A smile blossomed on my lips, and it wasn’t the merit of the exquisite champagne. That was a game all three of us could enjoy. Well, they would enjoy it, and I’d buy some time.
When I opened my eyes, I saw that a stunning woman was looking straight at me. Her short raven black hair framed a face with pretty features under the layers of makeup.
With a start, I realized I was watching myself in the mirror.
Why did I expect to see blond hair cascading on my shoulders? My pale skin seemed alien. For a fleeting moment, I remembered having tanned skin and a dusting of freckles.
From across the room, Aleksei kept me under observation. I should make the most of his hungry attention. Time to get him to notice the poor girl. She had already bumped into several people distracted as she was by the attractive man from whom she couldn’t tear her gaze.
I turned back around and caught the girl’s eye. I held her gaze until she made her way to me.
“What’s your name?” I asked her in a tone of command that came naturally.
“Svetlana,” she said.
“Any hot drinks in this place, Svetlana?” I asked coldly, but calmly.
“C-coffee,” she said, stuttering. “Espresso, macchiato, latte,” she went on more confidently.
I quirked my lips conveying disappointment with the choices.
“I could bring you tea,” she said, eager to please me. “There is a samovar backstage ready for the singers.”
That deserved a small smile. I offered it and the girl brightened up.
“That would be wonderful,” I said. “Not too sweet.”
She scurried away and I climbed off the bar stool. If I guessed well, Aleksei should be next to me when Svetlana returns with my tea.
As if I had conjured him, my beast appeared by my side.
“Are you bored, Mashenka?” Aleksei asked. “I can introduce you to people.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I know you’re not here just for fun, and I will not interfere with your business.”
“I know,” he said. “I wish I were here just for fun.”
A note of sadness pinged in his voice. More than sadness. Longing. Not for the first time, I got the distinct sensation that if he could, Aleksei would walk away from the world he was born to rule.
“Thank you for coming to check on me,” I said. “Your company pleases me,” I added to stop him from leaving too soon. He had to see Svetlana better.
He took my gloved hand and raised it to his lips. A sweet gesture that could pass for old fashioned chivalry. Between us, that was the public equivalent of kneeling before me and kissing my feet.
I caught sight of Svetlana approaching, and watched her, waiting amused for the moment when she would see him. She nearly spilled my tea, but managed to control her trembling hands.
“Your tea,” Svetlana said. “I hope you like it.”
“Thank you, Sveta,” I said taking the fine porcelain cup and saucer.
Some Russian names invited the use of diminutives. She didn’t react in any way to being called Sveta by a stranger. Good girl.
Svetlana shot a last glance at Aleksei before disappearing back in the crowd.
“Go,” I told Aleksei. “Do business things before the opera starts.”
“Would you rather stay in our box until then?” he asked.
“Not now,” I said. “We’ll go at the first chime. I like it when the lights are dimmed.”
He looked at me curiously. Fortunately, he didn’t ask any questions. Why had I said that? This was one of those things I couldn’t quite remember.
A few minutes later, the first gong was struck and Aleksei accompanied me to our box.
The déjà-vu hit me hard when we entered our box. The semicircular room spreading in front of my eyes was eerily familiar. Maybe a little brighter than in the echo memory, but the shape of it was spot on.
Probably all opera houses looked the same. I must have visited an opera before, in that part of my past which was covered by fog.
The lights were already dimmed in the concert hall. The chandelier sparkled almost shily, casting a charmed twilight over the room. It resonated with a forgotten memory. I looked behind us, at the door. A few feet from the door, a heavy curtain hung half drawn.
“Come here,” I said, walking back to the door.
He raised an eyebrow, but stood up and followed me. I stopped in front of the door and he reached to open it.
“Don’t,” I said, and his hand froze on the door handle.
He straightened up and stood with me in the narrow space. In my six-inch heels we were almost face to face.
I reached past him, and drew the thick curtain sharply. I placed my palm on his chest, and pushed him gently with his shoulders against the wall. His breathing grew noticeably louder, but not yet laboring. I appreciated his iron self-control. He certainly had the wrong expectations about what was about to happen, but he wasn’t getting excited.
“Unbutton your shirt, beast,” I whispered.
The rustling of fabric informed me of his progress. When it stopped, I extended my hands toward him. The deliberate slowness served to increase his anticipation as much as to avoid me fumbling in the dark. His broad chest heaved under my touch. Even under the thin cotton of his designer shirt and the satin of my opera gloves, I felt the well-developed muscles.
I parted his shirt with my hands. Wearing opera gloves served more than one purpose. It hid me from the world, and it put an obstacle between us. This man was not used to respecting others, especially not women. We could be in a more or less scripted scene or not, I needed every advantage to keep this alien appearance.
My fingers trailed over his chest, tracing the shapes of powerful muscles and old wounds. In the dark, I couldn’t see his tattoos or his scars, but I knew them well.
The satin must have felt differently on his skin than the latex or leather I usually wore in his dungeon. Maybe not better, but certainly different.
“I have a task for you, beast,” I whispered.
My coat hung just outside our little dark world.
“You are not allowed to touch me”, I commanded.
I took a step closer to him, pressing my corseted breasts against his bare chest. His thick, well-muscled arms rose on either side of me, hovering a few inches from my body. He could so easily crush me. His own iron will made him obey me. I could feel it creaking and buckling under the pressure of the desire I had built up in him for days.
“Miss,” he said, but he snapped his mouth shut before begging for what he wanted.
The word had sounded like a hiss of pain. Deep inside me, I knew I couldn’t offer him the relief he wanted. He would never be allowed to enter my body. Pretty little Svetlana would have to do.
I pressed my body harder into his, without any point of skin to skin contact. Even so, his straining erection jabbed into my flesh. His breath scorched the side of my face while I reached a hand outside the darkness, into the pocket of my coat hanging on the wall.
The chest strap was an identical make and model to the one he used in the gym. Would he get a jolt of guilty pleasure each time he put it on from this night on? I hoped so.
For the best results, the electrodes should be thoroughly moistened. I could make him lick those areas. The trouble was that in the dark, I ran the risk of fumbling inelegantly. The goddess couldn’t afford clumsiness. Aleksei would get to touch me tonight after all.
I took the chest strap from my purse and wrapped my arms around his massive torso. This was as close to an intimate embrace as we ever got. The big man shivered. The sound of his breath in my ear ignited a tiny spark in me. I buckled the chest strap loosely, to have room to moisten the back of it.
Taking off my right glove made me feel vulnerable. I didn’t hear it hit the floor. I could barely hear his heavy breathing under the noise of the instruments being accorded in the orchestra pit.
In the dark, I guided my
hand toward the breath burning my skin. He tensed when I touched his lips.
“Lick my hand,” I said.
He opened his mouth and he began laving my fingers hesitantly with his tongue.
“Do a good job, beast,” I commanded.
He opened his mouth wider and took two of my fingers in. I took a step back and removed my hand immediately.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, Miss.”
His voice was thick with desire.
“Lick,” I said, offering him my hand again.
His tongue went to work instantly on the length of my fingers, and across my palm. He explored my skin eagerly, often awkwardly. What he lacked in skill, he more than made up with enthusiasm. Svetlana was one lucky woman.
“Thank you,” I said, removing my hand.
I could feel his beating heart with the back of my hand while I used his own saliva to wet the back of the chest strap. The electrodes weren’t perfectly coated, but it would have to do. Besides, I was only partly counting on the heart monitor for the game.
He grunted quietly when I tightened the strap and buckled it, arranging the monitor under his massive chest muscles.
“This is your task,” I said. “You will go back to the bar on the second floor and find the girl who brought me the tea. You will get everyone else out of the room, lock the service doors you find and post your bodyguard outside the main door to ensure no one bothers you while you do your job. Is it clear so far?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, Miss Marion,” he said.
“You will sit in the chair where I sat, and you will place Svetlana on the countertop. You will ask her if you can blindfold her. If she says yes, use your tie to do it, then place your phone on the countertop next to her and start the timer. Open her shirt and play with her breasts using your beautiful hands and your talented mouth for two minutes. Then spread her legs and lick her pussy like you licked my hand. Do it until she comes but no less than three minutes. When the three minutes are done, stand her up, with her back to you, her hands propped on the bar, and fuck her from behind. You will be fully clothed. You may look in the mirror while you have sex with her. You are not allowed to come until you get the message from me on the phone. I am watching your heart monitor, and I will know if you come without permission. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Miss,” he said.
“If she doesn’t want to be blindfolded, you will send me a text, put the phone on vibrate and keep it in your back pocket. You will go directly to fucking her from behind. You will both be fully clothed. You are only allowed to lift her skirt and pull down her tights and panties. You may play with her breasts on top of her clothes. You may play with her pussy. You are not allowed to come until you get my text. Is it clear?”
“Yes, Miss Marion.”
“Whichever way it goes, I want you to make her come at least once. Clear?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“And, beast,” I said, “it would please me if you enjoyed this task.”
“Thank you, Miss.”
Chapter 16. Nick – Active, in the Field
Two days ago, I was in my apartment in Chantilly, planning how to ask Skye to marry me when she got back.
Yesterday, I was negotiating the terms of my mission with the Russia division of the Agency. Even with the backing of my Director and the importance of Cole’s work, officially, my main objective was to get the weapons Jayden and Skye had been sent for.
Apart from Ben Stone, the Russia division was certain that Skye was compromised. They forked the money for my cover with serious pressure from our Director. They cobbled together a legend for me, as Jayden’s silent partner, but they hadn’t lifted the kill order.
I had twenty-four hours left to get Skye out, or she was fair game for anyone who wanted to collect the hit money.
Now I was in the back of a limo, rushing on the streets of St. Petersburg. The traffic didn’t seem to follow any rules, but the driver clearly enjoyed the madness. He weaved through the narrow alleyways with unbounded delight and plunged recklessly into the flood of cars rushing on the wide avenues. When we got to the motorway, he stepped hard on the accelerator. I tensed my core muscles to keep from sinking into the plump cushion of the limo.
Petrov followed us at a leisurely distance, tracing my phone on a regular commercial app. The FSB was aware of our presence, but we hadn’t asked for any assistance. The more people knew about us, the bigger the odds that one of them worked for Stepanov.
My host, Grigori Ignatiev, poured himself another vodka, not bothered by the erratic changes of direction. His pressed suit, his smart haircut, his perfectly manicured hands made me sick to the stomach. This man distanced himself from the horrors which financed his lifestyle.
He sold people into slavery, he profited from their pain, but he gave money to churches and served on board of charities. He made donations for the upkeep of halfway houses for runaway teens and he shipped containers filled with teenage girls into western Europe. Vile, disgusting creature. How much sweat and blood had paid for that twenty-thousand-dollar watch on his wrist?
We left the motorway and headed to an abandoned parking lot at the outskirts of the city. It was mentioned in the FSB briefing as an execution ground for Stepanov’s gang. Ignatiev, who had so carefully removed himself from the operational level, had never used the place before. That meant that the driver was calling the shots, and poor greedy Grigori was the bait.
He’d checked my finances and my background. They were both tailored to fuel his greed and feed his belief that I was a fool with deep pockets, ready to pay through the nose for information about his business partner.
The driver opened Ignatiev’s door and he got out with an unfit grunt. I opened my own door and took the opportunity to take in my surroundings. Only six of the two dozen lamplights shed any light on the pothole marked grey pavement. Three cars were falling apart at the far end of the parking lot. Everything was covered by a blanket of snow.
I didn’t catch any movement. Not even stray dogs lived in this place. Petrov should be somewhere close, waiting for me to finish the job.
“Do you have the money?” Ignatiev asked.
“Answers first,” I said.
Time was running out. I needed to make a show of force that would impress them. If plan A didn’t work, if I couldn’t reach the real Skye tonight, I’d have to buy her from these people along with the weapons. They needed to know they shouldn’t fuck with me.
Ignatiev was kind enough to provide me the opportunity. I expected him to have me killed and take my money. His driver must have been a first class bruiser in their world because the businessman felt safe. Strong drink or even stronger drugs loosened his tongue. His bloodshot eyes looked at me in mounting anger.
“You want to know what happened to the last stupid American who showed up here thinking he was a big man?”
I looked at him with a calm designed to infuriate him. Little bubbles of spit gathered at the corners of his mouth as he went on spewing his venom.
“He came here with his money and his whore, taking us for idiots. Expecting us to roll over and hand him anything he wanted.”
He pulled a gun from the waistband of his pants. A showy, chrome plated Desert Eagle. The driver didn’t even move a muscle. Although Ignatiev pointed to my head a gun that could blow my brains in one good shot, I knew the driver was the real danger. Not a driver as much as an undertaker.
“What did you do to him?” I asked, taking no notice of the gun.
I wanted him to keep talking. He was a front man, but if he knew anything, he’d boast about it. He needed to make himself believe he wasn’t just a puppet that danced when Stepanov pulled his strings.
“We killed him and threw him to the dogs,” Ignatiev said. “You look for him? Look in a pile of dog shit.”
“What happened to the girl?” I asked.
> He leered at me. A disgusting glee spread on his face. Maybe he heard the note of tension in my voice. He was obscenely happy to have found other insults to hurl at me.
“What always happens to whores,” he said gesturing in the air with the gun. “We all took a turn. I fucked her then I pissed on her. I bet she liked tha—”
I punched him hard in the mouth. He tried to point the gun at me, but I caught his hand and pulled him on the other side of the car from the driver. I smashed his wrist into the car while the driver started firing. He dropped the gun immediately and I kicked it under the car.
The first bullet from the driver lodged in the back window. The second one shattered it and cracks appeared in the glass by Ignatiev’s head. The third bullet made the glass explode and went clean through my biceps.
I head-butted Ignatiev and pulled him in front of me as a human shield while the driver ran toward us. I pushed the business man hard into him and made a grab for the gun, but he didn’t let it go. Ignatiev fell limply on the ground while we struggled for possession of the gun.
The driver’s free hand went for my throat, and I used his momentum to spin him. I smashed his arm into the edge of the car. The bone broke with a satisfying crunching sound. The gun fell almost soundlessly in the thick snow.
He tried again to wrap his hand around my throat. I hit his broken arm against the car and the grip weakened. I hit him in the face with my bare fists until he fell. I kicked him in the gut until he stopped moving.
Ignatiev stirred. He crawled toward the driver’s gun faster than I thought him capable. I kicked him in the face when his fingers were on the gun.
He howled in pain, but I didn’t stop. I remembered the girls in containers. They weren’t allowed to scream. I picked him up by his coat and I slammed my forehead hard into his face. Once. Twice. Three times. The screams had turned to gurgling and incoherent begging. I propped him against the car and punched him until my fists were numb.
He slid to the ground like a lifeless, broken puppet. That only made me angrier. I threw him halfway across the threshold of the car like a sack of potatoes. I slammed the door over his head and shoulders again and again and again. The blood roaring in my ears drowned the sound of metal battering flesh and breaking bones.
In Chaos (Undercover Book 3) Page 10
