow. After a long yawn, she got off the bed, making her way to the bathroom with a quick detour to the kitchen to start some coffee. The t-shirt she'd slept in was peeled off and tossed into the hamper along with her panties while she waited for the shower to get warm. She stepped in, letting the water run down her back for a few minutes before she actually set about washing herself up. Her mind wandered back to Cuba, to Ian, to his quarters at Guantanamo...
This is gonna be a great weekend, she told herself as she stepped out, wringing out her hair over the sink before wiping off the fog covering the mirror. She took a long look at herself in the mirror, wondering if she'd changed any since he'd last seen her. Maybe a couple new scars, but nothing noticeable. Wrapping a towel around her, she walked into the bedroom, careful not to drip on anything as she made her way to the closet. She reached up to the shelf above the rack, pulling down her overnight bag, and began rummaging through her wardrobe to see what was wearable. A black cocktail dress that was classy but still hugged her like it was painted on. Black peeptoe stilettos to match. A matched set of very expensive, very impractical underwear that she had no intention of keeping on for very long. A nightie that would do nothing to keep her warm. And for the next day, an extra t-shirt and practical panties.
Satisfied that she was finished packing, she took the towel off and wrapped her hair up in it before selecting her outfit for the drive up. She settled on a pair of dark skinny jeans, and a white fitted button down, unbuttoned just far enough down to give a tease of cleavage, accented by the black lace bra she chose to wear beneath it. A cup of coffee and a peanut butter and blackberry jam sandwich later, she was slipping on her sneakers, overnight bag in one hand, keys in the other. She locked up the door then headed down to the garage to get Chester, taking the stairs from the sixth floor. Across the garage, she could her car parked just where'd she'd left it five weeks earlier, at the end of the row, against the wall, shielded from scratches by the custom cover thrown over it. She pulled it off in one swift motion, revealing the black cherry paint job, and stuffed the cover in the trunk. Sliding into the driver's side, she set her bag at the foot of the passenger seat and started the car. She took a moment to make sure her mirrors were set, then slipped on her sunglasses, started her drive playlist blaring over the stereo, and tore out of the garage like a bat out of hell, destined for New York City.
The drive was fairly uneventful. The traffic through Baltimore and the backup at the Delaware toll crossing was nightmarish, which threatened to set her time back by at least half an hour. But she made up for it as she shot up the Turnpike, weaving in and out of lanes like a pro. As she approached the Lincoln Tunnel, she gazed out the window at the Manhattan skyline beyond and called him.
"Where are you?" There was no need for pleasantries or formalities.
"Two minutes from the tunnel," she told him. "Depending on the traffic, I'll either be there in fifteen or next year."
He laughed. "Hopefully fifteen. Room 3701. I can't wait to see you."
He hung up then, and Myra cut her speed as she approached the toll booth to enter the tunnel. Twenty-five minutes later - it was a Saturday afternoon in Times Square, after all - she had pulled up to the valet station at the Marriott Marquis. She gave the attendant her keys and Ian's room number, then strode into the hotel, bag held over her shoulder. The elevator bank was easy enough to find, and two minutes later, she was standing in front of the door to room 3701, knocking gently. On the other side, she could hear the rapid approach of footsteps, the quiet pause as the peephole was checked, then the sliding back of the security chain and the click of the deadbolt being unlocked. Finally, the door swung open, revealing Ian, much cleaner and better dressed than she'd last seen him.
"You look good," she said with a smile.
"And you look amazing," he replied, opening the door wider so she could slip in. "Of course, I don't know why I'd expect any different."
The door swung shut behind them. Myra dropped her bag, turning to lock everything up, and was pleasantly surprised when Ian wrapped an arm around her waist, nuzzling her neck while his free hand helped hers slide the security lock into place.
"You smell amazing," he murmured.
He pressed his body against her, pinning her to the door. She smiled as she managed to undo the rest of the buttons on her shirt, starting to shrug out of it before he pulled it off, moving his lips to the big dipper tattoo on her bare shoulder. The hand at her waist crept slowly up, slipping under her bra to cup one of her breasts, his palm grazing the nipple and making her gasp. Her hand slid between them to grasp at the hem of his t-shirt, and she turned so she could pull it up over his head. His shirt out of the way, he kissed her fiercely, passionately, slamming her back against the door. Myra was happy to let him control her, own her, for the short time they were together. As she reached one hand behind her to undo her bra, she wondered just how soundproof the room was, and hoped there were no children staying on this floor. With her bra tossed aside, she kicked off her shoes and undid her jeans, shimmying out of them and her underwear as Ian's mouth moved from hers to her collarbone, and finally her exposed breasts. The feeling of his tongue slowly circling her nipple before flicking lightly against it made her back arch, and she pushed him back just enough to get a hold of his belt, undoing with expert skill. She could tell he was getting hard as her hand grazed the front of his pants, making him straighten, grab hold of her hair at the back of her head, and push her slowly to her knees. She happily complied, undoing his khakis and pulling them to his ankles as she sank down, licking her lips as his cock sprang free.
"No hands," he told her, and she obeyed. Her mouth opened wide and he slid his cock in, hissing as her lips closed around it. His hand still tangled in her hair, he pumped his cock in and out, as Myra sucked like a pro, her tongue drawing intricate patterns along the shaft. After a couple minutes, he pressed his cock hard into her mouth, and she opened her throat, swallowing as he hit the back of it with a satisfied moan. They stayed that way for a long moment, his balls tickling her chin, until he pulled out, letting her draw a gasping breath before he pushed her back down. When he pulled out the second time, she let her teeth graze ever so lightly against his him, which elicited a grateful sigh before he grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet, the tip of his cock teasing her clit. She grinned as he pressed her against the door again, wrapping one leg, then the other, around his waist.
"Oh my God," she breathed against his ear as he slid into her. She wrapped her arms behind his neck, pulling him closer as his hips angled to find just the right spot. When her back arched and a low moan escaped her, he knew he'd found it. She was tight around him, and he loved the feeling as he fucked her against the door, watching her tits bob up and down. Her eyes had fallen shut, her breathing was coming in shorter and shorter gasps, and he knew she was close. He fucked her harder, faster, and when he felt her tense up around him, coming with a hissed, "Oh fuck," he thrust hard one last time, coming with his own muttered curses. He buried his face against her neck, savoring the smell of her perfume mingling with the sheen of sweat coating her body. Slowly, he pulled out and helped her get her feet back on the ground.
"I'm a mess now," she laughed, brushing away some of the hair that had stuck to her face.
"You look like you did in Cuba," he told her. "Like a goddess."
That made her laugh more, and she gave him a gentle push, moving him out of her way so she could stumble to the sofa in the living room. She collapsed onto it with a happy sigh, looking around the large suite, noting the conference table against the wall, strewn with papers, the desk against the window where his computer sat.
"They really set you up here," she said. "Are you running an op from here?"
"Maybe," he said smugly, joining her on the sofa. "It's only for a couple weeks."
"Are they sending you back?" she asked, stretching out, laying her legs in his lap.
"No," he said. "They haven't told me where, but I'm pretty sure it's not back there."
She nodded. "What about your wife?"
"She's coming in tomorrow," he told her. "I wanted to see you first."
Myra sighed, turning her head to look out the window. "You're not getting all mushy on me, are you?"
"Of course not," he said with a satisfied smirk. "There were just some things I needed to get out of my system before I saw her."
"Like getting head in the entryway?"
"Like getting head, period," he said, which made her laugh. "I love Jeanine, but she couldn't pass for a $10,000 hooker, like you."
She kicked her heel into his thigh with a smile. "Like you know what that's like."
He just grinned. "Hey, I've worked undercover ops, too. You'd be surprised what the Company will pay for."
"Well, if they'll pay for that, then they have to pay for room service," she said, reaching behind her for the phone perched on the side table. "I didn't stop for lunch, and after that? I'm starving."
She dialed for room service and placed their order: two cheeseburgers with fries, a side salad, and two Cokes - one regular, one diet. Then she placed the phone back on the table and stood up to take a look at the view. It was an incredible view, this high up in the middle of Times Square. She watched the people milling about below, not caring that she was standing naked in a floor-to-ceiling window.
"I never get up here enough," she sighed. "I'm either stuck in DC, or out in the middle of nowhere."
"Cuba isn't nowhere," he said from the couch, taking advantage of the space to spread out. "And you managed to have some fun there."
"With you, sure," she said, turning away from the view to face him. "I'd hardly call the rest of it a vacation."
"It wasn't supposed to be," he told her, his voice taking on the tone of an experienced field operative. "But you're good at your job. That makes things a lot easier, especially in those situations."
Her gaze wandered back outside as she recalled "those situations", standing in a barren concrete cell with a gallon jug of water and a young Islamic militant shackled at the hands and feet, trying to convince him to return to his cell in Yemen as a spy for the United States. She didn't consider it one of her finer moments.
The silence was a clear signal to Ian that her mind was elsewhere. He joined her at the window, standing behind her, a much gentler version of their earlier positions. His hands wrapped protectively around her waist, and he kissed her shoulder softly.
"You got the job done," he assured her. "And from what I hear, there's been some really good intel coming in."
"There was," she said, and left it at that. He understood, and let her go when she moved to break free of his embrace. She returned to the entryway, picking up their discarded clothing and her overnight bag.
"Do you mind if I take a shower?" she asked, walking into the bedroom.
"Not at all," he told her, walking in behind her to grab a bathrobe. "I'll be waiting."
She smiled and shut the bathroom door in his face. Twenty minutes later, she emerged in a plush white robe to match his, toweling off her hair. Ian was seated on the edge of the bed flipping channels, the food perched precariously beside him. Myra climbed onto the bed, grabbing her diet Coke as she lay back against the head of the bed.
"I can't believe you drink that stuff," Ian said, scooting up next to her.
"I like the way it tastes," she told him, giving him a little jab in the arm with her elbow. They spent the rest of the afternoon making fun of the bad spy movie that they stumbled across on one of the cable channels. A little after five, he announced that they should get ready and disappeared into the shower. When he emerged a few minutes later, he was stopped in his tracks by the sight of Myra in her special underwear before it disappeared beneath her dress.
"Oh, I can't wait to tear that off you later," he said with a grin. She just smiled sweetly back and went to her bag to find a hair clip, taking it along with her makeup bag into the bathroom. She took her time with her hair, making sure it had that just right balance between disheveled and neatly done. Her makeup she kept light and fresh, with just a touch of shadow, a brown eyeliner, and peach colored lipstick. When she stepped out, Ian was dressed in stylish dark jeans and white shirt, his black blazer laid out on the bed.
"You're too old to dress like a yuppie," she teased him, kissing his cheek as she passed him.
"Come on, I'm not that old," he said defensively.
"Older than me," she told him, slipping on her shoes.
"By, what, six years? That doesn't count."
"It's basically a whole other decade," she said with a smile, putting her clutch together. Cell phone, money clip, lipstick. There was a small handgun in a thigh holster in her overnight bag, but she decided it would just look paranoid. It was also a deterrent to any hotel staff that might decide to rummage through her bag while they were out.
"Ready?" he asked, pulling on his jacket.
"Yep," she said, taking the arm he'd offered. "Where are we going, anyway?"
"Where else?" he said, twinkle in his eye. "The classic New York combo: dinner and a show."
They caught a cab downstairs, getting out a couple blocks from Central Park. Dinner was at a well-appointed steakhouse, followed by another cab ride to the Off-Broadway theater. The play was funny, sexy, and dark, and served as an odd parallel to their own relationship in a way.
"I don't know about you, but I could use a drink after that," Myra said as they left the theater.
"I know the perfect place," Ian replied, and hailed yet another ubiquitous yellow cab. A few minutes later, they arrived at their penultimate destination for the evening: Victor's Cafe, where Ian steered them directly to the bar.
"It's like Cuba, but without the despots," she said as she settled on a bar stool.
"All the good parts with none of the headaches," he agreed, ordering them two mojitos. "So tell me, what's your life been like without me?"
Myra laughed. "You're assuming you made that much of an impact."
"Hey, you drove four hours to see me," he answered with a smirk. "I made an impact."
She had to concede that point. The truth was, Ian was one of a very small number of men Myra had actually considered asking a last name from. He'd taken care of her at Gitmo, and for that she was both eternally grateful and bonded to him. Even though she'd translated for interrogations in intelligence, it was very different from being the one with all the power. It bothered her that she'd had to threaten torture to get the young man to turn, even if she hadn't needed to resort to it. Ian had talked her through it, before and after. That night they'd given in to the heightened emotions, like so many agents before them, but there hadn't been any illusions. He hadn't tried to hide his wedding ring, and they'd talked about his wife and his hope to be transferred back stateside so they could start a family. Still, they shared a connection that his wife would never understand, the bond that every covert operative shares.
The muted clunk of their glasses being set on the bar brought her back to the moment at hand. Ian held up his glass.
"A toast," he said brightly. "To a lovely evening with a lovely person."
"Likewise," Myra said, letting her glass clink against his before taking a sip. "So if this is what you're doing with me, what's left for Jeanine?"
"Dinner at the hotel restaurant and Mamma Mia," he admitted, with only the smallest grimace. "Jeannie's been dying to see it ever since the movie came out."
She stifled a giggle as she took another sip. "So I get S&M and she gets Abba. How do you manage this double life of yours?"
"With lots of practice and lots of alcohol." He killed his drink and waved to the bartender for another one, then looked at Myra, as if to say, "Keep up."
"Too bad you can't handle your rum very well," she said, following suit and - as elegantly as possible - drinking the remainder of her drink, which was essentially all of it.
"So, you know all this stuff about me," Ian said as they waited for round two. "I don't know anything about you."
"You know what I do for a living," she reminded him. "That's more than most people."
"Well, yeah, but that doesn't count," he said. "We've got this connection, I feel like I should at least know more than your name and your job."
"Fine," she sighed, nodding her thanks as the bartender dropped off their new drinks. "Two truths and a lie? Let's see if you're better than a polygraph."
The toasted again, and Myra thought up her first round. "I'm fluent in seven languages because my parents knew it would help me later in life. I love the color purple, and... I wanted to fly F-18s in the Navy since I was six."
Ian watched her face closely, noticing the slight smile that came with the last one. "That's a lie. You're so not a plane person."
"Oooh, so close," she said. "Dad took me to see the Blue Angels, and I was in love with naval aviation."
He laughed away his defeat. "Seriously? Wow, I think I just might leave my wife for you now." It was a joke greeted with a playful punch in the arm from Myra.
"Now it's your turn," she told him.
"No, no, you have to catch up to me," he protested. "You still know way more about me."
"Fine, you big baby," she chuckled, taking a moment to think. "My car is named for Arthur McArthur, I've snuck into Arlington Cemetery after hours to see my parents, and I learned to pick locks when I was twelve."
Ian contemplated a moment before deciding that the first fact was false. Myra affirmed it, informing him that it was, in fact, named for Chester Nimitz. And so the night progressed, with Ian learning that Myra's parents had been highly regarded operatives and that she was allergic to morphine, and Myra learning that Ian had graduated with an Art History minor from Yale.
Satisfied that he now knew enough about Myra, Ian asked her to dance with him to the music playing over the speakers. They began a slow salsa, not caring that they were being watched by the other patrons. Lost in the music, they danced for what felt like an eternity before the passion of the evening caught up with them and they made their exit. They made their way down seventh avenue, hands entwined, pointing out all the places they could be ambushed or sniped from and laughing at their stereotypical spy paranoia. As they reached the hotel, they separated, doing their best to look like nothing more than two colleagues relaxing at the end of a long day; after all, he didn't want anyone to put two and two together when his wife arrived the next day.
In the elevator, it was a different story. With nobody else around, he pulled her close for a passionate kiss. They exited onto his floor in a burst of giggles, immediately hushing themselves as they remembered it was late and people were probably sleeping.
"Or watching porn," Myra whispered as they reached his door. Instinctively, they both scanned the suite as they entered, before deciding that nobody was lurking in the shadows, sharing a lighthearted, "Clear."
Myra was first into the bedroom, setting her clutch down on the dresser. Once again, Ian was at her back, kissing her neck as he unzipped her dress, watching appreciatively as she stepped out of it to display the lacy, barely there underwear she was wearing.
"Ten k, easily," he murmured with a smile. "The Agency could make a fortune with you."
Myra chucked a stiletto at him, narrowly missing his head. "I will not be pimped out for budgetary reasons."
With a laugh, he playfully pushed her onto the bed, kissing her as she pushed his jacket off. He stood up, the better to undress himself, putting on a little show as he stripped away his shirt, pants, socks, and finally, boxer-briefs. When Myra moved to remove her own last vestiges of clothing, he reached out to stop her.
"Keep it on," he told her with a devilish grin. Then he sank to his knees, his hands gently holding her legs in place at the edge of the bed, kissing his way up the inside of her thigh. Myra bit her lip in anticipation, feeling the heat of his breath inching closer. Ian pulled her panties to the side and lowered his lips lightly on her clit, sending shivers up her spine before he started in proper, running his tongue along her pussy. She sat up a little, wanting to see his head buried between her legs. She was rewarded by the sight and the feeling of his tongue sneaking inside her. When it curled as he pulled it out, she fell back to the bed, one hand reaching down to rest on his head, encouraging him to keep going. He slid his middle finger into her, massaging her g-spot to great appreciation, lapping at her clit all the while. Once she was really wet, he added another finger, then another, much to her moaning, sighing delight. He fucked her that way, knowing she liked it hard, his tongue flicking at her clit until her back arched, her hands and toes trying to find purchase as she tried her best to stifle a very satisfied scream.
That was when he plunged into her, fighting to keep from coming as her pussy still throbbed around his cock. She pulled him down for a deep, frenzied kiss, wanting to taste herself on his lips as he fucked her. He moved slow at first until he regained control. Then he held nothing back, holding one of her legs to his shoulder, pounding her as he rubbed at her clit, watching her come again and again. Finally, he felt his own orgasm building in his groin, his thrusting became even faster. He came with a final thrust as he gasped her name, collapsing on top of her as they rode out the aftershocks. When he regained his strength, he pulled slowly out of her, letting her panties fall back into place and laid back on the bed next to her.
"Get everything out of your system?" Myra asked with a smug smile.
"Yeah," Ian sighed. "Thanks."
They lay in silence for a long time before Myra decided they could both use some water. As she got up to head to the kitchen, Ian gave her ass a smack, which led to her straddling him, her bra finally removed but the panties still in place. She rode him as he teased at her nipples, both of them coming to less spectacular, but no less enjoyable, orgasms. Deciding her panties had served their fetishized purpose, she stripped them off and strode naked into the kitchen for a glass of water. Ian joined her, and they stood in the dim light of Times Square filtering in through the window.
"When you're ready," she said with a wink, "I want you to fuck me against the window."
"I think I can manage that," he said, watching her walk to the window in the living room. He finished his water and started to stroke himself slowly, gazing at the way the garish neon lights illuminated her body. The shadows gave a sensuous definition to her curves, and it wasn't long before he stood behind her, his cock rubbing up against her ass. She savored the feeling for a moment before angling her hips back so he could slide into her pussy. It was tight, but it was amazing. He felt that much bigger, and she breathed his name against the glass, watching their reflections as he fucked her from behind, her tits pressed against the window. For a moment, she wondered if there was someone in the building across the way watching them in secret, but then Ian had found her tits and her own hand slid down to her clit, and all she cared about was the fact that she'd be going home the next afternoon thoroughly fucked. He whispered her name again as he came, his hands covering hers as they pressed against the glass. Stepping back, he smiled as she turned around to face him, silhouetted by the light.
"I wish I was a photographer," he said. "You look absolutely gorgeous right now."
"Careful," she chided. "Or I'll think you're starting to fall for me."
"Never," he said, taking her hand and pulling her in for a gentle kiss. "And always."
She knew what he meant. Their relationship, in this form, was a perfect match, but if they tried anything else it would be a disaster. It pained her every now and then, the realization that her relationships inevitably revolved around sex and, on occasion, espionage. But she would remind herself of the heartache her parents had caused her, and each other, and she felt justified, if not better, about her decision to ignore any genuine romantic entanglements. It was easier not truly knowing who people were.
They found their way to the bed, collapsing onto it. Myra rolled over to turn off the light, then rolled back onto her side, smiling as Ian curled against her, spooning her. It was the best night's sleep she'd had in a long time, and she woke the next morning feeling relaxed and refreshed, if a bit sore. She slid carefully out from under Ian's arm, being careful not to wake him, and stepped into the bathroom. He was still asleep when she got out of the shower twenty minutes later. It was the sound of her digging in her bag for her t-shirt that finally woke him, and he looked at her with a bit of dismay.
"Taking off already?" he asked, sitting up.
"I want to be long gone when Jeanine gets here," she said. "To make things easier for you."
"Oh, right," he said, trying not to be hurt. He knew the rules she had, but it didn't stop him from feeling disappointed that she wasn't staying longer. As much as he loved his wife, he loved his time with Myra just as much, brief as it was.
She slipped the t-shirt on over her head, then went about packing the rest of her things up.
"Can I at least buy you breakfast?" Ian asked, finally waking up. She looked up and smiled.
"Sure."