by Riley Pine
“Can I—help you, sir?” the young woman—barely into her twenties, I’d guess—asks me. “A tissue? Or an ambulance, perhaps?”
I laugh. “That’s good. You’re quite funny...” I peer at her name tag. “Miss Gemma.”
I grin, and despite my state, she blushes.
“Still got it,” I mumble under my breath.
“What was that, sir?” Gemma asks.
“Oh, I was wondering if you had any of those makeup-remover wipes.”
She nods earnestly, squatting behind the counter for a moment before reappearing again with a pouch of wipes.
“Thank you! Yes! These will do.”
I grab the package from her and proceed to clean my battered face with the wipes. All the wipes. But when I’m done, I barely look like I jumped out of a moving van after being kidnapped at a sex club. In other words, it’s just another day that ends in y.
I gather the pile of bloodied wipes and beseech poor horrified Gemma for a trash bin.
She lifts a small one from behind the counter, and I stuff the rags into it. Then I pull out a wad of bills, sliding them across the counter.
“For your troubles,” I tell her. “And for keeping my visit here just between us.”
Gemma nods, blushing again, and I know what she’s thinking—that she’s just met 007. This makes me laugh as I stride to where Z picks out a bag to match her hat.
Then I wonder. Is she my Pussy Galore? Was her reference to being an acrobat a hint to her being in on Price’s arms trading?
A couple hours ago I thought she was dead and would have done anything to bring her back. Now I wonder. When we get to the final move in whatever game we’re playing, will her weapon be trained on Price—or me?
“You’re stunning,” I tell her thirty minutes later when she’s dressed in a formfitting black cashmere turtleneck, tight black pants and suede ankle boots. With the red hat and bag, she looks like she stepped out of Vogue in the ’60s, the Audrey Hepburn edition.
She looks me up and down. Tonight I went rogue. Suits for me are everyday wear, so I decided to shake things up in dark-washed denim and a black crewneck sweater.
“And you look good enough to eat,” she says, smiling at me with ruby-red lips, a shade she bought from Gemma while I was changing. “Which will have to suffice since we’re too late for crepes.”
I check my watch. “We will be if we don’t hurry,” I say. Then I grab her hand and pull her to the escalator and our next destination.
Her eyes widen when she sees Ewan waiting for us, a gorgeous chocolate-banana crepe waiting in an open to-go container.
“I waited for you so it would be fresh.” He lifts a metal canister from the counter and covers the crepe with freshly whipped cream.
Z bounces on her toes, clapping, and suddenly she is not Z anymore. She’s Lora twenty years ago, dragging me into a luxury department store just so she can window-shop from inside. But we don’t leave empty-handed. I took her here for her first crepe.
“You remembered?” she says, her eyes shining as Ewan hands her the container and a fork.
I shake his hand, pressing into his palm more than enough for his troubles of staying open past his normal quitting time, then turn to Lora.
“Of course I remember. I remember everything about you.”
Plus, I come here every time I’m in London and eat a chocolate-banana crepe so I don’t forget this one thing that she loved.
We wave to Ewan and make our way onto London’s streets, where we walk and Lora feeds me a few obligatory bites of her crepe before polishing it off herself.
“Do you really remember everything about me?” she asks when those beautiful red lips are free of both fork and crepe.
I nod. Though we walk side by side, we are noticeably distant as we start this jog down memory lane. Maybe, though, when we’re done, she’ll realize I’m someone she can trust rather than fear. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll realize the same about her.
I glance at my watch. “They want us for a debriefing at midnight,” I tell her. “We’ve got two hours to do whatever we want. You pick the destination, and on the way there, I’ll tell you everything I remember about Max and Lora.”
She worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “I’d like that.”
I smile and shrug. “Then that only leaves one question. Where to?”
CHAPTER NINE
Z
“YOU SURE THIS IS OKAY?” I ask, licking the last of the whipped cream from the crepe off my fingers. I grin inwardly, noting that Max doesn’t blink. His gaze is transfixed on my lips, and I make sure I get everything extra clean, just for his benefit.
“Of course,” he answers, handing two tickets to the attendant. “I said you could choose.”
We get into our capsule in the London Eye, the giant Ferris wheel on the southern bank of the Thames. We have it to ourselves despite the line. My guess is X slipped some extra pounds to the attendant to get it. We could sit if we want, but there is plenty of room to stand. And so we do.
Then the door shuts and we go up. The lights of London are soon laid out at our feet, and it’s so quiet. As if the real world is far, far away.
I could tell him everything. Every last secret. Every part of my plan. He couldn’t run here. He’d be forced to hear me out.
But as much as I want to, my mouth won’t speak the words.
“Let’s review the facts,” he says after a minute of strained silence.
“Let’s,” I murmur, focusing on Big Ben and the lights of Parliament House.
“Someone wants us dead.”
“Do they?” I cast him a sidelong glance, trying to decide if he looks at all suspicious. “Because we are still alive. And in this line of work, if someone wants to kill an agent of the Order, they usually don’t take chances.”
He digests this a moment. “What do you think?”
“We were to be taken somewhere for questioning. Someone wants to talk to us.”
“Usually those invitations consist of a polite phone call and a cup of tea.”
I smirk, playing with a lock of my hair. “I’m guessing this someone isn’t exactly one of the good guys.”
“No.” Two furrows indent the space between X’s brows. “Indeed not.”
“I’m guessing this bad guy also isn’t Dante Price?”
X cocks his head and smooths a hand over his scruff. “Go on.”
“Because the Lion’s Den is his space. Why would he risk the reputation of the most popular kink club in the United Kingdom? His clientele insists on discretion. Safety. Not strangers barging in guns blazing.”
“You’re not wrong.” He sighs. “I’ve been going back over all the people I’ve pissed off through the years.”
I arch a brow. “And?”
His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s a long list.”
“Mine too.” My smile is also cool in return. “And guess who’s at the top?”
“X marks the spot?” he queries.
I blow him a kiss.
“I don’t trust you, Lora,” he says at last. “I want to, but...I can’t. The nature of our work has eroded the part of me that has faith. Don’t get me wrong. I believe in love. I saw it when I worked at the court at Edenvale. But I’ve had to accept that for me...my life is safer going it alone.”
“Safer for whom?” I whisper, taking a step closer, swinging my hips like a hypnotist’s watch.
“Everyone who matters.” His voice is rough gravel and grinds away at my self-control.
I take another step and close the gap. “Do I matter?” My lips graze his ear.
I can sense rather than see him tense. “More than you can possibly know.”
“But you don’t trust me.”
“Not as far as I can throw you.”
“And you think you can th
row me far?” A challenge creeps into my tone. I don’t know how to be honest. How to admit that all I want is him. And freedom to live a simple life. That my arms ache for a child. That I’m weary of dark alleys and darker deeds.
All I know how to do is deceive and seduce.
“I think I can throw you onto that bench and fuck you until you forget what day it is.”
A delicious thrill shoots through me. At least we still have this. We’ll always have this connection. “It’s Saturday.”
“That’s enough talking, Princess.” He seizes me by the waist in a sudden movement, hauling me up and sprawling me down on the bench. “And someday I might look at you and not want to bury my dick balls-deep in you, but today isn’t that day.”
“What romance,” I purr sarcastically, even as his words drench my pussy. “Keep it up and you’ll rival Shakespeare with his sonnets.”
“If you don’t stop talking I’m going to have to fill that smart mouth.”
“With?”
He frees his cock with a quick jerk of his trousers. “This.”
I make a show of licking my lips. “I was impressed when you bought me the crepe. I didn’t realize I was getting dessert in the bargain.”
That takes him by surprise, and his bark of laughter heats me even more than the sight of thick, gorgeous, uncut cock.
“Do you remember the first time I ever sucked you off?” I lean on my elbows and idly rub a thumb over the swell of my breast.
“How could I forget?” he rasps, crawling over me. “I didn’t think I’d last a minute.”
“You didn’t,” I tease.
“The second your tongue touched my shaft I knew there was a heaven. Fuck, I saw God.”
“I hope you told her hello.”
Before I can engage in any more banter he thrusts his cock between my lips and down I take him, down, down, down, because God, he’s huge. Relaxing, I open my throat and make him welcome, breathing in his essence, the sandalwood of his shampoo and his own personal masculine musk. Pulling back I release his head with an audible pop before I unbutton my own pants. “Don’t let me have all the fun,” I say, wiggling my panties over my hips and then he’s there, licking me hard and fast, his taste jolting through my body.
“I love the taste of your hot cunt,” he groans as a mewling sound tears from my throat.
“What a coincidence, because I’d give your cock three Michelin stars.”
“Shall we sixty-nine?” he rumbles, tension tightening his voice as a bead of precome shines in the deep slit at the head of his cock.
“Why not?” I wink, as my whole body judders in anticipation. “After all, it’s my lucky number.”
X
We dangle at the top of the wheel—just as my balls dangle above her plump, gorgeous lips. She truly is an acrobat, her lithe body more flexible than I could have imagined.
She licks my sac, and I shudder. I pay her back by plunging my tongue between her thick, swollen folds.
Lora gasps.
“I may not trust you,” I say, savoring the sweet tang of her juices. “But I sure as hell enjoy tasting you.”
My tongue swirls around her clit, and she retaliates by sucking me down from tip to base.
“Fuck,” I growl, and she hums around my throbbing cock.
She wraps a strong palm around my shaft, and her hand follows her lips, sliding me in and out of her naughty mouth.
I spread her open and bury my face in her, fucking her with my tongue and one finger while rocking my hips into her face. Then I put in two. Then three. I can hear the sound of her wetness and it turns me on even more.
“Max!” she gasps as my balls bounce off her chin. “Jesus fuck, Max! I can’t—Oh my God.”
I pump my fingers harder, impale her with my mouth, and she fucks me with hers.
My eyes roll in my head as we hurtle toward the point of no return.
With her ass pressed to the glass of the capsule, I feast on her until she cries out my name again and again, her body quaking as she rides the wave, undulates to the final pulses of my fingers, the laps of my tongue. And when she regains control, she devours my cock, taking me so deep I swear I feel her goddamn tonsils.
With one hand on my balls and her other gliding up and down my slick shaft as she takes me into her mouth once more, I reach the pinnacle, exploding inside her, growling like a wild animal, until I have nothing left to give.
I slide out of her mouth, and she brushes her forearm across her lips as she swallows all that I gave her. Then she licks her lips, her red lipstick smeared across her face and her cloche hat askew atop her wild chocolate waves.
I straighten and pull my pants over my fading erection, and she fixes hers, as well. Then I tug her onto my lap and kiss her swollen lips.
“Why?” I ask her. “Why fuck me anonymously for all that time when it’s so much better knowing it’s you?”
She shrugs. “I knew.”
But I shake my head. “It’s not the same, Lora, and you know it. Trust or no, it’s infinitely hotter knowing it’s your mouth around my cock, your pussy I get to taste.”
She slides off my lap and onto the bench next to me.
“Stop it, Max. You’re the one who said you’re better off going at it alone. My little deception was the exact same thing—maintaining my own safety.”
I scrub a hand across my jaw. “Touché, Agent Z. You’ve got me there.”
The wheel moves with a jerk, and we’re now minutes from the bottom, back where we started. What a metaphor for our relationship.
Highest heights. Lowest lows.
“It wasn’t me,” she says, continuing our previous argument.
“Nor was it me,” I say. “But you’ll never truly believe me. Nor I you.”
She sighs, then reaches into her red bag and pulls out a compact. She opens it and gets to work going from looking freshly fucked to just fresh. And gorgeous. Always gorgeous.
“I guess you have me there, as well, Agent X.”
When we reach the bottom, she steps out first, and I follow.
“One more stop before home base?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”
But there is a buoyancy missing from her step, and I feel the same weight pressing down on me.
Our cover is blown, and I can’t know for sure if she’s the one who blew it or not.
I hail a taxi and whisper the address to the driver. Tonight has been full of surprises. As an act of good faith, I want it to end with a good one before we have to get back to work.
We pull up short of the street vendor I know will be at this corner. And even before we get out of the car, Lora gasps.
“Oh, Max. You remember everything, don’t you?”
Without answering, I step out of the taxi, then reach a hand in for her.
When she emerges, her eyes brighten when she sees the night florist. At least, that’s what we always called him. During the day this section of the street boasts an outdoor market, but the flower vendor is never there. Only at night does he show up with his diverse collection, including Lora’s favorite.
“Buy you a hydrangea?” I say, and her cheeks flush.
She practically runs to the cart, where there is a small line waiting to pay. She finds her favorite blue flower and grabs a stem that is wrapped in tissue paper and cellophane.
“I’ll buy them all,” I say. “If you want them.”
She shakes her head, and her eyes glow with a sheen that might actually be tears.
“I haven’t owned any sort of plant in over a decade,” she says.
I nod because I understand. “For someone without a true home, plants are impractical. But you can own this for as long as our mission lasts.”
She lets out a bitter laugh. “In our hotel room.”
“Yes,”
I tell her. “In our hotel room. Don’t trust me with your life, Lora. You don’t have to do that. But trust that I haven’t forgotten anything of our time together all those years ago. Not one damned thing.”
“Okay,” she says, her voice almost a whisper. “I’ll trust that.”
So I buy the vendor out of hydrangeas and give them to the only girl I’ve ever loved—who is now the one woman who has the power to either love me or kill me.
Or both.
She carries the flowers as we walk, my arm around her shoulders, until we reach a building with an unmarked door that doesn’t have a knob, just a key panel on the door frame.
I punch in a number, and I hear a hiss of air and the snick of one dead bolt, then two, then three and four. Then the door pops open and we enter the home base of the London Order.
CHAPTER TEN
Z
OTHER THAN THE unmarked door, the Order’s local base looks like any one of a thousand drab middle-class row houses in London town—brick, three levels, windows hidden by lace curtains. That’s precisely what makes it so safe.
“Ah! Hello, loves.” The elderly woman who greets us is wearing a housecoat and fuzzy pink rabbit slippers. Her hair is a soft white and pulled into a wispy bun. She could be anyone’s grandmother.
Though I know that inside her front left pocket is a garrote made of wire or fishing line. This mild-mannered granny is a highly lethal assassin, trained in the arts of strangulation techniques and master of disguises.
Agent G guards this safe house, and I don’t have a clue about the appearance of her real face, the one hidden behind this elaborately deceptive mask. But once I had occasion to see her neatly dispatch two wannabe terrorists in quick succession, choking the life out of them before they could widen their eyes in surprise at their unexpected angel of death.
A television blares from the sitting room. I catch sight of a rocking chair, a paisley couch and a coffee table holding tea for one. For a moment my heart pangs—even though I know this is all an illusion, I can’t deny it looks so...normal. I once had a normal life, too. A house. A mother. A father. I didn’t kill. I wasn’t hunted.
