The End - Blackbird book 7

5

Like coming to his rescue, Gillian's phone buzzed inside her bag, marooned by the front door. And Brock realized he didn't want any damn rescue. So when she pressed his shoulders for him to let her go pick up, he decided it was time to listen to his groin. One of his hands left Gillian's butt, and as he still pressed his mouth to her underwear, his thumb slipped under it and between her thighs.

Gillian let out a muffled groan. She stiffened, then shivered and let her head fall back, eyes closed. At that moment, she had no recollection of such thing as the telephone ever being invented. Brock's touch was her whole universe as his thumb slid along her groin. Her feet decided on their own accord it was time to step out of the jeans, still rolled down around her ankles like shackles. Brock's thumb only brushed her skin, but it was enough to trigger burning pricks that lashed all the way up to her throat. She wanted way more than that. And she was done playing nice and docile. If Brock had more foreplay in mind, it'd have to wait for next time—which hopefully would be very soon.

Brock moved back to rest against the couch, his hands on her hips, ready to guide her to sit astride on his lap. Gillian was free from her jeans when her phone stopped buzzing. And her foot had hardly left the floor, to bring her knee to the couch, when Brock's phone buzzed.

He looked up at her, admiring her as his hand fished in his pocket.

She narrowed her eyes. So he wouldn't let her pick up, but he did take calls in such a moment? Like hell.

Brock read in her eyes an Irish payback on the way as he took his phone to his ear. And he did nothing to avoid it, curious to see what she had in store for him.

"Sir..." he said, Brockner serious.

Gillian flashed a crooked smirk and removed his hand from her hip. As she kneeled between Brock's legs, she heard Cassidy say, "Gillian's not picking up. D'you happen to know why?"

Brock's scowl followed her as she rested her arms on his lap and captured one of his hands.

"Yes, sir, I do."

Gillian giggled at his calm, cold reply and closed her mouth around his index finger. Good thing Cassidy always spoke for the masses, so she could follow the dialogue to complete the fun.

"Well?"

Brock scowled deeper, eyes nailed to her when her tongue toyed with his finger.

"She's fine, sir."

Gillian wished she could take a video of him.

"Brockner..."

He wore the scowl for the big deals, the life-or-death situations.

"Sir."

His spotless shirt was buttoned all the way up and his tie remained fastened in the Fed Knot of the Year.

"C'mon, Brockner. D'you know where she is?"

"Yes, sir."

He was ready to save the world. He was ready to bring down the worst criminal master mind in human history. He was ready to attend a meeting at the Oval Office without stealing a pen as a souvenir.

"Speak up, Brockner!" Cassidy's bark lashed halfway between annoyed and scoffing.

"She's here with me, sir," replied Brock as if reporting about a convicted felon. And he shifted the phone away from his mouth to take a deep breath when Gillian's tongue swirled around his fingertips, one after the other. Twenty-first century. Seriously. Suits should already include a dematerialize button.

"Oh, okay. Before I talk to her, I wanted to tell you..."

Cassidy's voice went down to white noise for Gillian, who thought it a good moment to take the tease one step further. Because Brock's chills and deep breaths, combined with his stormy scowl, were too cute to let go.

Especially when Cassidy told him about a one-day seminar in DC. At the same time, Gillian dropped his hand with a soft bite. To unbuckle his belt.

Brock's head fell back on the top of the couch, Cassidy's chatter a meaningless sound in his ear. His hips moved up without asking for his permission, to help Gillian bring his pants and his boxer trunks to his knees. She pulled them further down and her hands slid up his legs. Brock swallowed hard, eyes shut. He wanted her so badly it hurt.

"...you okay with that?"

"Yessir," he muttered.

He could only hope he hadn't just agreed to give away a year salary to some founding. But hand to heart, he couldn't care less. Because it was Gillian's turn to brush up his shirt and bring her soft, warm lips to caress his belly. He set his jaw to hold back a shaky grunt, as her tongue sent chills of pure pleasure all over his body.

While Cassidy talked about the upcoming procedures in Michigan, Brock clenched his teeth tighter. Finally Gillian's hands completed their endless trip up his thighs to find his groin. Her fingers slid along his length, brushing his tense skin oh so smoothly, as her mouth still moved down. And then, in a sudden assault, her hand and lips captured him in a ring of fire that pulled his hips up, as his fingers sank in her hair, in case she entertained the idea of going anywhere.

He got lost in her warm tongue and her firm, gentle hand. She'd set the perfect pace he needed to give in to this torturing pleasure. Somehow he registered the silence at the other end of the line.

"Yessir..." he mumbled.

Cassidy laughed heartily. Brock didn't bother to ask what he'd just say yes to. He didn't want to know. He was in no shape to ask, either, as his hips pushed himself slowly into her mouth, feeling he wouldn't get enough of it for decades. It fed his need to a blinding extent.

"I'm sorry, Brockner, but I do need to talk to Gillian," said Cassidy, still chuckling.