Laced Impulse

by Combs, Sasha

  She'd only been settled in her seat at the bar for less than a minute before the complementary drinks began to arrive. A glass of Chardonnay, vodka and tonic. One man paid for a glass of Dom Perigean, then insisted she have what remained in the bottle. She raised the flute, stealing a sip primarily because she'd never savored expensive champagne. The attention her presence received made her head spin. And she'd only been seated at the bar for less than five minutes. But her attempts to maintain an aloofness washed away the moment she sensed his presence from behind.

  "You're late. What took you so long?"

  His sensuous voice hinted of impatience but his hands relieved her of guilt. Strong arms wrapped around her waist, warming her body from behind. Words flashed in her head. She told herself, she'd arrived at the pre-agreed time. She even wore the dress suggested by her handler, yet her mouth couldn't form the words too defend herself. She was flooded by his alluring aroma. A mix of man and woodsy musky smells. She steadied herself, because she didn't dare over think this scenario. Yet, his touch and his smell aroused her body entirely. She still had not formally addressed him, by turning around to face him. But when his fingers relaxed, she took the cue. Bianca stepped free from his loosened hold to face him. She morphed her expression to mask her surprise. Mot. His name echoed in her brain.

  "Dance with me." He said loud enough to be overheard by the few people seated at the bar. Bianca had been so focused when she walked into the room. To the point of not hearing any music. Her attention had been centered on her feet. She'd mentally coached herself. Walk with your head held high. Keep your eyes trained on objects and not faces. She'd even counted her paces, so as not too make her entrance appear hurried or staged. Every detail had been performed too prevent tipping her hand. She'd been masterful, to the point of not hearing the small three piece band. In the corner of the room, now she saw them. A woman with her hair twirled in a bun. She sat at a piano, playing a slow tune. Her musical accompaniment was comprised of a four piece drum set and a double bass keeping beat. She could feel it now. The vibrations tingling her hairs like a stringed instrument. Or was she heady because of Mot and the overpowering affect he's always had over her.

  Mot cupped her hand in his; maneuvering her as if this was old hat for them. He touched her face, fanning aside locks of hair with the back of his hand. He leaned in closer, brushing his lips where her hair had once been. He drew her close, angling their bodies, leaving not even a hairsbreadth width between them. Agile hands skillfully coaxed his directions. His bold wanton manner, exposed for all to witness. They were on the dance floor now, and her body responded to his slightest touch. Somewhere along the way, his attentiveness swept her away. They were dancing and it didn’t really matter that, the small space that held them both enthralled; it wasn't really a dance floor in the true sense of the word. Right near the area where the band was playing, the open space was just large enough for five maybe six couples to dance, and currently one other couple was swaying to the band. The young woman looked to be ten years his junior and her partner looked to have had three too many cocktails. The man was tipping to the left, off tilter. Too Bianca he looked like, at any minute he just might tumble over, falling into one of the tables. She'd been studying them; anything to center her wayward thoughts. This wasn’t for real. They were acting. Pretending to be what, exactly? This mindless game had been working. That is, until Mot angled his head, pressing her lips with a kiss. Not just any old kiss, mind you. This was a full on, lips spread wide, probing tongue in her mouth; mother loving, good God, the man can kiss, kind of kiss. Then, to add insult to injury. He tilted his hips, while pulling her in closer; then the man continued with a grind. She was a slightly above average dancer and she always held her own; but Mot bordered on professional. The man could dance. The way his hips moved and swayed. The way his hand molded into the small of her back. His touches were electric. Mesmerizing. She couldn’t even begin to imitate him. While they danced her brain was racing, attempting to juggle too many things. While on the other hand, Mot didn’t appear at all putout. On the floor, while he held her in his arms; his mouth and body were in effect, making love to her. Just short of them both being naked; she was quite certain, twice she’d come close to having a few orgasms. Heading off this sensation was veering her thoughts. She should have been mapping out her next move, or playing a game of chess in her head. When she failed at mind games; Bianca allowed her brain free rein. She wondered about Mot’s fingers and what he does with his powerful hands? Who does he touch and how does he touch them? Is he married or not? Or does he have countless affairs and lovers?

  "Stop it!" Bianca mentally scolded herself. “Oh God.” She thought because he was doing it again. His mouth found hers, then his tongue dipped and probed; finding places even she knew nothing about. She moaned. Not a little one. A long, musical note in her throat, kind of moan. Good grief, if this man wasn’t a damn good kisser. She had to keep her focus. Hah. She would slap herself if her hands weren’t wrapped around Mot’s body like a coiled slinky. She had to remember her training but in the heat of the moment, every tactic was evading her reason.

  Mot pressed his lips next to her ears, concealing his mouth behind the curtain of her hair. The heat from his breath warmed her body in ways that were criminal, yet reminded her that she was all woman.

  “Act the part.” He said. His hands splay wide, possessing the curve in her back. Mot swayed with intentional moves. The aim of his hip guided and directed their movements; taking them to the edge of the dance floor. She didn’t question this. Why would she, when being in his arms felt so good. She heard a woman’s exasperated gasp, but she paid this no mind. She shut out the sound, like slamming a door on the face of an unwanted visitor.

  Falling into her role, like Mot had asked of her. Bianca fell in step, following his every move and his subtle directions. Hearing him speak had drained some of the woolgathering out of her. Mot was her contact. Director Vance had said that the agent would debrief her; telling her the details when she arrived. After attending the conference, then lulling around with people she’d been told to impress. The past three days had been a long stretch of nothing but boredom. She didn’t doubt that chemist had exciting and thrilling lives but she couldn’t see it. So far her experience had been hours and days that collided one atop the other. Formulas that she’d memorized and a special interest that she knew would draw out her quarry. And it had. Vance had explained that once she’d attracted the people they were after; then her agent would seek her out. Well, he had and now Mot held her tight in his arms.

  “Look natural.” He said. His hot breath bathed her again. This time, his lips nuzzled along her collar bone. Dear Lord...did the man know that that was her sweet spot. Natural, he’d said. Was he kidding? Sure he wasn’t. But natural what? Natural strangers or natural lovers? She wanted to ask but before she could say a word, Mot supplied...

  “That red head in the corner. I’m using you to make her jealous. Just be cool and follow my lead. We’re old acquaintances with a checkered past. I’m your scorned lover. You left me because I’m an asshole.”

  Mot pressed his hand, guiding her body even closer to him. She’d seen this man more than a few times. Casual nods and meager exchanges of words; but never a full conversation. Quick glimpses of him but enough to imagine what his body looked like beneath his clothes. Her imagination didn’t do him justice. Every part of her felt solid coils of powerfully toned muscles. Feeling him, fueled a headiness; an emotion foreign to her. She fought to maintain control, and recall rules of engagement. Words crisscrossed in her brain. A list of do’s and don’ts. Precautions and warnings. How not to blow your cover or the other agents.

  The music had changed. Now the song was a fast one. Mot’s hand trailed down her arm; clapping hold to her fingers. He guided her back to her seat at the bar. Not talking until he'd helped her sit on the barstool. Leaning in as he’d done when he’d stealthily approached her. His lips lay on her ear. He said...


  “Stay here for exactly five minutes. Then leave. Meet me at the elevator. If I’m not there, come straight to my room. 18th floor. Suite 348.”

  Mot pulled back to stare into her eyes. Bianca had never been this close to him. He had the greenest eyes she’d ever seen. His lip crooked a smile. He was playing his part. The role of her lover. Asshole lover, she amended. He leaned in, softly topping his mouth over hers, teasing her with his tongue. When her lips parted, he pulled her in closer. The kiss was a combination of seduction and raw desire. His fingers weaved through her hair; pulling her head closer still. All calm was lost. He’d rattled and shattered her moral compass. This part that they were playing. If he was trying to show that he wanted to win her back. He had. He’d accomplished what he’d set out to do. So, why shouldn’t she respond like any other woman would. She wobbled, leaning until the bars ledge pressed into her back. They were lovers, and why wouldn't she expect anything less from her body’s response. She didn’t have to force herself to respond appropriately, because genuine feelings didn't require much acting. Bianca was besotted. Not as the agent. Her heart thrummed like Amya’s would. That’s who she was playing. Amya Arnold. A chemist assigned as an attaché, representing the North American Pharmacology Association. This year the pharmacology world conference was being hosted in Paris, France and representatives from every country had been invited to attend. Her handler TC. He'd prepared her by guiding her through a crash course in the field of chemistry and pharmacology. She was grateful she’d been blessed with a near perfect memory. Not quite photographic, but near enough. So far, dealing with the chemist at the conference hadn't presented her with any problems. But now, after meeting up with Mot; she felt like a school girl languishing over a crush. She counted down in her head, waiting for the time to expire. Vance had trusted her to succeed but his trust went far beyond this assignment. He saw something in her. Something that even she didn't see. Whatever it was; that thing that impressed her boss. Bianca would have to draw from that place deep inside of her. She would have to be the agent her mentor believed she could be.

  When Mot had broke their kiss, he didn’t immediately leave the room. Following his instructions to the minute, Bianca sat at the bar, eyeing her watch. Looking at the mirror behind the bar, she'd watched Mot when he returned, approaching the table where the red head angrily sat. The woman didn’t look at all pleased with him, but Mot deflected her jealous snub. He stood, straightened his suit coat, then walked out of the lounge without giving her a second notice. He wasn’t gone for long, when the red head stood, leaving the bar in a hurried huff. Bianca watched, looking to see which way she would go. When the red head was no longer in view; she couldn’t stop herself from wondering what Mot had said or done to anger her.

  When the time was right, Bianca left the bar but she couldn't recall how she'd gone. Had her paces been to long, or too slow? Did she say something inappropriate when she’d been informed that her tab had already been covered? These are things she should have known. These are behaviors that form and mold her persona. At the time, she’d not thought about this, and as a field agent, she should have considered the possible dangers. Bianca had been so anxious to be with. Too finally talk to the man that for months had fueled her dreams. How carless was that? She'd not even used her handlers advise. Words meant to cover her ass. She wondered if he knew that the red head would follow him. Then she wondered if he knew that the red head wouldn’t come to the bar and confront her.

  Bianca was headed for the elevators, as Mot had instructed her. When the lift was in view, that’s when she spotted them. Mot leaned at an angle, one knee bent, with the other leg kicked out straight for balance. His shoulder perched against the wall. While the red head gripped one jetted out hip; her free hand wildly gesticulated her anger. But Mot... Well, from where she stood... And Bianca wasn’t in any hurry to interrupt this woman’s tirade. From her safe distance, Mot appeared to be... What, actually? He didn’t at all look putout or upset. He looked...amused. Fascinated by her indignation.

  Bianca couldn’t prolong this any longer. She’d carried taking tiny steps to new heights, and she was sure Mot’s patience had been worn thin by the red head’s annoyance. She could hear her now. The woman was accusing him of... What? The entire exchange didn’t make a lick of sense. Before she’d been in hearing range, the woman’s words sounded like this.

  “Blah, blah, blah...you promised me... Blah, blah...say something! Blah, blah...and who in the hell is she!”

  Then the conversation tripped over into a language that was foreign to her. The words sounded Germanic. Dutch, perhaps. Whatever it was, Mot stared at her blankly, and the red head rattled on nonstop.

  Bianca was less than three feet from them, when Mot heaved off the wall to press the elevators button. He gripped her hand, pulling Bianca to his side. His eyes lowered, taking her in with his lustful gaze. When he introduced her to the red head; Mot didn’t take his eyes off of Bianca. He was deliberately dissing the woman. Pissing her off for piss sake.

  “Greta... This is Bianca. The woman I told you about.”

  A chime rung, then the elevator’s glorious silver doors parted. Thank you God. In the next moment, she felt her arm grasped in a firm hand and herself propelled through the lifts opening. Mot’s body entered, right behind her. She stumbled, caught off guard and before her eyes regained focus; Mot was there. He was kissing her. She heard what sounded like Germanic female curses. The sound faded, until she heard nothing. It all happened so fast, she had no frame of reference. The red head had been snubbed; his attention lay solely on her. He nudged her back in the corner of the elevator; no brakes in his sensuous kiss. The way his lips tempted her, he was deliberately urging her on. She didn’t get it. The red head was in the lobby and they were alone. She was sure of this. Or, was she sure of anything?

  When the elevator doors opened, it was then that she heard the sound of feet shuffling on the carpet. Then the ding, ding signaled the closing of the doors. Now they were alone. But if that was true... Why was Mot passionately rocking her world; kissing her as if his life depended on pleasing her? Before she could train her mind on this query; she heard the chime, then the doors slid open again. When had he pressed the button to his floor? Dear Lord, she needed to get a grip, and grip it fast because, she felt like a dizzy kid who’d spun around goggle eyed, one time too many.

  He pulled back, steadying her as he did this. Thank God he realized that all this patting and kissing had overwhelmed her senses. He caught her hand, leading her off the lift, then down the hall; to his room. If anyone were too peer out their door. Too them, they would look like to love sick honeymooners. Sweet, she thought. When they were midway now the hall, Mot stopped in front of his suite. There was an 18 on a black plaque to the side of the doorframe. On the door, she read in her mind, the numbers, 348. Mot fished his key card from his pocket, refusing to release her hand. He turned back, smiling at her he said...

  “I’m glad you decided to come.”

  She didn’t know what to say. So dumbly, she said...

  “So am I.”

  He lowered his head; passionately kissing her for saying the right answer. She heard a clicking sound. That noise metallic locks make after accepting a coded card. She didn’t know how this man did it but he was beyond masterful. Pressing elevator buttons, without her noticing. Then kissing her, while unlocking his door. Mot lifted his head, nodding for her to enter first. It was dark. He reached his hand in, pressing a button located along the side of the doors entrance. She turned to thank him, but she noticed his strained expression. He was staring down the hall, looking at something that had captured his notice. When he turned back seeing her, he looked in that direction once again. Making a clear decision, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

  Now that they were alone, Mot's eyes did a quick up and down appraisal.

  "Nice dress. Remind me to compliment your handler." was all he said. Go figure. Just seconds ago, the man’s tongue had litera
lly been down her throat. His hands had groped and felt her up, more ways than one. Now, like the toss of a coin, it was all business from here on out. Damn and shake it off, she thought. After that mental slap, thankfully her brain was working again. Bianca heard the count down in her head. Foot one, foot two, foot three. She was counting the paces as she crossed the room. Anything that would help her recover. She was trying to imitate Mot’s brisk transformation. His brilliant chameleon performance. Her brain had been so focused on this one thing. She didn't even realize it when it happened. Mot had poured himself a drink. No, she thought to herself. When she'd finally turned to face him, she saw two drinks in his hand. He'd poured them both a drink, now he was motioning for her to sit on the sofa away from the window.

  "You needn't worry." He smiled, attempting to allay her fears. "I swept the room. It isn't bugged. You can feel free to say anything."

  Good, she thought. Not about the talking freely stuff because frankly she had not given that a moments worry. But Mot had and in his professional way, he'd assumed, so had she. He'd given her a plausible excuse that would explain her silent fumbling. And in his own way, he’d cleared up her confusion. The kissing on the elevator and in the hallway. Cameras. In places like this, film was always rolling. You could never be to careful and assuming people aren’t looking when they are... It’s slip ups like that that get agents killed.

  Bianca crossed the floor, saying....

  "I wasn't given anything to check my room for bugs. Should I be concerned?"

  Mot handed her the glass and she took it. The aroma of rum tingled the hairs in her nose.