Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs. Jina BacarrЧитать онлайн книгу.
dumb. Get rid of him.
I put my hands on my hips, teasing this one-eyed Jack with my sexy attitude while he checks me out with a question-ing look on his face. As if he’s not sure what to do next. I’m counting the seconds. I haven’t got time for his pickup line. I must get the intel from the Russian before he vanishes back into the black pit of insurgents plying their trade on the open market. He’s my only link to Sharif.
I slide my hand down my rib cage. Without missing a beat, the one-eyed Jack points the gun at my head. I hear him cock the trigger. I breathe out, slowly. Damn, I can’t pull out my Glock without getting my head blown off.
He, on the other hand, is breathing easily, not even breaking a sweat. I squint. Can he see out of that sexy black eye patch? He must like what he sees. He’s grinning. Why shouldn’t he? My low-cut black basque hugs my breasts and I’m wearing a wraparound pink skirt slit up one side.
I wiggle my butt and my skirt slips open to reveal my leather garters holding up black fishnet and purple stockings peeking up over my thigh-high boots. I tap my boots, clicking my military-style half soles and steel-toe caps against the cobblestones. The handcuffs hanging from my femdom utility-style belt clink out a tinny tune, drawing his eye. He glances at the hemp rope wound up in a circle on my bondage belt and starts to reach for it, then changes his mind. He doesn’t look like the tie-me-up-and-do-it-to-me type, but you never know.
I don’t dare make another move, seeing how he’s got the drop on me. The pulse on the side of my neck races. I’m stuck like a video-game character lost in a maze. I’m stressing. What if my Russian goes sideways? Disappears? I can’t screw up. I’ve logged more miles in the past two years manning the intel-gathering trenches in the European theater and the Middle East than most sex agents do in their entire career. I don’t intend to see it end in a dirty, beer-can-filled alley.
And I don’t intend to go back to prison
For months I’ve been working on this case, flushing out the Russian agent, getting him right where I want him. Even though the Cold War is over, it’s not unusual for Russians to trade their knowledge of U.S. intelligence to our enemies unless we get it from them first. My mission as a member of the elite sex squad is to retrieve a guidance chip that in the wrong hands could compromise the antiaircraft defense system of a major Western power. That involves softening him up and catering to his specific tastes, whether it’s showing off his prowess in bed with two blondes or playing master-and-slave with the tender backside of a pretty redhead. I avoid the latter. I prefer role-playing a dominatrix. I like being the top.
When I saw the prelim coded messages from the Russian, I begged Rork for this assignment. Then he mentioned I was up for an FFD, fit-for-duty psychiatric exam, because of an unpleasant incident in London. I put on quite a show to secure intel about a sleeper cell in Liverpool. I wore nothing but a shiny silver garter belt, stockings and pointy black stilettos. The mark tried to cut me when I peeled off my black stockings and I panicked. Ever since what happened to me in Tadma prison, I’m skittish where knives are concerned. I got the intel, but unfortunately, I had to shoot him, which was against orders. I was disappointed when I found out Rork filed paperwork that characterized my London performance as “ineffective, inefficient and substandard.” I suppose he had no choice, considering TA agents must follow different procedures than regular agents. Until the investigation was over, I was assigned to work undercover in a Glasgow company as a file clerk and photocopy documents. Still, I answered all the shrink’s questions with a smile on my lips and my legs crossed and got the assignment.
Now this.
Frustrated, I dig my nails into my palms. I’m not letting this stud mess up my plans.
“Why don’t you take your toy,” I say, my eyes scanning this dude in tight French jeans, crunchy black leather vest, no shirt, backpack slung over his shoulder, “and go play somewhere else.”
“I like big tits, Fräulein,” says the one-eyed Jack, ignoring my suggestion. He lowers his rif le, though he doesn’t take his finger off the trigger. “Take off your bra.”
Gets right to the point, doesn’t he?
“So you can cop a feel? No way.”
“I’m not used to having my orders disobeyed.”
“There’s always a first time.”
“I said, strip. Now.”
Taking my time, I give him a second look, my eyes moving up and down his body with an appreciative gaze. I notice a scar along his jawline. He needs a shave. I imagine without his scraggly beard he’d be considered good-looking. Is he a street thug? A local with a hard-on? Or a nerdy tech guy with a plastic gun?
Whoever he is, I’m not immune to admiring a pair of bulging biceps that sets my libido tap-dancing. I lick my glossed red lips. Too bad he’s not my mark. I’d like to take a ride on his pony, but I have no time for silly games. I have a mission to complete.
“Take if off yourself,” I say, challenging him. “If you can.”
I’m stalling, figuring out how I can get the drop on him when he pulls down my bra straps with his free hand and exposes my breasts. That’s not enough for him. He twirls me around and points his weapon at my rear, then smiles. I shiver, chills running down my back, then I send my emotions packing. No way am I going to let him inhale the faintly musty perfume of my pussy drifting up to entice him, making him want to taste my desire. A desire too long unstirred by real emotions. I don’t have the luxury of enjoying sex. It’s a job to me. Nothing more.
Perspiration pops out all over my face while I plan my next move. The thug pressing the rif le in my throat interprets my sweat as fear.
“You sweat. Gut. I enjoy watching you squirm.” He doesn’t move the rif le. Not an inch. Flush against my throat.
“I’d rather watch you squirm,” I say, trying to knock him off course, make him back off. He won’t budge.
“Do you know how a pigeon kills its prey, Fräulein?”
“It shits on its victim?” I grin, but I’m gritting my teeth at the same time. It’s not only the mental torture he’s putting me through that sets my teeth on edge, but the white heat vibrating in my sweet spot that disturbs me. What is it about this one-eyed Jack that’s eating away at my emo-core?
He laughs. “Pigeons kill their kind simply for fun,” he says. “Slowly, to prolong the pleasure.” He pushes his knee between my legs and jams me against the rough brick wall so I can’t disarm him. Worse yet, it’s a turn-on I never saw coming, sending delicious vibes down to my clit. I hate him for making me dream about him putting his face between my thighs. I take my job seriously, though I didn’t ask for it.
“Is that so?” I can barely utter the words. I’m breathing hard. Damn him. If I fail to connect with the Russian because of him, I’ll hunt him down and make him wish he’d kept out of my business.
“I’d hate to see your flesh picked apart.” He runs his hand over my neck. He’s got to stop this game. I’m losing. “You should be caressed and pleasured, my hands exploring the curve of your body and the smoothness of your skin until I fill you up with my cock.”
I take a deep breath, blow off the heat rising in me. This has gone far enough. I’ve been known to use any means to gather intel, from stripping in a window rigged with cameras and reading the lips of the men ogling me, to posing nude for amateur photographers who have military secrets to sell, but I’m a professional. I don’t fool around on the job for my own pleasure. More than likely, a long-range telescope is trained on me right now, a field agent from the bureau watching my every move. It’s their way of keeping me in line and not allowing my hormones to take over and compromise my mission.
“I have to go,” I mutter. “I’ve got a date—”
“He can wait, Fräulein,”