Exceed My Expectations Again

Fifteen operatives surveil the V.I.P. section, yet I continue to stare through a gap in the curtains behind the stage. The drug distributor hasn't arrived yet, but the undercover agents he's meeting with are cuddled at his table nursing drinks. Stefano's ordered a Negroni cocktail since they don't serve straight Campari.

Tucked in his muscular embrace is Kara-Dee Miller, a new recruit who has mistaken his encouragement during training sessions as genuine interest. Their cover as a married couple allows Kara-Dee a bit of leeway. Though still planning to dislocate her jaw if she sticks her tongue in his mouth one more time.

"Heads up," boss says through the earpiece.

Sweep the crowd. Two Caucasian men in dark suits descend the stairs. It's the perp, Ethan Drage, with his bodyguard.

Back at the table, Kara-Dee climbs into Stefano's lap. The ho-bag presses her mouth to the side of his neck like a blood-thirsty vampire and reaches around to grope at his backside.

Whoa! That firm Italian ass is mine, puta!

Stomach twinges with raw anger. How dare she take advantage of him during a mission when he can't break character. Have to do something. Hands skim up the leather corset to the thin knife concealed between my breasts. Can't carry a gun in this get-up.

Drage joins them, offering Stefano a handshake and smile as Kara-Dee makes it clear that she's comfortable at the center of their attention.

Lady Gaga's "Poker Face" fades out. The performer flits offstage. Another girl appears at my right with a whiny, "Get out of the way!"

Thrust the heel of my palm into her face. The strike drops the sequinned lightweight. Oops. Sorry sweetie. That wasn't meant for you. A wide-eyed bouncer rushes forward as the familiar chords of Cascada's "Evacuate the Dancefloor" drown out her curses and the crowd's applause.

Throw the curtains aside. Strut into the spotlight. Break into an old routine from high school, emphasizing the more risqué moves that disqualified the troupe from regional competition.

"Hey! Is that Angela?" The comm line fills with excited chatter.

Kara-Dee's eyes shift. Her brow wrinkles. She knows from my fierce, unyielding look that something's wrong. Swing and buck my hips, mimicking the major fucking she's gonna get at debriefing—and not from Stefano either. Clientele whoop at the sassy display, but the hussy's frowning, distracted, can't regain her composure at the bodily taunts. Blow her a kiss and she bails toward the bathrooms like she might vomit.

Strike a victorious pose as the song winds down to rowdy cheers then stroll backstage to face the music. Bouncers glare. Dancers huddle for safety. Handsy manager wants to see me in his office for a private talk—maybe something more intimate. Twirl away when his arm snakes around my waist. Give a flirty pout that hints at unspoken promises. It's enough to appease.

Boss breaks cover. Pulls me to the back door for a private scolding. Left my post, disregarded orders—so what? A girl has to protect her man.

Now this girl is benched, uninvited to the party. Grab my coat on the way out. Head home. Brood. Plan downfall of Kara-Dee Miller. Wish I could drink. Brood more.

Stefano arrives around three. Strips in silence. Gaze averted. Crawls into bed to cuddle close. He smells of alcohol and ho-bag's lilac perfume. Kinda hate him for both.

"Disciplinary action?"

"No." He caresses my hair. "I told them."

Traitor. Slap his chest. "We agreed, not yet!"

He doesn't flinch. "Limited duty beats reassignment."

Turn from tainted kisses. "At least wash Miller's stench away."

He chooses not to argue. Heads to the bathroom. Leaves the door ajar. An invitation that makes me bluster until his strong voice sings out over the sound of the shower. A cute Italian ditty about grazing goats. Manipulator. He knows I adore goats.

Guilt tempers jealous-driven hormones. Some operatives never get what we'll have in about seven months. Stefano looks forward to changing diapers. Weird man. My weird, wonderful man.

Peek in to ogle that drenched, sublime ass. Better make sure he gets all the spots. Ditch sleepwear. Climb in.

With a coy look, Stefano assumes the position: hands on the wall, legs spread. Needy, lathered fingers explore, invade and grip sensitive areas. Take every advantage. Tease him to the tense, shivery edge. He grunts, grinds with rapture. Pleasure erupts in a hot, thick stream, leaving him panting, wobbly.

Finish washing and drying. Fall into bed, content to sleep flesh to flesh.