Coffee Break By Silk

Section One's top Level 5 field operative, James Samuelle, was on the warpath. No one had ever seen him angry. Well, no one who ever lived to tell about it.

People jumped out of the way, scattering left and right, horrified looks on their faces. Living inside Section might mean near-certain death someday, but stepping into James' path could well shorten their allotted time on this Earth.

It looked as though James was headed for Comm. The nerve center of Section, Comm was run by the most brilliant mind in computer technology, a short, younger-than-average geek named Blair Sandburgoff, who stood to be in very deep trouble, if James' mood was anything to go by.


That was another thing. James never ever shouted. Not even in the throes of passion, it was rumored.

Startled by James' explosive arrival, Blair leaped to his feet, forgetting that he was crouched directly under his workstation. Bumping his head on the way up, he yelled, "Ow!"

James blinked and waited for Blair's full attention. The boy, if you could call a man nearly thirty years old that, was considered a disgrace. In a paramilitary organization like Section, adherence to things like order and discipline were paramount. Sandburgoff embodied everything that a stern autocrat like Operations disliked most. He was a creative thinker. In his job, he had to think "outside the box". His ability to do that very thing was what made him so valuable.

But it made him persona non grata just about everywhere inside Section. As did his non-conformist appearance. His dark, curly, shoulder-length hair, his vivid blue eyes, usually hidden behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses when working, his entire mode of dress, which bordered on fashionable slashed with grunge, and of course, his way of speaking, which managed to be a cross between Surfer Dude and Articulate Beatnik.

"What's up, man?" asked Blair, rubbing the top of his head.

"You were doing tactical oversight on the Ruiz mission." That wasn't a question. It was a carefully worded challenge to deny whatever calamity befell the team of operatives on that mission.

"Yeah, so?"

Irreverence would never cut it with James. He snapped, "Those were *not* abeyance operatives, Sandburgoff."

"What's your point, man?"

"My point? My entire team is dead! Cut down by an inability to get to their retreat point in time! What was the POS (probability of success) anyway?"

"For you, 100 percent, James! For the others, who cares? They're all expendable!"

"Who says?"

Blair looked over the top of his glasses at the Perch, as it was called in Section parlance. It was where Operations observed all of Section. "He does."

Frustrated by having the target of his rage changed to someone not only inaccessible but dangerous to confront on a good day, James surveyed the young head of Comm. He wasn't a bad-looking kid. In fact, James rather appreciated the way his jeans clung to his muscular thighs. Then there was that ass…oh, mon Dieu, James had never seen another ass so fine since his days as a Valentine operative in training.

"Want to go get a cup of coffee?"

Blair cocked his head, surreptitiously adjusting his jeans. He had a major jones for James. Was there any chance he could turn a cup of coffee into hot, steamy, couch-burning sex?

"Coffee?" he squeaked.

James contemplated what it might be like to fuck that delicious ass. He was definitely a bottom boy.

Blair murmured excitedly at the thought of being fucked by the rock-hard cock straining to get out of James' pants. That was the problem with mission pants. They showed *everything*.

"Meet me in the ready room in half an hour."


"And don't tell anyone. Especially Operations."

"What about Nikita?"

"Who's Nikita?"


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