Assassin's Haiku

by Cynthia Sax

  Assassin’s Haiku

  Cynthia Sax

  www.loose-id.com

  Assassin’s Haiku

  Copyright © June 2011 by Cynthia Sax

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  eISBN 978-1-61118-427-3

  Editor: Ann M. Curtis

  Cover Artist: Anne Cain

  Printed in the United States of America

  Published by

  Loose Id LLC

  PO Box 425960

  San Francisco CA 94142-5960

  www.loose-id.com

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

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  Chapter One

  Diego crouched, setting the last sensor on the wet pavement. The high-tech gadget was small, black, and undetectable in the dirty alleyway. When he straightened, his movement was communicated through the sensor to his earpiece. With the perimeter now adequately monitored, he’d be notified if Agency men approached. He’d be safe. Haiku will be safe.

  He hurried back to the club. He ran so quickly, so quietly, that he caught the brute at the door by surprise. Startled, the big man raised his laser rifle. Diego curled his leather-covered fingers around the end of the barrel and shook his head, signaling that he was no enemy. If he were an enemy, the man would already be dead. Recognizing Diego, the doorman relaxed and nodded him through.

  Heads turned as Diego entered the underground poetry-sex bar. Men frowned at what they viewed as more competition, and women smiled in a wary welcome. But no one was stupid enough to approach him. His dark shades and long black leather jacket communicated his profession.

  Assassin.

  Diego scanned the dimly lit room and located his target immediately, Haiku’s white spiked hair drawing his gaze like a beacon. She sat at a table nearest the stage. The chair beside her was empty. She waited for him. The gloom of Diego’s death-filled day lifted. Haiku was his sanctuary. She was his light.

  He would keep her safe. Diego perused the room, identifying faces, locating weapons, and pinpointing exits. Although all patrons were screened by the justifiably paranoid management, Diego trusted no one, as he’d seen the Agency turn even the fiercest rebels into informants. He knew better than most people what that organization was capable of.

  Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. The crowded space heaved with the usual sweaty, naked bodies. A tattooed man sucked the cock of a blond pretty boy. His skinhead bobbed, his cheeks indented with pressure, and the boy moaned his pleasure. Soldiers lined up politely between the open legs of a brunette, waiting for one last fuck before risking their lives in tomorrow’s battle. A big black man had his eyes closed as he fucked another soldier up the ass. He could be gay, or he could be desperate. Women in the resistance were scarce, and men did what they could to appease their sexual needs.

  A man beckoned to Haiku, his gesture obscene, and Diego scowled. They would not appease their sexual needs with his woman. He weaved soundlessly through the groupings, making his way to her table. Patrons scattered before him like scavengers in the presence of a predator, fear on their completely human faces. Diego flicked aside his coat and flashed his weapons as he sat down beside Haiku. His rival, correctly reading the subtle threat, beat a hasty retreat.

  Haiku cast her blue-eyed gaze in his direction, and Diego sharply sucked in his breath. She was beautiful beyond words, her countenance as poetic as her name. Her skin was luminescent and flawless, her pointed chin hinted at her stubbornness, and her plush lips were permanently curled in a serene smile. If anyone asked what he fought for, killed for, Diego would say that angelic face.

  No one asked him, though, including Haiku. They didn’t talk. They hadn’t said more than a dozen words to each other over the past three months. They sat in silence, not speaking or touching. Diego wanted her, and he hungered for more, yet he knew he didn’t deserve Haiku. He wouldn’t touch her with his blood-soaked fingers. He’d be content with what little he had.

  Diego tugged off his black leather gloves, and tossed them on the wooden table. Haiku had ordered for him, attending to a killer’s needs as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Diego wasn’t accustomed to being cared for, and her concern made him uncomfortable.

  He clenched the glass, savoring the feel of the condensation against his bare skin. Pleasure was fleeting, and the water, crisp and pure, was an indulgence. Diego took neither for granted.

  Haiku's friend, Beth, knelt on the table before them. Three muscular men stripped off the shapely blonde’s skimpy clothes, exposing her naturally tanned curves. The first man was ebony, the second man was ivory, and the third man was golden. They were different men than she had fucked three days ago, and she’d end the night with different men as well.

  When Diego first met Beth, the blonde had babbled on about how she was doing the resistance a favor by fucking as many men as possible. She claimed having sex with her boosted the men’s morale. Although there was truth in that explanation, Diego had a more cynical view of human nature. He knew most people—his Haiku being the possible exception—were selfish. Beth did what she did because she liked variety, liked feeding off the sexual energy. She’d be fucked silly and leave the club bubbling over with excitement.

  Diego watched Beth’s escapades with little interest. He didn’t get off on observing others. Haiku was his main focus, and his poetry-loving woman sat primly, her knees pressed together, her back straight. She wore a black frilly blouse and a clean pair of cargo pants, her conservative outfit doing more for him sexually than the naked skin around them.

  He longed to peel back the black cloth, wanted to reveal expanses of her pale skin. He’d lick the softness and suck on the ivory skin until it turned red. He’d cup those small breasts, pluck her nipples into pink peaks before easing her knees apart and settling between them. She’d feel like heaven, he knew. Small and supple, she’d grip his cock snugly as he rocked into her. He wouldn’t last long during their first fucking; he wanted her too badly.

  Diego gritted his teeth and shifted in his seat, the leather of his pants stretching uncomfortably tight across his aching erection. As though taunting his sexual frustration, Haiku pushed his gloves closer to the edge of the table, her fingertips lingering over the black leather, stroking and caressing it. In Diego’s mind, it was his cock she was touching. He pictured her fingers encircling his cockhead, probing the slit, skimming underneath the rim.

  Diego cussed under his breath. He was seconds away from coming in public, and that would be a disaster, since an a
ssassin without control was a dead assassin. He looked away, concentrating on his security routines, perusing their surroundings once more. Threats were everywhere, and he could not forget that danger.

  On the stage, a Gothlike cross-dressing creature combined both of the club’s themes, pumping his cock while reciting poetry, his pale face tilted upward, his cheeks tightened with euphoria. To Haiku’s left, two men had their knives drawn, ready to fight over the right to fuck a woman waving her ass in the air. Their inept maneuvering amused Diego; he could disarm them blindfolded.

  The passing chaps-wearing waiter sidestepped the posturing men, his tray of drinks undisturbed. The males in the club were all resistance soldiers, battle-worn and shell-shocked, and many of the females liked drama. Fights were a regular occurrence.

  Beth’s ebony man turned his head. “Too many cocks, not enough holes.”

  Diego heard the black man’s lament as he watched the ivory man ride Beth’s ass with a noisy smack, smack, smack, his balls bouncing with the impact. Beth had the golden man’s cock in her mouth and was slurping noisily, leaving the third man out of the action.

  “Maybe your friend is interested,” the ebony man said, nodding toward Haiku as he stroked himself.

  Haiku stiffened beside Diego and grabbed his thigh. Her fingers trembled, the vibrations sending pleasurable sensations along his skin. His cock throbbed in time with her trembling fingers.

  “She is not,” Diego answered for Haiku, putting his arm around the back of her chair. She squeezed his leather-clad flesh in a silent thank-you, and the impact went straight to his tortured groin. His balls were drawn up so tight, they were on the verge of detonation.

  Diego sucked in a mouthful of her scent. In a room reeking of sex, pussy juices, and cum, she smelled fresh and clean, like those orphan babies she cared for. That aromatic reminder of their differences helped him find his center. With his fragile control returning, he relaxed.

  “And who are you to speak for h—”

  Diego removed his shades, and the ebony man stopped talking. His eyes, genetically enhanced to better see in the dark, warned others of who he was. “I’m not someone you want to fuck with.”

  “You can fuck with me, Ty.” Beth pacified the man, caressing his dark chest with her tanned hands. The other two men now lay around her, limp and spent. “Right here, right now, darling. See, my pussy is begging for it.” She lowered herself onto her back and spread her legs wide, displaying pussy lips wet with moisture.

  “I’ll give it to you, sweetheart.” The losing man from the knife fight did more than volunteer. He had his cock out, ready for action.

  “Fuck off. She’s mine,” the ebony man barked, positioning himself between Beth and the encroacher. Big fists clenched, he had his feet braced apart as he readied for a fight.

  Diego placed his free hand on the hilt of his favorite knife. He had zero tolerance for bloodshed around Haiku, and if the scuffle grew violent, he’d take both men out. Neither of them were a match for his skills.

  “Give us a half hour, hon.” The blonde pacified the newcomer. “It is only a half hour, and I’ll make it worth your wait. I promise.” She playfully winked at the newcomer before turning her attention to the first man in line. “I’m waiting, Ty.” She wiggled impatiently, her large breasts bouncing. She didn’t wait for long, as the man filled her with one long, hard thrust, his balls smacking against her ass.

  Haiku’s friend loved sex, and she’d have most of the men in the club by the end of the night, Diego being the exception. He kept his arm around Haiku’s chair and watched as her eyelashes lowered, then fluttered upon her skin. Her mouth parted, and her face softened even more. Only one woman interested him, and she was focused on the words filling the room.

  Chapter Two

  Haiku closed her eyes, allowing the words to lovingly wash over her, carrying away the chaos of her day, leaving behind orderly revelations in their wake. Poetry was passion constrained to bite-size rhythms, emotion sliced into stanzas.

  Diego shifted beside her, his arm brushing against her neck, and once again, her thoughts were scattered by the force of her desire. His delicious warmth against her nape wasn’t enough to satisfy her. She wanted, needed Diego to touch her lips, her breasts, her everywhere. But Beth, having a better understanding of men, said he wouldn’t, not without some encouragement from her.

  The words popped in the air like bubbles, signaling an end to her reverie. Blinking rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the harsh stageside lighting, Haiku reluctantly removed her hand from Diego’s thigh to clap her appreciation for the poet’s efforts. Diego didn’t remove his arm from the back of her chair. Although Beth’s gorgeous body writhed naked on the table in front of them, Diego watched her. He always watched her, his vigilance making Haiku feel safe and protected and loved.

  She gave him a small smile, and those black-as-night eyes shone. They were a reminder that he wasn’t 100 percent human. Haiku didn’t care, as most days, she didn’t feel 100 percent human either.

  Smiling wouldn’t earn Haiku the physical contact she craved. She should talk to him, except she wasn’t comfortable talking to anyone over the age of ten. What could they talk about? Not his day, as Diego spent his killing, which was why the other men in the club feared him. Not her day, as talking about wiping runny noses wouldn’t lead to any hot kisses.

  Haiku stared ahead, watching the scene unfold in front of her as she ran through possible conversations in her head. Beth inserted a huge dildo into the lubricated butt hole of a redheaded giant while she enthusiastically rode yet another man. The men grunted, her friend screamed with unabashed happiness, and Haiku ground her teeth in envy and sexual frustration. If only she had Beth’s way with the opposite sex. Beth never had to worry about things to say. Men seemed to know what she wanted.

  A new poet took the stage, dressed in leather and carrying a whip, and inspiration hit Haiku. Diego wasn’t in the poetry-sex bar for the sex, having never participated in any of the table orgies, so he must be attending for the poetry. “Do you write?” Haiku waved a hand toward the stage. Do you want to fuck me?

  “No.” Diego’s one-word answer was low and deep and reached down into the depths of her soul. He didn’t talk much, and Haiku liked that, as their shared silences allowed her to think.

  Haiku swallowed hard, her lust for him ratcheting up to unbearable levels. “I write.” I’d like to fuck you.

  “I know.” Diego sipped his water, his stern mouth bending with the rim of his glass. He never drank alcohol, only water, and although he doled out underground justice with a quick hand and a sharp knife, she’d never seen him lose his temper. He was the most controlled man Haiku had ever met.

  This dangerous man knew her secrets. Diego knew she wrote. A thrill shimmered over Haiku’s skin. “How do you know?” She had never performed at the club, and she had never been published. Her poetry was private and real, and she didn’t share it with anyone.

  Diego caught her fidgeting wrist, his hand callused and rough. As he watched her face, he slowly, carefully, rolled up her sleeve, exposing her skin inch by inch.

  “I know.” He brushed his thumb over the words written in marker upon her arm.

  What else did he know? Had he read the desire in her face, in the way her nipples pebbled when he touched her, in the heat rising from her body? Unable to witness that confirmation, Haiku glanced down.

  A glass of water…

  A stolen kiss from Diego

  Quench his lover’s thirst

  Her cheeks heated. There was no need to read her body language. How she felt for him was written on her skin.

  “Drink.” Diego slid his glass to her, the water sloshing against the side of the tumbler.

  He didn’t offer her the stolen kiss; instead he offered her the glass of water. Stung by the subtle rejection, Haiku sampled the pricey beverage, savoring the taste in her mouth before swallowing.

  “Haiku.”

  His rough fingers caught
her chin, turning her face toward him. She looked up, and in those normally flat eyes, she saw the swirl of stark emotion. Her breath caught. As she held his gaze, the swirl grew and grew, until his eyes were stormy with desire. Diego wanted her too. Hope and passion and need unfurled in her stomach.

  Diego bent his dark head and brushed his lips against hers in a gentle caress. Haiku followed the arc of his mouth, not allowing his withdrawal. She had waited for his kiss for months, and he wouldn’t get away from her so quickly.

  Diego groaned, the sound heartfelt and raw, like an animal in great pain. Before Haiku could react, his retreat turned instantly into an attack. He branded her mouth, sealing his lips over hers in a primitive declaration that she was his and his alone. She didn’t fight his ownership, merely leaned into the warmth of his body, placed her hands on his chest. His tongue probed, demanding entry, and she sighed her surrender, opening to allow him in. He sucked on her tongue. He explored her mouth. He possessed her senses. His right hand grasped her nape, holding her to him, while she hung on to his shoulders.

  When the kiss broke, they both breathed heavily, their chests heaving. As Haiku returned to reality, Diego lazily stroked her cheek with a featherlight touch.

  “Not the same thing,” he said, his voice husky with passion.

  It wasn’t the same thing at all, as his kiss didn’t quench any need. It fed the fire inside her, making her nipples tight and her pussy wet. “Diego.” Haiku slid her hand along his thigh. She needed more. She needed his rough palms on her back, his muscular chest against her breasts.

  She felt the long, stiff ridge of his arousal through his pants, and he inhaled sharply as she brazenly stroked along his shaft. He was large, larger than any of her previous lovers. His cockhead was broad, his shaft was thick, and his balls stretched the leather. She licked her lips. He would fill her like she’d never been filled before, ruining her for other men.