Chapter 2Hours and Minutes of Uncertainty
Someone was in bed with me, arms holding me snug against an almost hairless chest, morning wood nestled in the crack of my ass. I started to inch out of bed.
“It’s early, Mark,” a sleep-roughed voice murmured. “Go back to sleep.”
“Quinn.” I blew out a breath. “I’ve got to—”
“It’s Saturday. You don’t have to do anything.”
I could have told him that maybe that was how things worked at the CIA, but not at the WBIS, but his arms were strong around me, it was warm and comfortable under the covers, and my own morning wood quivered.
And I’d told Matheson he didn’t have to come in until ten.
I freed myself of Quinn’s grip, and he sighed. “I wish you’d—”
“You wish I’d what?” I rolled him over, switching our positions. Now it was my c**k against his
