Fresh Whet INK publishing
SHAKEN AND STIRRED copyright June, 2011
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This book is intended for Adult Audiences. It features graphic language, sexual encounters and situational violence that may be considered offensive. Please keep your files in a location inaccessible to minors.
Fresh Whet Ink Publishing
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Cover design copyright 2011 Sable Jordan
First Edition June 2011
A Smashwords Edition
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SHAKEN AND STIRRED
By Sable Jordan
Dear Reader,
Thank you for taking the time to download a copy of my free story, Shaken and Stirred. It was created as a means to express my appreciation to people like you who support independent authors. I hope you find it tickles your fancy and whets your appetite. I only ask that you enjoy this free read, and then stop by to write a review. And, of course, don’t forget to tell a friend to download their free copy as well.
Sable
Contents:
Excerpt: DIFFERENT SHADES OF GRAY
*Shaken and Stirred first appeared in the free anthology Summer Heat. If you read the original, you can skip ahead to “Operation Domestication” to pick up where you left off.
Location: Indian Ocean, the Island Republic of Mauritius, Africa
Target: Xander Duquesne
Objective: Secure “Formula 3-19”
Kizzie strolled along the white sand beach with one thing on her mind: Nguyen had stood her up. It was a gamble to use him in the first place, but Bill Connolly assured her the gunrunner would be the perfect cover to get access to the party…and the formula. Now she’d have to do it on her own.
A dozen paces ahead, five sarong-wrapped girls followed meekly behind two men dressed in black linen. They’d been doing it a half-hour or so—the entire time Kizzie had been on the beach; the women with their heads bowed, shuffling single-file and barefoot across the hot sand. She hadn’t paid much attention before, but now the group seemed to have a purpose she could use, headed as they were toward the inflatable speedboat waiting to ferry another batch of partygoers to a massive Lürssen yacht anchored 2.3 miles out to sea. Yes, Kizzie knew the precise distance—when the sun set in four hours, she’d have to swim it. Provided, however, everything went according to plan—a plan dependant on the presence of one Ri Nguyen.
A glance over her shoulder to see if he would show revealed nothing but tourists splashing in the clear blue water.
“I’m moving.” She spoke in a low tone, knowing the transmitters in the sapphire pendant around her neck, working in concert with matching earrings, would relay the message to her two-member team stationed in a van a short ways down the beach.
Solomon’s nasally speech came through the earpiece inserted deep in her ear. “He’s a few minutes late, Baldwin. Hold position.”
“Negative, Nevins,” she said, lips barely twitching. She quickened her pace to fall in with the people ahead. “I’ve got an opportunity. I’m taking it.”
“Affirmative, KB,” a southern voice confirmed. It belonged to Gale Freeman, the third point of the triangle. “’Cordin’ ta’ Intel, this is the last scheduled boat. I put out a few feelers on our buddy Nguyen; no nibbles on the line yet. If ya’ got an in you go right on ahead an’ take it.”
“Outvoted as usual,” Solomon griped.
“But ya’ had a vote,” Gale drawled. “Thank the Lord fer da’mocracy.”
Kizzie smirked, coming up behind the last girl in the bunch. Unlike the people yammering in her ear, the group she walked with was oddly silent.
Instinct said something was off; training said start with details.
Taking a peek at the blond she was now beside, Kizzie noted the woman’s gaze fixed firmly on the bound feet of the girl toddling directly in front of her. Blondie’s arms were tied before her at the wrists with black rope, and a heavy length of chain draped her neck like a necklace; the pendant a gold padlock.
The hell…? Kizzie slowed a bit, lifting her gaze to inventory the other women: varying heights, shapes, and ethnicities; two brunettes, two more blonds—one bleached, one dirty; same bent heads; same bizarre neckwear; same tight white sarongs; same wobbly gait indicative of bound feet. She assumed their wrists were also tied. The men were too far ahead to make any useful assessment, both having similar heights and builds, the only difference being one was bald.
The men started into the water, their charges following suit. Kizzie quickly removed her sandals and stuffed them into the tote hanging from her shoulder, and then lifted the hem of the strapless, dark green maxi-gown she wore. January was the middle of summer in Mauritius, and the floor-length cotton dress was too hot for the weather. She couldn’t wait to strip and dive into the warm ocean, but right now the outfit looked the part of afternoon yacht party. Or so she thought.
“That the last of you, then?” the driver of the speedboat asked the men as the group approached.
The one with hair nodded, spinning around and catching sight of Kizzie. He headed back toward her, splashing through the water, his dark brow furrowed. “And you are…?”
Bond. James Bond. The thought always came to her with that question, the theme music never far behind. Ten years in the business and she still couldn’t shake it. “Doesn’t matter who I am.”
One of the women turned, making eye contact with Kizzie. The bald man slapped her. Hard. “Sorry, Sir,” she said quickly, although she looked anything but. A euphoric calm bloomed on her pale face in time with the reddening handprint.
Kizzie schooled her reaction. Everything in her wanted to break the second man’s jaw, but the steel gray eyes of the first were still on her.
“Who’s got your collar?”
Collar? She shifted her gaze to the speaker, brow rising. “Ex-cuse me?”
“You heard me. You leashed? ‘Cause this boat’s for the sluts.”
Her temper flared, the hand fisting her skirt tightened.
“Let it go, KB,” Gale warned. “Kick his ass lay-tuh. Don’t blow yer cover.”
If anyone knew how much she detested someone even hinting at calling her a bitch, it was Gale. Kizzie smothered the memories of days long gone, bringing herself firmly back into the present.
She cleared her throat, squared her shoulders. “Mister Duquesne’s expecting me.”
“Master Duquesne, huh? Expecting a trainee who doesn’t know his title? I doubt it.”
Kizzie didn’t flinch. Water sloshed around her calves, wetting the hem of her dress.
“Uh…Master Eldridge?” Gray Eyes turned to Bald Head, who motioned at his neck. “The sapphire….”
The one named Eldridge faced her again, eyes widening at the sight. He dipped his head slightly. “Forgive me, Mistress—or,” he added quickly, “or is it Princess?”
“I like princess, personally,” Gale offered.
Solomon sighed. “Princess Kizzie…we’ll never live it down.”
“Princess, Master Eldridge.” Kizzie inclined her head, ignoring the voices in her ear and moving confidently toward the boat.
Bald Head held up his hand. “Would Princess like assistance? Can’t have you show up wet.” Without waiting for a response he pushed the girl at the head of the line to her knees and barked, “On all fours, every one of you.”
The women obeyed, shifting to proper position, creating a path of human stepping-stones to the boat. The one farthest out could barely keep her head above water. Master Eldridge took Kizzie’s hand, motioning for her to step up.
What the hell are these chicks on? Bile rose in her throat, disgusted at assisting in demeaning these women while her foot pressed into the tiny back of the blond she’d first taken notice of. With Master Eldridge’s help, Kizzie stepped from blond to brunette, both surprisingly strong under her weight. As she passed from one fleshy ottoman to the next, each girl enthusiastically recited, “Thank you, Princess.” The last woman gargled it around a mouthful of seawater.
Settled in the boat, Kizzie reclaimed her hand. “You’ve trained them well.” It sickened her to say, but it seemed to be expected.
Bald Head beamed at her praise. “Stand.”
Heads still ducked, the women pushed to their feet; the one nearest the boat disappeared beneath the water before resurfacing, completely soaked. Drenched sarongs clung to practically naked flesh, outlining the curves of each woman’s body and making visible what lay beneath. Their breasts were bound with black rope that circled each orb, jutting the meat forward and out, nipples dark against the wet material. Lower, a wide leather strap between each woman’s legs connected to a strap around her waist and secured by multiple locks.
Chastity belts? Surprise at the discovery must have shown in her expression.
“Can’t have the little cunts coming, can we, Princess?” Bald Head chuckled. “Master Eldridge will accompany you. It won’t do for you to arrive with these slaves, so we’ll wait for his return.”
“Thank you…?”
“Master Scott,” he supplied, as Eldridge hoisted himself into the rig beside her.
She smiled thinly and added both names to her shit list.
* * * *
“You’re aware there’s a boatload of guests downstairs?”
Xander Duquesne glanced up from the monitors to find Phillip Marchande glaring at him. “I’ve only been up here an hour and you’re handling things nicely.” He grinned, knowing his right hand man had spent the time trying to fade into the shadows, which at a burly 6’3” was impossible. He didn’t so much disapprove of the parties as he did having to interact with the beings in attendance—Marchande was not a people person.
“Yes, well, I think everyone would much rather see the host of this grand soiree than his hideous underling.” Marchande grimaced, deepening the crease of a disfiguring scar that crossed his right eye and cheek.
“No one in the world is less judgmental than the guests on this boat, Phil.” Xander stood, stretching to work the kinks out of stiff muscles. He’d been staring too long, searching. The proverbial unseen bullet wouldn’t be what killed him. No, it would be the constant looking over his shoulder, the feeling someone was just one step behind, waiting to reach out and take everything he’d worked so hard for.
Paranoia—that’s what would end him.
Marchande dropped into the vacated leather chair. “Go on to your people, Master Xander. I’ll man the screens.” Noting the uneasy look on his boss’s face he added, “No one’s gonna get you on my watch.”
Xander glanced again at a display showing one of the six staterooms. Not much had changed. A collection of naked bodies writhed against one another on the large bed doing exactly what was expected of a group of naked bodies on a bed: Orgy. A busty Armenian woman strapped on a dildo, her intended target difficult to determine in the throng. The orgy room was a new addition to the party, an alternative for those not participating in a scene.
“That’s interesting,” Marchande remarked, wide eyes glued to the screen.
“You could go down and join, y’know? Audience participation is the point.”
Marchande’s face clouded and Xander shook his head. His buddy was too hard on himself.
Orgies in general weren’t Xander’s thing, especially not since—he wouldn’t think about it. His gaze shifted to another monitor, this one showing the bar and connected salon on the main deck. In spite of the lascivious activity happening in the background, a flash of green caught his eye. He took the controls and zoomed in to get a look at the woman’s face, but she’d moved out of the frame.
Newbie?
“Good. Now you have a reason to get out of here,” Marchande commented, ogling the orgy room with intense focus.
Xander chuckled and padded barefoot to the door. “Just make sure you don’t jizz all over the electronics.”
* * * *
Kizzie navigated the yacht’s packed salon, stepping around people in all manners of undress, her progress halted by the passing of a woman wearing nothing but a black g-string and holding two zebra-patterned leashes. She was a little thing, maybe 5’ at most, with pale skin made paler still by jet black hair; small, perky breasts on her petite frame pointing proudly as she strut barefoot across the honey and white onyx marble floor. Two handsome men followed in her wake, long, darkly tanned bodies crawling sensually behind their owner, muscles bunching and flexing to keep pace.
Eyes locked on the tight buttocks of the men, Kizzie startled when Gale said, “Need vizyuls.”
Smirking, Kizzie shook her head. Had Gale gotten an eyeful of that she’d have abandoned post and swam to the boat herself.
“Gotcha.” She moved toward the bar, hand submerged in her bag to locate the compact mirror, averting her eyes from a man skillfully licking one woman’s engorged clit while his hand thrust busily in and out of another’s pussy. The women cried a chorus, which made the man move faster, which, in turn, made the women harmonize at a higher octave.
“Jayzus, Kiz…the hell’s hap-nin’? Sounds like when Sol’s watchin’ bang-a-hottie dot com.”
“Still want my password, Gale?” Solomon retorted. “It’s footlong.”
“More like half-inch.”
“Choked you.”
“And then ya’ woke up,” Gale chuckled. “Kiz?”
Kizzie didn’t respond, couldn’t or they might sense the tremble in her voice. In spite of herself, her pussy clenched, body overcome by a heat that had nothing to do with being so near the equator and obviously overdressed.
“What’s the deal, Baldwin? Your stats’re skyrocketing.”
Ya think? She cursed the gold bracelet on her wrist. The microchip embedded jewelry monitored vital signs, designed as a method to let a team know if an operative had been injured in the field. At present, the damn thing relayed her elevating level of horny.
One breath in; another out. She had to get control of herself. She had a mission to complete, regardless of said mission being aboard the Love Boat.
Standard Operating Procedure ensured every agent was trained in how to handle panic situations. Sure, that training was geared toward not going hysterical if captured, tortured, and possibly raped. But being unexpectedly thrust into a rail-to-rail porno certainly qualified as alarm inducing.
A few more breaths and her stats leveled. The compact—she needed to get her compact to activate the opto-electronic contacts.
Besides the adrenaline rush, the best part about being an agent was all the kick-ass spy gear Kizzie got to play with. The lenses in her eyes looked like any other contacts, but on closer inspection each thin plastic disc had integrated LEDs. The mundane-looking compact was really a wireless RF transmitter, relaying visual data to her team via the left contact, receiving data in the right. They took some getting used to, especially when the right disc was on. Then it was like having a computer display in her eye. She smiled. James Bond didn’t have anything as super cool as this. Aston Martin’s didn’t count.
Hand still in her bag, Kizzie neared the bar and was bumped from behind, her back suddenly going cold and wet. She spun toward the offending party, a naked woman with a thick leather collar around her neck. Her feet were bound, hands tied behind her and each holding a flute—one full of champagne, the other empty.
“Sorry.” She giggled. “I meant for you to drink that, not wear it.”
Before Kizzie could respond a man grabbed the girl’s hair, yanking her head back. “I said don’t spill any. You never learn.” A wicked grin split his face. “Punishment time, little slut.”
Gripping the collar, he pulled her away, but instead of the fear Kizzie expected, the woman seemed to revel in the promise of discipline. She kept her anger in check and her eyes on the pair as she located the compact, blindly activating the transmitter.
“Vizyal’s a go,” Gale drawled in confirmation. “Calibratin’ focus…Recordin’. ’Member, we only get a few hours uh juice with—ho-lee shit, KB!”
Solomon joined with a low whistle. Yep, they were definitely getting visuals.
“You’ll prefer this to champagne,” a deep baritone murmured in Kizzie’s opposite ear. She angled her head toward the voice, met with the intense chocolate gaze of her target, Xander Duquesne; criminal mastermind extraordinaire.
Nothing in the James Bond handbook could prepare Kizzie for that first look. Ian Fleming’s villains were ugly—repugnant, even—contrasting Bond’s overwhelming sex appeal. Being unattractive was a bad guy character requirement, a pre-requisite Duquesne failed to fulfill.
All her team had to go on were old college photos; Xander took great pains to avoid having his image captured. His partner in crime, Phillip Marchande, was equally difficult to photograph. But last week they’d caught a break when Connolly supplied a grainy snapshot of Marchande dead-on and Xander in profile. Not the best, but it helped with confirmation. It did not, however, compare to the impressive specimen before her.
He stood an imposing 6’2”, four inches taller than Kizzie, with a muscular frame wrapped in milky brown skin reflective of African-American and French roots. Thick black hair curled indolently about his head made him look younger than his 41 years. The scar that split his left eyebrow should have detracted from the perfection, but coupled with the rakish grin on his lips, the blemish enhanced it. In only black silk pants riding low on his hips, revolting evildoer he was not.
Her gaze dropped to the blue concoction he offered in a shot glass. She couldn’t drink; she was on a job.
“You’re at a party,” Solomon reminded on cue. “Not drinking would appear odd.”
She took the drink and smiled. “Thank you, Master Duquesne. What is it?” she asked, before downing it in one gulp.
He didn’t respond immediately, openly studying her body, and if she wasn’t wrong he liked what he saw. But the lengthy inspection of her necklace put Kizzie on alert. Then his eyes met hers again. “Vulcan Mind Fuck, Princess.”
“You can’t be serious.” She chuckled, deliberately ignoring the princess bit.
He handed her another. “Very serious.”
“What’s in it?” Kizzie held on to this one. She could hold her liquor just fine, but with the heat and the mission it was best not to push it.
“Does it matter?” he asked. “Drink enough of them, you won’t remember.”
She smirked. “Can I at least know about the name?”
“Remember Spock from Star Trek? You don’t expect someone so innocent-looking to knock you on your ass, do you?” He chuckled, motioning for her to drink. “And on your ass is precisely where I’d like to be.”
“Cute.” She threw back the shot.
“Yes, you are.” Xander took the empty glasses and handed them to a passing girl. “Your dress is wet. Take it off and save me the trouble?”
“We’re not that familiar, Duquesne.”
One dark eyebrow went north. “I’m trying to get us familiar. And call me X, or Master X, Princess…?”
“Just princess.”
“Of course.” His lips twitched. “Well, Princess, you have a punishment to watch.”
She preceded him to the group seated around a thick golden pole watching the woman who’d spilled the champagne being whipped, arms chained above her head. Her back was to Kizzie, angry red lash marks evident on her skin. Her enforcer brought a multi-tailed leather whip down on the girl’s upturned ass and she screamed.
“Stats are rising,” Solomon said. “Bondage party, Kiz. No ass kicking.”
The punisher stepped closer, whispered something to the girl and she squirmed. Then he moved away, trading out the cat-o’-nine tails for a black leather paddle.
Keep cool. This isn’t your problem.
The paddle sliced the air, descending on the woman’s backside with a loud whap!—her whole body rocking from the impact. She cried out again, arched her back against the bite, the move tugging the chains and straining her shoulders. “Bitch” bloomed bright red on her skin, and a man nearby rumbled, “Impression paddle. Nice.”
The crowd cheered, the rising excitement egging the pair in the circle on. The woman continued to scream; the man continued his assault, alternating between rough smacks and soft caresses with his bare hand over her blushing flesh. Before long she was facing Kizzie, revealing a multitude of clothespins—one clamped on each nipple, the rest outlining her belly, pulling the skin. He flicked his hand over the grippers and the shrieks hit a pained pitch.
“Why isn’t someone stopping this?” Kizzie hadn’t meant to speak, but something needed to be done. She took a step forward when Xander stopped her with an arm around her middle, holding her firm.
“Ah-ah-ahhh. You know the rules, don’t you, Princess? Never interrupt a scene.”
The man tugged on a clothespin, stretching the connected nipple and bringing a barrage of cries from his playmate.
“He’s hurting her,” Kizzie said through clenched teeth. Intel suggested Xander had a sadistic streak, but this was barbaric!
“Safe, sane, and consensual. A Master would never do anything not agreed upon with his submissive,” he assured. “And if he did, it’s my place to step in, not yours.”
Well, step in already, dammit! The woman screeched and Kizzie cringed, unable to comprehend why someone would want to do this. A slap on the butt in the middle of sex was one thing, but this? This was too much…wasn’t it?
Years ago when she was just a green agent, Kizzie was in her kitchen deciding on dinner when the guy she’d been dating smacked her on the ass hard enough to make her eyes tear. Without thought she lifted her heel and connected with his groin and then flipped him over her shoulder, landing him flat on his back. He was straddled and his neck pinned to the ground by her forearm two seconds after. The terrified confusion blanketing his face was the only thing that made Kizzie back off. No surprise the relationship ended minutes later, but the wetness between her thighs came as a huge shock.
Doomed before it started, that relationship. A love life was a professional hazard for an agent, all the secrets and unexplained disappearances. That’s why Bond kept so many sexy girls handy, she reasoned. Mr. “Martini—shaken, not stirred” sure as hell didn’t go home to the old ball and chain. Nope, stick and move; bang her and on to the next one. Classic Bond, and Kizzie had long ago determined to follow his lead. With an aptitude to recall miniscule bits of detail, she considered it a gift when she didn’t remember a lover’s name, infrequent as they were.
Satisfied moans brought her attention back to the woman whose expression was almost trancelike in its euphoria.
“That’s a good girl,” the man in the circle cooed. His fingers pistoned in and out of her pussy; juices oozed down her leg. A flick of a latch released her from the pole and she dropped to her hands and knees. He patted her ass. “Who wants some?”
The crowd swarmed her, hands probing, touching. Her Master stood nearby, orchestrating as people went about stuffing the girl’s every orifice. She deep-throated one guy while a woman shoved a vibrator into her pussy. Others removed the clothespins from her body, lapping at the pinched skin. She jerked with every touch to her hypersensitive flesh.
The stimulation was too much for Kizzie, and damn if the team wasn’t getting it all on tape. How would she ever explain this to Connolly? Still, she didn’t look away.
“Stats,” Solomon warned.
But her adrenaline was pumping for an entirely different reason. Blood thundered in her ears, her vision blurred. Soft whimpers pushed through the fog and it took her a moment to realize she was making the noises.
“You want to go next, Princess?” Xander’s hand splayed possessively over her belly. Body pressed the length of hers, he ground his semi-erect cock against her ass. In a rough whisper he said, “I’d be happy to tie you up and spank you. I think you’re a very naughty girl.”
Someone in the group roared his orgasm, forcefully driving his hips into the sub’s mouth.
Feeling Xander’s dick rising behind her, Kizzie fought to control her breathing, calling on training that had never failed but was now stretched to its limit.
“Salters is mobile,” Gale said as the sub was lifted onto a waist-high platform the size of a card table. They laid her on her back and secured each limb to one of four posts on the corners, exposing her swollen mound to all comers. Her head hung off the edge, and immediately her mouth was filled with another cock.
Kizzie had to leave or the shred of control she’d wrangled would snap. Salters…. She turned to face Xander, leaning dangerously close to his mouth, fingers on his lower abs flirting with the band of his pants. “Yeah, I’m a bad girl. But there’s one problem.”
He licked his lips. “What’s that?”
“You’re not my Master.” Kizzie pulled away and moved through the crowd. There was a contact to meet and a mission to finish. And she needed to do both before she came on herself.
* * * *
The grin on Xander’s face remained long after she’d gone. The man in him was offended she’d walked away; the Dom in him excited by the challenge. He’d had women, plenty of them, could have any of the ones on this boat.
He wanted her.
Princess.
He chuckled. Clearly she had no idea what the title meant, or what she’d gotten into when she set foot on his yacht. But the arousal in her voice was clear, despite the protestations that left her lips.
Thoughts of her mouth made his cock jerk. Full and lush, just like her breasts and ass. Cinnamon skin hugged rounded curves on display in spite of the flowing green dress, and long brown hair with honey colored highlights framed her beautiful face. Princess was a stunner, no doubt, but there was more. A keen, almost tangible energy crackled around her, like her whole body was poised, ready. He wondered how that energy would respond to a paddle.
Of course, there was the matter of the pendant and how she’d acquired it. He’d get to the bottom of that…among other things.
“Not her Master,” he muttered, catching sight of the man heading directly toward him. He met the messenger halfway, guided him to an empty alcove off the main room. The man said nothing, handed him a phone and an iPad.
“Yes, Phil?”
“There’s something you need to see.”
Xander keyed in his password on the touchscreen and walked toward his private elevator. The video started, revealing Princess moving in the direction of the staterooms. Ordinarily this wouldn’t have registered concern since there were a couple hundred people roaming the boat. But she’d bumped into one of his staff, a man named Nick Salters.
Salters hadn’t been employed long, roughly eight months. He did his job and kept his head down, but there was something Xander didn’t quite trust about him, and apparently for good reason. Upon replaying the clip and zooming in, he saw Salters slip something to Princess.
Paranoia has a face.
“Where’s she now?” Another code and his elevator doors slid open. He stepped inside and selected the desired deck.
“Here you go.” From his end, Marchande linked Xander’s iPad to the security feed. “Where are you headed?”
“To greet my guest. I do have manners, Phillip.”
Marchande chuckled with disbelief. “A woman….”
“A beautiful woman,” Xander corrected.
“Someone did their homework.”
He let the jab slide. Marchande had a not so subtle way of reminding him of his last mistake.
“Want me to send someone?”
Xander watched her move steadily up to the second deck, mixing in with the crowd but clearly with a destination in mind. “No. Put the men on alert. She’s not to be harmed.”
“And then…?”
The elevator opened and he stepped into the office in his quarters on the topmost desk. “Then I teach Princess a lesson.”
* * * *
According to the map on display in Kizzie’s right eye, a left into the offshoot up ahead would bring her to the hidden panel that accessed the third deck. Only the first two tiers were open for the party; her objective was two levels up.
“Doin’ great, Kiz,” Gale said. “We ain’t been jammed, so they ain’t on to us.”
She unscrewed the panel and pushed it aside, crawling into the humid metal shaft. Pulling her utility belt from her tote, she fastened it around her waist. Everything else was filler—sandals, makeup, sunglasses—that she left behind. A quick shimmy up placed her on the third deck. Unfortunately, the duct ended there. She’d have to risk exposure to get to the fourth story.
Stepping barefoot into the niche, she took a breath and consulted the map. She needed to round the bow end and reach the starboard side in order to get to the outside stairwell leading to Xander’s quarters.
“Camera.” The map dissolved, replaced by the image transmitting from the little snake camera she angled around the corner of the nook: one guard on a cell phone, another smoking a joint. A flick of her wrist spun the camera the other direction, revealing another man strolling down the corridor away from her.
Time to move.
“Off.” The team shut down the receiving transmission and her vision cleared in a heartbeat.
Creeping from her spot, she padded soundlessly toward the man with the joint, crashing her elbow down on his head. In his stoned state he dropped easily. But the one with the phone was more alert, lunging with a large fist. The blow caught her on the chin, snapping Kizzie’s head back and making her see stars a moment before she recovered. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, and she gingerly touched her tongue to the split in her lip.
The bigger man didn’t relent, stalking her, a sinister grin on his face. Kizzie rolled onto the balls of her feet, bringing her hands up in a fighter’s stance.
The asshole had the nerve to laugh!
He swiped at her like a cat toying with a cornered mouse, chuckling all the while. “Give up, sweetheart.”
She said nothing, continued to dodge his pawing, study his moves.
“You’re upsetting me,” he growled. Tiring of the game, he reached out to grab her. Kizzie feinted left and swung right, catching him with an arcing blow that crushed the cartilage in his nose. Bloodied and angry, the man jumped at her again but hooked his toe on his crumpled friend, the momentum sending him crashing to the ground. Kizzie yanked the Taser from her belt and hit the big man with high voltage, watching him spasm until she smelled bacon.
The reprieve was short. The third guard came speeding toward her, reaching for a weapon of his own. In one fluid motion Kizzie pulled a sharp SOG throwing knife from her belt and hurled it, lodging it deep in the biceps of his shooting arm. Howling in pain, he reached with his good hand to remove it, and the Glock he held bucked before clattering to the deck. He yelped and hopped on one foot—the other had a fresh bullet in it.
Kizzie rushed him, garnishing that whoop-ass cocktail with a knee to the balls, and her would-be attacker dissolved to the floor with an unholy screech. She crouched; hand on the knife’s grip. He screeched when she removed it without care and wiped it on his shirt. “Quit cryin’, I only nicked ya’.”
“Ya’ aw-right, KB?” Gale asked.
“Out-freakin’-standing.”
Rising, Kizzie hurried down the hall and climbed the steps. She didn’t particularly like violence, which is why she hadn’t killed them. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t do major damage to save her own hide.
Mounting the final step, she arrived on the fourth deck where all was eerily calm—too calm. Electrochromic glass made up the walls on this level, and it was switched to dark. She couldn’t see in.
“I don’t like it, Baldwin,” Solomon said.
They were too close to not take the chance. She rounded the corner to find the door; unlocked it with the key Salters provided. Sheathing the knife, she pulled her pistol and, with a fortifying breath, pushed her way inside.
Bedroom: empty. She moved quickly, going from bathroom to lounge, study, and kitchen. All empty. But it didn’t add up. The dimensions outside were much larger than the space within.
Hidden room.
Of course it wouldn’t be on the map Salters gave them months ago, it being a hidden room and all.
She made the circuit again, looking for any trace of a secret door. “Map.” The display came up and she studied the chart. Lounge. Bingo.
Moving everything that could act as a trigger, she hit paydirt when a soft click sounded in a wall to her left. The receiving lens shut down and her vision cleared. Leading with the gun, she made her way through the hatch.
Xander sat languidly behind his desk, smiling.
“Hello, Princess.” He stood and rounded the table. “Would’ve been easier to accompany me instead of crawling through vents and fighting my guards. I’m impressed, though. You took out one of my best men…. Now, I get tasing Johnson, but why knee Roberts?” he asked, continuing to move toward her. “Clearly he was decommissioned.”
“He got blood on my blade,” she said coolly, raising the Ruger higher to stop his approach.
“So I’m familiar enough to shoot, am I?” Xander chuckled. “Put the gun down, Princess.”
“Three Nineteen; give it up.”
“Or?” He took another step forward.
She aimed at his dick and he paused. “Three Nineteen—that’s all I’m here for. You hand it over, I let you get back to your little fuckfest.”
“Will you join me? The belt’s sexy; accentuates your hips, makes you look like a badass.”
I am a badass!
“You’re testing my patience, Duquesne. I’m not famous for my patience, but I am known for accuracy, and my trigger finger itches.”
His lips quirked a grin. “Can I know the name of my assassin?”
“Princess,” she gave a wry smile of her own, tilted her head, “and I’m not here to kill you; no bonuses for wet work. I’m here for Three Nineteen.”
“So you’ve said.” His gaze shifted an inch. “Sorry, Princess. You’ll have to shoot me.”
“If you insist.” Finger exerting a small pressure on the trigger, Kizzie aimed at his chest, and then her world went black.
* * * *
“Should have let her shoot you. You’re less trouble to me dead.” Marchande chuckled, scooping Kizzie up before her limp body hit the floor. “Where to?”
“Bedroom,” Xander said. “I have a few questions.”
“A discussion in your bedroom? There’s a first.”
“I have a particular type of interrogation in mind.” He trailed the big man to the room where Marchande laid Princess on the mattress. “That grip is effective.”
“We’ve all got our tricks.” Marchande took a step back and stared down at the woman. “You weren’t lying—she’s a looker.” His gaze flicked to his boss and his hands went up, palms out. “Just saying she’s pretty, X. Again, somebody did their homew—”
“Maybe it’s time you use your tricks on Salters,” Xander said. He wasn’t upset with his buddy; he was pissed at the goon who’d laid a hand on the girl. Yes, she’d done more damage, but he’d explicitly said not to touch her.
“No grand inquisition for Salters, then?” Marchande said with mock disappointment as he headed out of the room. “And here I took you for an equal-opportunity enforcer.”
Xander fought against laughing. “Salters isn’t my type.” Sighting blood on her mouth, his eyes narrowed, smile vanished. “Phil?” Marchande turned; Xander’s gaze didn’t waver, “Larry Johns—”
“Consider him dealt with, X.”
* * * *
Kizzie’s eyes opened a full minute before she managed to focus. But vision didn’t help make sense of why she was staring at the floor, or why she couldn’t move her arms and legs, for that matter.
“About time you woke up.”
Xander.
“If I unstrap your head will you be a good girl?”
She didn’t answer, but the leather band securing her neck released anyway, allowing her to turn her head and assess the situation. She was strapped to some sort of odd table; arms outstretched, chest pressed to a platform, knees bent and separated, ass in the air.
“A spanking bench.”
“Points for originality,” she mocked with a murderous glare.
A corner of Xander’s mouth lifted. “My options were limited, although, I could have made you stand—legs spread—and tied your wrists to your ankles; better access for what I have in mind. But the blood rushing to your head would eventually make you too dizzy to answer my questions.” He made an agonizingly slow circuit around her, hands behind his back as though on an evening stroll.
A twist of her head brought attention to a low silver table. On it sat a wicked-looking serrated knife, her utility belt and weapons, and two empty syringes. “What’d you hit me with?”
“Mild sedative…sodium thiopental.”
Truth serum…Crap!
The absence of chatter in her ear led Kizzie to believe he’d jammed the link. But her jewelry was still in place—along with her dress. Small comfort; now to figure a way out before she spilled her secrets. Keep him talking and he’d slip up, say something useful. The Villain’s Monologue—Bond 101.
“Where’s Marchande?”
He stopped in front of her, crouched so they were eye level. The move made it difficult for Kizzie to look beyond the sexy face and see the monster within. “What do you want with Phillip?”
“The boss never gets his hands dirty.” She held his gaze. “Plus, he’s better looking.” A slow smile spread on Xander’s face before he stood and placed his hand on her back. She shuddered at the contact, struggled against the bonds.
“I like it when you squirm, Kizzie.” She stiffened and he continued. “Salters likes to talk…with assistance.”
Shit! Her cover was blown; eleven months of work down the drain. “Kill me and get on with it, Duquesne.”
He laughed, a deep, rich sound that, for its lack of menace, shook her to her core. He sounded genuinely amused. “Just a couple questions. Answer honestly and you can go.”
She snorted.
“Don’t believe me? Relationships thrive on trust, Kizzie. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
Relationship? The report didn’t mention Xander being delusional. “What relationship?”
He ignored the question. “Who sent you?”
She returned the favor. His hand moved to her low back and stopped; her breathing ratcheted up a notch.
“Let me be clear; I’ll only ask once, Princess. Then I punish you.” The hand moved from her back and skimmed over her hip.
She bit her lip, determined to take whatever “punishment” he dealt out. She’d trained with the best—Rangers, SEALs, Deltas—had been roughed up almost every way possible to get where she was now. If they couldn’t break her, Xander Duquesne sure as hell wouldn’t.
His palm smoothed over her ass then vanished. She didn’t look up, wouldn’t give him the notion she was concerned about anything he would do. But for reasons she couldn’t explain, she missed his touch. Then she sensed him at the table before he knelt in front of her again, bringing her gaze to the large knife he held. He disappeared from view; the tip of the blade touched her skin, slid meticulously across bare shoulders. She inhaled sharply, prepared for the slash that would end her life. With quick flicks of his wrist Xander shredded her dress; the material slid off her sides.
His bare hand returned to her bottom, a soft caress, then smack!—he slapped her hard on the right cheek.
Kizzie dropped her head and shut her eyes tight, grit her teeth. She wouldn’t make a sound. Another blow to the opposite cheek, and she grunted slightly.
“The answer’s Connolly,” Xander said.
“If you know, why ask?”
“I wanted to hear it from you, Princess.” He paused. The steady chop, chop, chop of a helicopter sounded in the distance.
“That would be my backup,” Kizzie said, smug.
He continued. “The necklace—a gift from Nguyen?”
Refusing to answer garnered the same results. She arched her back and tugged at the bindings. Damn, did her ass sting!
Xander feathered his lips across the glowing globe. Her breath hitched and he stopped. Four more blows struck her bottom and she gasped. “You didn’t even ask a question!”
“Would you have answered if I had?”
No response, and he issued another spanking; and another, and another, until a volley of blows peppered Kizzie ass in rapid succession. Her belly clenched, pussy fluttering. The pain made her dizzy with desire.
Xander chuckled. “I think you like this, Kizzie.” His hand passed over the damp crotch of her panties, fingers slipping beneath the gauzy material grazing hot, wet flesh.
Kizzie struggled for breath, shivering beneath his touch. At some point the line between interrogation and…whatever this was got crossed; her control snapped. A minute passed, and then another with Xander’s steady hand bare millimeters from her center, unmoving. The waiting turned torturous, and she got wetter by the second.
“Sexy lingerie is standard issue for agents?” He gathered the fabric and lifted it firmly into the cleft of her ass, making it drag against her clit. “Or are these for me?”
She couldn’t have stopped the whimper if she wanted to, wriggling her hips to get more pressure on her needy little button. He took pity and tugged—repeatedly.
“…git out there…stats…like crazy! Kiz…? Are ya’…? Oh…Ooooh…” Gale’s voice crackled in Kizzie’s ear while moans continued to spill from her mouth. The transmission was live again, and her team knew what was happening.
Oh, god!
Still gripping her panties, Xander bent so his chest pressed to her back, brushed her hair off her shoulder and whispered, “I’m going to spank that pretty ass of yours until you come, Princess.” He nuzzled her neck, licked behind her ear. “And then, I’ll put my tongue in your pussy and eat the sugar from your lips until you do it again. Is that what you want?”
A soft mewl escaped her throat.
“Or,” he released the fabric and snaked his hand over her side, “should I finger you?”
Yes, yeeeeess! Kizzie’s head dropped forward as she fought to ignore the lust consuming her. This was wrong on so many levels, but from the moment he showed up she wanted him, and the scene with the submissive turned her on so fast she’d have jumped Xander with everyone watching...and loved it.
“Or maybe,” he lifted his torso and surged forward, rubbing his hard dick against her mound with slow, sensual thrusts of his hips, “maybe I should just fuck you, hard and fast in that tight little hole. Want me to fuck you, Princess?”
Kizzie bit her lip and whimpered. With his cock teasing her, all she could think was she wanted it all. She pushed back as far as the constraints would allow.
Xander brought his hand down hard on her left ass cheek commanding, “Words.”
Delicious pain broke her resolve. “God, yes,” she begged, forgetting the open comm-link. Her body zinged like a bomb ready to explode and he was asking stupid questions! “Yes, please…fuck me, Xander.”
He shifted, hands firmly gripping her waist while he continued to grind against her.
She shuddered and moaned, equal parts frustrated and aroused at being helpless to his ministrations.
Finally, large palms smoothed up her back—god, he was good with those hands—and then moved outward down her arms. He lay against her back so tightly she could feel his heart pounding. Mouth again at her ear he said thickly, “But I’m not your Master.”
The cuffs at her wrists went slack.
And then he was gone.
* * * *
Hands burning, Xander reached the helipad at breakneck pace; slid into the passenger side of the little two-seater before he could convince himself to go back and finish what he’d started.
She was willing—more than willing. And he was dangerously close to shoving deep into her hot folds and making Kizzie come again and again….and again. Too risky. Prison didn’t factor into his long-term plans, and with what he knew, handcuffs were guaranteed—and not in the way he liked.
Donning headgear, he shifted to get comfortable in the seat as the memory of Kizzie’s moans washed over him.
“Where’s—”
“Get this tin can airborne, Phil,” Xander bit out, staring straight ahead.
Marchande chuckled knowingly, working the controls until the chopper hovered. “Hope you’re right about this, X.”
But Xander was lost in thought. He wondered what she was doing right then, imagining she’d reverted to agent mode, searching for 3-19. Would she find what he’d left? He looked down at the screen he held; it was all he’d grabbed on his way out. Code entered, he brought up the private cameras in his room, completely unprepared for the view. Kizzie writhed on his bed, panties gone, smooth brown legs spread wide, fingers stroking in and out of her perfect pink pussy. Without audio, he was left with the mental replay of the cries he’d pulled from her.
Shit. His cock jerked; hands became fists to stop the tingling in his palms. With effort, he dragged his gaze from the screen to the window. It didn’t change the image seared into his brain. “Head...uh...go….”
The copter banked left. “Madagascar to the Cape. I know the drill.”
He was thankful Marchande did; Xander was too on edge to be of use. Setting down the iPad, he forced his eyes closed. Connolly had finally made a move. It was time Xander modified his plans…
Location: Casco Viejo, Panama
Objective: Domestic life
A pile of laundry to fold, Kizzie dumped the basket on the couch and slunk into the kitchen for a beer. She hated laundry; hated measuring soap and adding clothes and choosing cycles and transferring and drying and…god! She just wasn’t cut out for the mundane. The fresh breeze coming through the window momentarily calmed her ire.
There were reasons she’d settled on Panama; the two-story townhouse with the gorgeous view of the water; the rich culture of the 337-year-old city of Casco Viejo that fed her love of history; the anonymity in a place just the right side of touristy, with its inviting markets and bustling nightlife, that still managed to offer some semblance of peace. The place had a romantic charm she loved. It also didn’t hurt that, from a tactical standpoint, she knew the streets like the back of her hand, and if worse came to worse she could be lost in neighboring Columbia in a matter of hours.
Twisting the cap off the Balboa, she took a healthy slug of the stout ale and plopped the glass bottle on the counter with a clunk. Beer wasn’t the Bond drink of choice—Panamanian beer, no less—but seeing as how she hadn’t heard from Connolly in the two weeks since the botched mission, she wasn’t sure she was still an agent.
The previous 14 days were a bear. Right after swimming those 2.3 miles back to shore—how else was she supposed to get there?—and running 400 meters under the cover of nothing but darkness and skimpy lace panties with her ass still tingling from Xander’s handiwork, she had to face her team and explain away what Gale thought was Kizzie enjoying herself.
“The feed went dead?” In the back of the van, she quickly dried the remaining wetness from her skin.
“We heard everything up until Duquesne said you’d have to shoot him,” Solomon replied, turning away while Kizzie made herself presentable. “After that, static. They jammed us good. Even I couldn’t do a workaround. You came in for a flash almost thirty, forty minutes later when Gale said she heard you…uh…moaning.”
She looked to Gale and asked, “Is that what you really thought?” with just enough incredulity to be convincing.
Gale nodded sheepishly. “Damn sure sounded that way, Kiz.”
“Hmm.” Kizzie frowned, slid into a pair of jean shorts and a tank. “Then what?”
“Static again…for the most part. Maybe a word or two here and there, but not enough to make out what was happening.” Solomon spun around to face her. “Your stats leveled off so we knew you hadn’t been injured. We just had to wait it out.”
Kizzie crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes at her team. “Trial by fire makes us actors; but I’m not that good. For the record Salters talked, and for the past couple hours I’ve been tied to some freaky-ass contraption and interrogated.” A tad embellished, but it would have to do.
She reached into the waterproof bag filled with her weapons and utility belt as well as items taken from Xander’s office. “They pumped me with sodium thiopental,” she said, holding up the two syringes. “It’s a wonder I didn’t say anything about the mission.”
“Want me to have ‘em analyzed?” Gale asked.
Kizzie shook her head. “I’ll take care of it—that is, if you think I’m still capable of doing my job.”
Gale backed down, her face showing she was truly remorseful for thinking Kizzie had been anything but professional.
Lying to her team tugged at Kizzie’s heartstrings. Gale and Solomon were the only ones there to cover her ass if things got bad on a mission, and they had on more than one occasion. But if they ever found out the truth, it could get back to Connolly and Kizzie would find herself without a job.
“Good,” she said curtly, dropping the tubes into the bag. She made no move to show anything else she’d acquired. “Get me back to the room. I need to contact Bill.”
The call to her superior had been a short one, beginning with William Connolly cursing a blue streak, and ending with him putting a moratorium on the Duquesne mission. The team split up, traveling solo to different locations around the world to throw anyone following off their trails. It was only recently they’d all returned to their respective addresses and been officially demoted to inoperable status.
And so, for the past few days Kizzie had been home, she’d replayed every moment of the mission, working every angle, looking for clues as to what went wrong and all of it coming back to one thing: she’d dropped her guard.
What she’d said to Xander was true—she wasn’t known for her patience. But going blind into his quarters was dumb, and not shooting him before someone got the drop on her was dumber. Why she hadn’t still bothered her.
She’d been itching to get back on Xander’s trail the minute she touched down at Panama City International. But without the green light from Connolly, she was without the legal backing to do so, even though, legally, the US government would disavow any knowledge of her existence were she ever found out—standard operating procedure.
Ah, the life of a secret agent; all fast cars, fancy gear, government deniability and bad guys. Fun and games until one of them ties you to a bench and spanks the cum out of you.
With a frustrated sigh, Kizzie took another swallow of beer and padded back into the living room, pushing the clean laundry to the floor and plopping down on the couch. Darkness had just descended and the salsa music from the bar down the street filtered through her open windows, bringing with it the rich aromas of empanadas and sancocho. Her stomach growled in response, and the few brain cells not devoted to moping about the failed operation reminded her she needed to eat.
Out of habit, there wasn’t much around in the way of groceries—she never knew when she’d have to leave quickly, and coming back to six-month-old milk didn’t qualify as her idea of a party. But now that she didn’t have a mission to plan…
She should go back over what she’d gathered after being taken prisoner. Yes, prisoner; that was her story and she was sticking to it. The information in Xander’s office was limited, but that he’d left anything at all didn’t add up. And what she’d found was not what she’d expected. Maybe it was time she contacted Connolly and made—
The phone rang.
Not her house phone or cell, but the secure line, the device bleating and vibrating across the dining room table.
Relieved, she set her beer down and pushed off the couch, scrambling to catch it before he hung up. “Dammit, Bill, why—”
“Princess.”
The one word stopped her cold, made her eyes widen. “Xander?” A million questions flooded her brain, the most obvious leaving her mouth first. “How’d you get this number?” It was called a secure line because, well, it’s right there in the name!
“That what you really want to know, or are there more pressing questions you’d like answers to?”
The deep baritone made her shiver, bringing to mind paddles and whips and spank—
He’d called for a reason. And that wasn’t it.
Refocused, Kizzie said, “Saline. You…you said sodium thiopental.” The sample results had come back negative for truth serum; yet another entry on her growing list of “what the fucks”.
Xander’s voice held just a hint of mockery. “Evil villain, Kizzie. I’m known to lie on occasion. Thought they taught you that in secret agent school.” He chuckled. “I never injected you. What you saw were two vials emptied about a minute before you came around. And had your team done more digging you’d have discovered I’m a Dom. Mental play is part of the lifestyle.”
“Mental play,” Kizzie snorted, rushing over to a nearby bureau for her gear. This would probably be her only shot; she had to keep him talking. “You mean mind fucking, don’t you?”
“If that’s how you see it.”
She opened a silver briefcase, setting up the machine inside. “I don’t get it, Duquesne. You could have tortured me and—”
“Torture puts the brain into survival mode,” he cut in. “You’d lie, tell me what you think I want to hear, say anything to get the pain to stop. Same reason women fake orgasms: if the sex is bad, lie to get it over with, right? The brain responds differently to pleasure, Kizzie. Push pleasure to the limit—”
“But why…that?” she interrupted, if only to stop the torrent of memories. “I mean…you didn’t learn anything.”
“Didn’t I, Princess?” he asked, his voice a silky murmur.
Kizzie didn’t answer, focusing on getting her gear working and ignoring the sudden heat engulfing the room.
“You’re asking the wrong questions. And if you think you’re going to trace me, you’re more naïve than you let on.”
“Had to try,” she mumbled. She settled in the wooden chair at the table, keying in a few instructions to start the machine’s diagnostic. When working properly, it would triangulate the cell signal within 50-meters, giving her an idea of Xander’s location. With luck she’d find him, relay the info to her team, and they’d be back on course in a couple hours. “Why’d you call?”
“Part of the game we’re playing, Kizzie. All part of the game.”
“A game?” She leaned forward in her seat, silently willing the machine to work faster. If he got off the line… “What are the rules?
“Depends on which team you’re on.”
“I’m on the side with the guns and badges, in case you forgot.”
“There are people with bigger badges than yours playing...bigger guns, too, for that matter. Doesn’t mean they’re on your side.”
She dragged a hand over her face. Her head hurt. Why couldn’t he just say what he meant? Think.
“All right,” she expelled a harsh breath, “games. What Bill wants, that a game too? Or is Three-Nineteen a ghost?”
After two weeks of rehashing the details, it was all becoming a blur and Kizzie had no idea which way was up. Eleven months of intelligence gathering and recon for a game? This was all just an elaborate ruse to, what…spank her? An idea niggled in the back of her tired brain, something she’d found in his office, but it wasn’t coming together.
“Of course Bill’s playing, one of the biggest players there is, and Three-Nineteen’s one of his goals. Next question.”
“I don’t know the source of your Intel, Duquesne, so why should I believe you over a man I’ve known my entire career?”
“I’ve got low friends in high places, Princess. And like I told you before, relationships are dependent on trust.”
“So where do I factor in?” she asked, exasperated.
“Connolly didn’t give you specs on Three-Nineteen, did he? Don’t you find that…interesting?”
Kizzie hopped up from her seat, paced. Her patience was at its max. “Glad you think so.”
“And the papers you took from my office, did you mention them to your boss and your team?” When she didn’t answer he repeated, “Interesting.”
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