Wallbanger (11 page)

Gaze moving laterally on a roundabout route
to the floor, she dropped to her knees, tugging the denim and the
boxers down his long legs. His hand steadied on her shoulder when
she lifted on one foot to free him of the pants. She repeated the
process with the other and kept her eyes locked on the wooden
planks beneath her knees, which hurt like hell, incidentally. He
didn’t answer her question, and that only built the anxiety that
his answer would be in the affirmative.

“Eyes up, sparky,” Xander commanded, and
without thinking Kizzie did as instructed, getting a good long look
at his cock. Her mouth dropped open on a silent gasp, and he
sniggered; chucked her under the chin. “See? You’re a natural. But
close that or I’ll fill it.” With a wink he headed for the
bathroom. “I can handle the shower on my own. Y’did good, Kiz. Go
get dressed. We leave in an hour.”

The water started before she recovered enough
to get off the floor.

“Son of a…” she muttered, annoyed that he’d
gotten to her—
again
—and then dismissed her like it was
nothing—
again
. She stared at the closed bathroom door, then
turned on her heel and paused, glancing at his phone on the
dresser. Horny or not, she was still an agent, and she was sure
Xander’s mobile was filled with all kinds of key contacts she and
her team could use.

She crept over to the device, careful not to
touch it, and a closer inspection confirmed her suspicions. Beneath
the darkened display screen she could just make out a biometric
scanner on the lower right corner. A camera lens in the upper left
was probably used for facial or iris pattern recognition, if not
both. It was safe to assume he had it rigged for voice
identification as well.

She wished her wizard were there to help. He
could hack a satellite. She’d seen him do it.

“Dammit.” Kizzie fumed. Duquesne was prepared
for every situation. Why else would he leave his phone accessible?
He knew she’d try to check it. He was probably in that shower
laughing his ass off, and she could do nothing but let him.

As it stood, Xander had all the control in
this game, making it so she was constantly on her guard, reacting.
It was time that changed.

At the closet, Kizzie pulled a navy suit from
the wardrobe, helping herself to the dresser to find the rest of
the items she’d need. Then, like a good sub, she sat perfectly
straight on the edge of the bed and waited for Sir to come out.

* * * *

Towel wrapped around his waist, Xander left
the steaming bathroom and paused. He glanced at his phone,
seemingly undisturbed, and then at the naked woman on his bed.

“I told you to get dressed.” He smirked.
Maybe she
wants
another spanking….

She stood and padded to him. “I know, Sir,
but it would please me to dress you first. That is, if it would
please
you
, Sir.”

Horrible idea
. He’d already been
thinking about her too much, the remnants of his conscience praying
Plan B worked so he wouldn’t have to leave her with Sacha. Plan A
didn’t consider her feelings at all. He should have left it at
that. He was slipping.

He noted the clothes she’d set out. She’d
gone through his things, probably in search of 3-19. She wouldn’t
find it here. Either way, the violation angered him—a firm reminder
that, bottom line, Kizzie was a secret agent trained to complete
missions no matter the method. She didn’t trust him, and acting as
his submissive or not, he shouldn’t trust her.

Xander ignored the suit and went to the
closet to choose his own. “I can dress myself.”

“I understand, Sir, but if I have to do this
for Sacha, I need the practice.” She shrugged and added, “Lots of
experience getting a man out of his clothes—back in…”

He ground his teeth, let that info roll off
his shoulders. She peeked at him, and he caught the wicked gleam in
her eyes just before her head bowed again.

What game is she playing?
Was she just
trying to get him in bed? The honey trap was such an old tactic,
but definitely effective. A man usually lost his senses after sex.
Shoot your load then shoot off at the mouth. A woman like Kizzie
had probably run the con time and time again to get Intel from a
target, and he wouldn’t be another notch in that bedpost. That’s
why he stopped toying with her when he had—it left her in the
vulnerable position.

But now it seemed she was challenging his
restraint. Fine by him. Kizzie wanted to really play at being his
sub, he’d let her. He could guarantee she’d be the one who cracked
first. He’d have her spilling secrets in a matter of minutes.

Strolling back to he, he let the towel fall.
“All yours, Princess.”

Kizzie hesitated a half second, then grabbed
the bottle of lotion from the bed.

She started at his chest, warming the thick
liquid between her hands before her palms smoothed up his abs,
passed over his pecs in luxurious strokes. Firm pressure provided a
nice massage, and she dug a little deeper into his shoulders. His
arms were next for the delightful treatment; extra time on his
hands.

And then things got hairy.

The chafe of lotion against her skin and then
her palms cuffed his right ankle, working their way up his calf.
She smoothed up his thigh, rubbing and kneading, and the long
division he started on in his head wasn’t enough to distract him.
His abs clenched. “Kizzie…” he growled in warning.

“Hmmm?” Her response was all bubbly
innocence, attention still lingering on his inner thigh. “Is this
okay, Sir?”

The little wench
. The back of her hand
brushed his cock, twice, and he fought the instinct to toss her on
the bed and sink into her. She wouldn’t win. Period.
Four
thousand, two hundred twenty-eight divided by three hundred
thirty-four….

A few more agonizing caresses and she was at
his other ankle, stroking up his calf, fondling his thigh.
Shit.

Her lips pressed to his groin and he couldn’t
take anymore. Gripping her upper arms, he snatched her from the
floor. The astonished look on her face would have been hysterical
if he wasn’t another type of “h” altogether.

“Enough.” Soft breasts mashed to his chest
made the word come out less harsh than he intended.

“But your back isn’t—”

“Don’t play with me, Kizzie, ‘cause you’re
this close to…” he trailed off, shaking his head. How she kept that
doe-eyed look he didn’t know.

“‘To’, Sir?” Pillowy lips twitched.

“Glad you two are playing nicely. Expected to
come back to a crime scene.”

Xander looked to see Phil looming in the
doorway; scooped up the towel and wrapped it around her.

“No fair!” Phil objected, “Covering up such a
nice view.”

Kizzie chuckled against Xander’s shoulder and
whispered, “I think you just bowed to your sub, Sir.”

He didn’t need this right now. He had a stiff
cock, an insubordinate sub, and a pain in the ass for a best
friend—And a stiff cock. Shoving the corset and chains into
Kizzie’s hands, he spun her by the shoulders, sending her on her
way. “Go get dressed.”

She yelped when he smacked her ass, then
turned around and saluted. “Sir, yes, Sir!” She giggled and strode
past Phil. “Hey, handsome.”

They watched her depart before the big man
held up his hands. “Please, don’t shoot. I’m unarmed.” He strolled
into the room, laughing as he dropped into the desk chair. A black
box went on the table and he leaned back, twisted the cap off a
bottle of water. “You two seem to be getting along. She gonna be an
issue, X?”

Xander went for the boxers on his bed,
stepped into them, and followed with the navy suit pants. “No,
we’re good. That was just a little sub training gone wrong.” At the
dubious look in Marchande’s eyes he added, “I’m straight, Phil. Why
do you smell like lemon?” Phil waved his hand dismissively and
Xander shrugged, asked, “How’d it go?”

Phil relayed the info from his earlier recon.
“Ten outside cameras, motion-sensors along the walls. Zero cameras
inside—” he frowned, “What self-respecting miscreant doesn’t have
interior cameras?”

“I don’t.”

“’Cause you, Xander, are not
self-respecting.”

“You missed your calling,” he grumbled.
“Sacha’s arrogant and disillusioned by thinking everything in his
little castle is under his control. Only way in or out is through
the front door, so why would he need cameras? His ego might work in
our favor. What about guards?”

“Day guards clocked out a couple hours ago;
count on maybe four to six being at the party tonight. Plant a few
eyes and ears and we’ll get what we need.”

Xander nodded, slipping into the cream dress
shirt, pleased with Kizzie’s choice.

“So, X,” Marchande said, pausing to take a
swig of water, “this last minute plan B. For her or for
Harvey?”

He looped the buttons of his shirt through
the holes, not bothering to look up. “Harvey. Like I said, I
haven’t gotten my priorities crossed, Phil. Just ‘cause I’m using
her doesn’t mean I trust her. Ask me again and I break your jaw.
Crystal?”

“Try that and I’ll dot your other eye,” Phil
said with a smirk, motioning toward the scar across Xander’s
eyebrow. “I know you, X, and I respect the choices you make about
this life inside a life you’re leading. But don’t let the one
outshine the other.”

Phil tossed his buddy a watch. “Thought you
might also like to know, Sacha had a visitor today.”

“I’m listening.” He slid his hand through the
bracelet and secured the clasp.

“How does Akio Takata strike you?”

Xander exhaled. “As another fuckin’
problem.”

7

Darkness descended on Helsinki, the nightlife
thriving in spite of the light snowfall. In the back seat, Kizzie
watched from behind the dark tint of the Range Rover as people
packed the bars and discos, enjoying the end of a long day. Her
days were always long, and they never ended. She hadn’t had a break
from the job in a couple years, and, when she finally got
one—demotion or not—she ran off to chase trouble that had nothing
to do with her. She wondered what kind of defect she had in her
brain that made her dedicate her life to this insanity.

The car turned off one main street and onto
another, and every scene appeared the same: people flocking to
evening entertainment. Here she was, dressed in a cupless corset,
hooker heels, and a heavy, fur-lined velvet cloak, on her way to a
party that was all part of a job.

It’d be funny if it weren’t so tragic.

Maybe it was time she got out of the
clandestine operations business; cut her losses after this gig. She
had a nice run, but this rush from one crazy extreme to the next
just wasn’t healthy. She needed to find a man, settle down, have a
couple rug-rats, and learn to love domestic life like sane people.
Screw 3-19 and Connolly.
If he wanted it so bad, let him get
his own ass spanked for it.

It was a pointless conversation, she knew.
Kizzie was a finisher. It was in her blood. She was dedicated to
the job because she didn’t know life without it. All she had at
home was laundry and Panamanian beer—one of which she could do
without. There wasn’t even sour milk to go back to. She’d never
bought any after Mauritius.

Feeling Xander’s gaze on her she sighed.
Then there’s this
. Why couldn’t she be a normal girl going
to a normal party—that involved wearing normal clothes—and
attending that party with a normal guy?
Noooo
. Nothing about
this situation was normal.
You had to go and be attracted to a
frickin’, freak-boy criminal!

Kizzie cracked her knuckles and wiggled her
fingers.

“You ready for this?”

“Ready as I can be, Sir,” she said
softly.

Xander chuckled. “You said that like you
meant it.”

“Then I guess that means you trained me well,
Sir,” she answered, managing to keep the sarcasm from her tone.

The overhead lights went on. “Final touch.
Couldn’t be my sub without a collar.” He opened a velvet box and
removed the item inside. “Usually there’s a ceremony and…” he
shrugged, “Like it?”

Kizzie paused at the sincerity in his voice;
glanced down at the neckwear he held in his hands. Thickly woven
gold chainmail, about 18-inches in length. One end stopped in a
large gold O ring, the other end a smaller O.

“It’s beautiful, Sir.” And she meant it. She
caught a hint of a smile on his lips and almost returned it, but
pulled back before she forgot herself.

He set the open case on her lap. “Lift your
hair for me.”

Kizzie did as instructed, shuddering when his
fingers brushed her neck and barely registering the cool slide of
metal along her skin. He passed the smaller ring through the
larger, the gold rope tightening like a slipknot at her throat, a
stopper in the O preventing the necklace from choking.

“The lock,” he said, teasing her
collarbone.

She looked down at the padlock she hadn’t
noticed—gold with a large ruby in the center—and plucked it from
the box. A soft
snick
sounded when he affixed it at the
trailing end of the chain, the tiny noise blaring like a claxon in
her head.

“Let me see.” He centered the charm between
her breasts and smiled. “Looks good on you, Princess.” Then he
fixed her tresses around her shoulders and pulled the hood up on
her cloak. Taking the box from her lap, he palmed the key and
dropped it in his left breast pocket.

She said nothing, just stared at him in a
half daze.
Normal might have been nice.

And thoughts like that would get her
killed.

Humanity was something that that passed
through a fine-mesh filter in training. Connolly had drummed into
her head the aspects of an ideal agent: mission first, emotion
absent, trust no one, survive at all costs, adapt or die. Normal
didn’t even hover near the list.