Page 61 of Illusionist
His cock is painfully hard, the head flushed dark red and leaking steadily. I take pity on him, wrapping my lips around the tip and sucking gently.
The effect is immediate and devastating. Teddy arches off the floor with a broken cry, his hands flying to my hair as I work my mouth over him. He's so close that it takes embarrassingly little time—just a few bobs of my head, my tongue swirling around the sensitive head, and he's coming with a shout that echoes off the trailer walls.
I catch his release on my tongue, savoring the taste of him before pulling away. Teddy's chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, his eyes glazed with satisfaction and disbelief.
But I'm not done with him yet.
I crawl back up his body, capturing his mouth in another kiss. This time, it's his own taste I share with him, our tongues tangling as we pass his release between us. The intimacy of it, the sheer wrongness that somehow feels so right, has him groaning into my mouth.
When we finally break apart, both swallowing, Teddy collapses back against the floor, completely undone. His hair is mussed, his skin flushed and sweat-dampened, and there's a dazed expression on his face that makes my heart race.
“Fuck,” he breathes, one arm flung over his eyes. “What the hell are you two doing to me?”
Silas chuckles, moving to sit beside us. “Breaking you down, Agent Coleman. Piece by piece.”
“It's working,” Teddy admits, his voice barely above a whisper.
I trace patterns on his chest with my fingertip, watching the way his muscles jump at my touch. “Good,” I murmur. “Because we're just getting started.”
The promise hangs in the air between us, heavy with possibility and threat in equal measure. Teddy doesn't protest, doesn't try to reassert his authority or demand his release. He just lies there, breathing hard, completely at our mercy.
And somehow, I think that's exactly where he wants to be.
21
TEDDY
Iwake up slowly, my head pounding like someone's using it for soccer practice. The metal floor is cold beneath me, and I realize with growing awareness that I'm completely naked, unrestrained, and alone.
They left me.
My heart hammers against my ribs as the reality sinks in. I'm free. Unbound. The trailer door is cracked open, spilling pale light across the metal walls. I could leave. Should leave. Call my supervisor, report what I've witnessed, do my goddamn job.
But my body tells a different story. My lips are swollen from Silas's cock, from Nova's mouth, from tastes I'll never be able to forget. The memory of their hands on me, their voices commanding me, their approval when I did what they wanted—it makes my spent cock twitch with renewed interest.
What kind of federal agent am I that part of me doesn't want to escape?
I force myself to sit up, wincing at the soreness in muscles I'd forgotten I had. My boxers lie crumpled near the chair, and I reach for them with unsteady hands. The fabric feels foreign against my skin now, like putting on a costume that no longer fits.
I can't find the rest of my clothes, but I'm surprised they left me this much as it is. And why leave the door unlocked? Why give me this chance?
Maybe Voss came back. Or maybe the Bureau sent someone after me when I didn't report in, and they had to scatter. Whatever the reason, I need to take advantage while I can. Even if my body screams at me to stay, to wait for them to return and continue what they started.
I move toward the door, bare feet silent on the cold metal. Through the crack, I can see the carnival's back lot—trailers arranged in neat rows, string lights casting everything in warm gold. Beyond this small residential area, the main carnival glows, music and laughter drifting on the night air.
My rental car sits in the public lot, but the keys are probably still in my pants pocket wherever they stashed my clothes. But getting to my car means crossing the entire grounds in my underwear, hoping nobody spots the half-naked federal agent making his escape.
How did my life become this surreal?
I push the door open wider, scanning for movement. The trailers look quiet, their windows dark or glowing softly with interior light. Most of the carnival workers are probably at the main show or cleaning up after the evening crowd. If I'm careful, if I'm lucky…
The fence separating the staff area from the woods beyond catches my eye. Chain link, maybe eight feet high, topped with razor wire that glints in the security lights. But there—a section where they worked around a fallen tree. The gap looks just wide enough for a desperate man to squeeze through.
The forest beyond would give me cover, let me circle around to a road where I could flag down help or at least find a phone. Sure, explaining why I'm running through Missouri woods in my underwear might be awkward, but it beats staying here andletting them finish whatever psychological game they're playing with my head.
And kill me.
I slip out of the trailer, keeping to the shadows between the units. My heart pounds so loud I'm sure someone will hear it, but the carnival noise provides decent cover. The gap in the fence draws closer with each careful step.
