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It’s nice having a nemesis you can rely on to pretend to be your bodyguard in a pinch. Originally, Morgan had planned for the heist to be done alone. She needed a day to herself with no henchmen. She had made sure everything could go smoothly without needing another person to rely on.
And then the fundraiser had a credible threat. The police refused to release to the public what the threat had been and as easily as Morgan could hack into the database and find out, she liked the idea of a little surprise. With the threat, however, came the tricky part of her cover where she wouldn’t go without a body guard after hearing about the threat.
It had been almost too easy to convince Barnaby to come along. All he’d heard, apparently, was, “You get to wear a tight suit, cool ass aviators, and the most expensive cologne you own.” He’d also made the decision to let his Russian accent out over the Canadian one he’d gained after years of living in the country. Morgan couldn’t say she hated it.
The two of them wandered around the art museum, mingling with people. Well, Morgan mingled. Barnaby stood threateningly behind her. Not many people minded. In fact, there were a few other people who also had bodyguards with them.
“What exactly are you stealing?” Barnaby asks when no one was around.
“Pottery,” Morgan says. Barnaby rolled his eyes at the answer.
“Could you be any more vague?”
“I’m stealing clay.” He gives her a look and she just smiles back at him. She makes her way towards the room where her mark was set up. Barnaby follows soundlessly. She forgot how quiet he could be sometimes. On her other heists, she almost never heard him behind her until he was right there. She needed to make a gadget for that. Some sort of glasses that showed her just behind her periphery.
Barnaby grabs Morgan by the elbow, pulling her back. She’d nearly run into another guest while lost in thought. She gives him a nod of thanks. In the next room, Morgan’s mark was on display as a centerpiece. She walks around the glass case as Barnaby watches her.
“This vase,” Morgan says, reading from the plaque on the stand, “Is thought to be the first depiction of a human coming into their power. Discovered in 1863, it shows how humans didn’t always have powers as previously thought. Tenth century BCE.” Morgan looks up from the plaque, meeting Barnaby’s sunglasses. Despite them being tinted, she knows he’s meeting her gaze.
“What’s so special about this vase?” he asks. His voice is quiet yet it still drives a shiver up Morgan’s spine.
“It’s expensive.”
“No.” Barnaby makes his way around the display, standing close enough for Morgan ro see through the tint in the glasses. “There’s something else.” Morgan’s breath comes out shaky. Her eyes flutter before she answers.
“I believe it’s evidence of an S Tier ranked person. They’ve only been theorized before, never once has there been real evidence of a person above A Tier, but the art on this vase…” Morgan looks once more at the pottery. If she’s right, then there could be other people with such ranking, hiding, or even the same person still alive today. She is fascinated by that possibility.
Before Morgan can give more detail, there’s screaming in the other rooms. Her head snaps up at the unmistakable sound of gunshots. Her eyes widen, glance up at the cameras and see they’re off. Now is her chance.
Barnaby grabs her bicep and pulls her away from the stand.
“What are you doing?” Morgan hisses.
“You’re paying me to be your bodyguard,” Barnaby says, “I am being your bodyguard.” Morgan protests but Barnaby doesn’t budge on the argument. Just drags her to the mirrored wall in the display room. She starts to question what he’s doing until they come to the wall and Barnaby pushes, swinging part of the mirror open. Barnaby pushes her into the narrow area and closes the door.
“How the fuck did you notice that?” Morgan asks. Barnaby brings a finger to his lips.
“I grew up in the mafia,” he whispers, “I notice things.”
In the smaller space, Barnaby’s cologne overwhelms Morgan's senses. She can’t help but lean into him, trying to figure out what the scent is.
“What are you doing?” Barnaby’s breath ghosts over Morgan’s skin. His voice in her ear, Russian accent and all, makes her knees go weak. She grips Barnaby’s wrist, leaning back against the glass. For whatever reason, there’s a small ledge at waist height that Morgan is able to lean against. She still can’t fathom what the hallway could be for, but she doesn’t question it. Especially not when her friend is moving closer to her, looking concerned.
“You motherfucker,” Morgan whispers. Barnaby’s brows shoot up. His sunglasses tucked away.
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. You’re all dressed up, smelling like a fucking model, and sounding damn se–.” Barnaby’s eyes widen and he clamps his hand over Morgan’s mouth. She doesn’t know if his thigh between her legs is on purpose, but damn if it doesn’t turn her on more than anything.
“Gunmen,” Barnaby mutters into her ear. The words breeze over the shell of her ear and she shouldn’t make the sound she does at that word. Barnaby’s eyes snap to hers. She knows she should be embarrassed. Her face should be red from any emotion other than lust.
“Oh,” Barnaby whispers, “I get it.” Morgan’s eyes are lidded as she looks at him. He shifts, positioning himself even closer to her, grinding his knee against her cunt. Morgan moans at the feeling again and Barnaby shushes her. His chest is right up against hers, his breathing much steadier than Morgan can even try to attempt.
“Be a good girl,” Barnaby purrs, voice still thick with a Russian accent, “And stay quiet.” Morgan nods. Barnaby’s face dips out of view and his mouth is against her neck, sucking a mark just beneath the collar of her black dress. A strangled sound escapes from Morgan’s throat despite her best efforts to stay silent. Barnaby’s hand grips her jaw tighter at the sound.
“I know you want to make noise,” he whispers against her skin, “And I would love to hear all the sounds you make, but they are still outside.” Morgan whimpers. She feels his lips curl into a smile against her shoulder. He doesn’t move from his position, teasing her. Morgan doesn’t care to wait and grinds down against his thigh, leaning her head back against the glass and closing her eyes at the pleasure that builds from the motion.
In response, Barnaby continues to kiss and suck at her neck. His unoccupied hand runs down her waist, to her thighs. Morgan nearly groans at the circles against her skin moving closer and closer to right where she wants him. His fingers graze against her panties and she whines, high and needy.
“God, you sound gorgeous.” Barnaby mutters, apparently no longer caring about making too much sound. “After this, we’ll see just how loud I can make you. How does that sound, hm?” Morgan’s tongue flicks out, licking a stripe against the palm of his hand still against her mouth. Barnaby chuckles and nods, whispering something to himself in Russian.
“Fuck,” Morgan’s curse is muffled, but Barnaby hears her well enough. He hums and continues to whisper to her in the foreign language. His hand moves away from where she desperately wants him, instead venturing further up his body.
Morgan shivers at the way his callouses graze against her ribs before he cups her breast. She groans into his hand, arching when he pinches her nipple. He rolls it between his fingers while sucking another mark on the opposite side of her neck. Morgan closes her eyes again, grinding against his thigh once more.
Barnaby, to his credit, releases her nipple as he moves in tandem with her, his hand traveling back down to where she’s aching for him. The moment his hand dips under her waistband, she moans, louder than before. She hopes that either the weird hallway is sound-proofed, or Barnaby made sure the gunmen were gone before he did so.
“You sound so pretty, baby,” he says, “Such a pretty thing and so wet for me, fuck .” Morgan moans again, rutting against the fingers he’d started rubbing against her cunt. He moves his fingers away from her entrance and she only has time to whine in protest for a second before his finger is rubbing circles over her clit.
“There you are,” Barnaby says at the sound Morgan makes. He babbles off into Russian again. It’s the combination of the foreign language, gruff in his throat, and the pressure against her clit that has her coming for him. Her thighs tighten around his leg and she arches into his body as she moans. He doesn’t stop, helping her ride the high from her climax.
When Morgan comes down, Barnaby has removed his hand from her mouth. His hand is away from her cunt as well, instead brought to his mouth as he licks and sucks his fingers clean from her slick. Morgan whimpers at the sight. Barnaby smiles around his digits. He cleans them off with the handkerchief in his breast pocket.
“Well, it seems the cops are here,” Barnaby nods to the two-way window. Sure enough, the police are clearing the room. Morgan blinks and starts to stand. She wobbles and Barnaby wraps his arm around hers, allowing her to lean on him. It’s awkward in the small space, but Morgan doesn’t mind.
“We hid in here after the gunshots went off,” Morgan mutters to herself, “And waited until the cops arrived before coming out.”
“And definitely didn’t have sex,” Barnaby whispers in her ear. Morgan’s face goes red.
“How’d you know there was a door there?” She fans her face, trying to get rid of the blush as she asks the question.
“I studied the blueprints,” he says, “Need to be a good bodyguard.” Morgan rolls her eyes. It doesn’t blow past her that he gave two different answers. She’d ask him more about that later, but for now, they need to talk to the police. And Morgan needs a new plan to steal the vase. She’ll work on that later, though.
As Morgan pushes the door open, Barnaby leans down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear to say: “And after questioning, I’ll take you back to mine. We can see just how loud you can be when we’re not hiding.” She whimpers at the comment and he chuckles.
“Maybe,” Morgan whispers, “We can see just how much it takes before you forget English all together.” It’s Barnaby’s turn to go beet red, just as an officer approaches to escort them out.