Last Kiss (Hitman #3) (13 page)

“This is why I am the dominant and you are the submissive,” I answer mildly.

Naomi disappears into the bathroom. Sadly, she will not need my help. The cream bustier with the inset cups with the delicate lace trim hooks up the front. The garter belt and panties should hold no challenge for her, either.

As I pull on my black suit, fastening my cufflinks and my belt, my mind drifts to the bathroom. She should be putting a foot up on the commode, rolling up the silk stockings and fastening the tops into the garter belt. Perhaps she smooths the fabric a few times, enjoying the luxurious threads under her palms before pulling on the other garments. She will brush her hair and then sweep a bit of mascara over her lashes and redden her lips with gloss. At the end, she will shrug on the gown that is now a robe. It ties under her generous bosom and hints at the delights below.

“Are you really sure about this?” she asks, appearing in the
doorway looking exactly as the store’s name promises. An angel in the bedroom.

“Come.” I motion with one hand. She obeys, already walking stocking footed across the floor. I open my hand, and a choker of pearls hangs down. I wind my finger and she turns around and lifts her hair before I need to ask. The pearl necklace has six strands, and its extravagant size elevates her chin. I clip a long gold leash to the necklace and let it hang down the middle of her back. The red cape goes over the top to hide her garments.

“If this does not catch the eye of a man looking to acquire something unusual, nothing will,” I say. I turn away before she can open her red lips because if she says anything . . . anything at all, I will throw her onto the cushions and fuck her blind.

NAOMI

I’m a bit nervous as the cab drives through the winding streets of Rome. I want to fiddle with the pearls at my neck, but they make a clacking noise and it makes me edgy instead of comforting me. I have a cape covering my lingerie, but I still feel rather naked walking around in such an outfit.

Vasily, meanwhile, is wearing a black suit and looks formidable. Even his tousled blond hair is slicked impeccably back. He looks all business, which makes me even more nervous, until he puts a hand on my thigh. For some reason, that touch calms me and I’m fine with the rest of the car ride. Quiet, but fine.

Eventually, the car stops. I peer out the window, but the building looks unfamiliar. It’s solid and dark, with no windows at the front. The door is thick, heavy, square wood with a big iron pull ring instead of a handle. Inside, bass thumps loudly enough that
I feel it in the car. I look at Vasily uncertainly. He knows I don’t like loud noises.

As if he can predict my thoughts, he produces the earplugs. “Put these in before we go inside.”

I take them from him and to my surprise, he grasps my hand before I can put them in. The look in his eyes is incredibly intense. “Karen,” he says softly, and then leans in to speak to me. His breath is hot on my neck, and I get goose bumps as he starts to whisper. “You must be completely obedient to me inside. Do you understand?”

“I do,” I tell him in an equally quiet voice.

“You are not to call me anything but ‘master’ once we are inside those doors. I will take the lead and you will obey. If this is to work, this is how it must be.”

I nod.

To my surprise, he pulls out the soft black mask and pushes it into my hand. “You will wear this when we go in.”

“Why?” I’m to go in blind?

“Have you ever been around horses?”

I shake my head. No one trusts me around large animals, sadly. I don’t pay enough attention. But I like horses. They’re beautiful and elegant.

“A thoroughbred may become a danger to others in unnerving situations. They are blindfolded so they cannot see the things that bother them. It calms them. It will calm you.”

I like being compared to a thoroughbred. “All right. You won’t let anyone touch me?”

“No hand will touch you but mine. No matter what I say. If another finger so much as grazes you, I will remove it from the offender’s body. Do you understand?”

I blink rapidly. I suppose I do understand that. “I—”

“No hand but mine,” he emphasizes. His free hand touches my chin, forces me to make eye contact with him. “Look at me.” When I do, he repeats it again. “No hand but mine.”

I nod against his fingers. No hand but his.

The look on his face changes, and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. But instead, he releases my hand. “Do you recall your safe word?”

“Dyspepsia.”

“That’s it.” He chuckles. “Put those on and we shall go.”

Everything in me is full of worry about going into a strange place, blindfolded and deafened, wearing only a cloak over lingerie. But then Vasily’s big hand gives my knee another caress, and I realize that he’s got me. He won’t let anything happen to me.

I trust him. No hand but his. No germs but his.

So in the earplugs go, on goes the blindfold, and then Vasily opens the car door. It’s not that I hear it being opened as much as the air changes on my skin, and then he takes my hand in his and pulls me forward. I ease slowly out of the car, and when I’m standing, his hand goes to the small of my back and he guides me.

It’s like being in a cocoon. My senses are dulled—I can’t see anything, can only hear the relentless thud of the bass inside the building, and my other senses strive to pick up the lack. I want to hold Vasily’s hand, to feel the callus against my skin, but he is the leader, and I am the follower. I wait for gentle signals to tell me what he wants. A quick, flat touch of his hand on my arm tells me to wait. The gentle prod of his hand again at my back tells me to go forward.

Then, the air changes, grows warmer. The wind stops, and the muffled bass picks up. We must be inside. I lift my head a little, trying to sense things, but my cocoon lets nothing in.

We’re inside for maybe a minute—time is difficult to tell this
way—when Vasily’s hand caresses my jaw. Through the blurred mumble of sound, I can barely pick up the tones of his speaking voice, but I can’t make out what he’s saying, just that he’s talking. I lean into his touch, eager for instruction. I want to help. We’re playing pretend tonight and he’s got the fun part.

His fingers caress my jaw again, and then his hand slides down my throat and tugs at the knot of my cape. I feel the material give as the knot does, and then the entire thing slides to the floor. Goose bumps prickle my arms and legs as they are bared, and I wonder how many people are looking at me in my pearls and pale lingerie. I tremble at the thought, and then Vasily’s hand glides down my arm.

And then I think of Vasily. Does he like the way I look? I preen a little, imagining him admiring my breasts, and thrust them out for him to appreciate. With small touches, he guides me closer to his side, and then he takes my hand and puts it to the gold collar at my throat, and then puts my fingers to the chain. It’s attached to something, and I follow it down to find the end of the chain clasped in his big, warm hand. My own fingers wrap around his, a silent question. Can he lead me this way?

I lick my lips nervously, and he gives my hand a squeeze in affirmation. And we go into what must be a party.

I lose track of all time with my sight removed and sound dulled. Vasily is right to do so; I’m not nervous. There could be a thousand people an inch away from me, filthy with microorganisms, and I wouldn’t care. He’s the center of my world right now. I cling to his hand and walk when he walks, stop when he touches my arm and gestures that I stop. People talk around me, but their voices mix with the thrumming bass and don’t register. We might have been at this party for five minutes or five hours; it’s all the same to me.
The air here is warm and moist, and I find my skin is damp with sweat even though I’ve done nothing but walk and be led.

Maybe it’s anticipation that is making me sweat. Because I feel, at this moment, as if we are building up to something exciting. I have no doubt that Vasily—the big, strong, capable hand that carries my chain—is carrying guns. Will he shoot people? Is he shooting them even now? I think about this and discard the idea. Surely if I can hear the bass and conversations, I’d hear shots going off. I picture him walking sedately through a party and wringing people’s necks instead. The image is an amusing one and I smile to myself.

His fingers reach out and caress my mouth, grazing over it, as if he wants more of my smiles. But I want more of his touches. I don’t even mind his germs. So I lick the fingers he brushes against my mouth and imagine his response in the silence.

Vasily gives my hand a squeeze and a tug on the chain, and then we are walking. It’s a lot of walking. As we walk, the faint murmur of conversation disappears, and the music fades to a soothing thrum in the distance. Now I can hear more of Vasily’s voice, and he’s talking to someone else. Someone with a piercing laugh. I hear a woman’s yelp and realize there are two someones nearby. The woman’s startled noise makes me anxious, and I squeeze Vasily’s hand again. Mine is sweating in his, and I’m sure I’m oozing germs onto him. He should be disgusted, but he doesn’t pull away, only gives me a comforting little shake as if to say he’s got me. I calm at that.

We seem to be going somewhere, though. The music fades even more and we continue to walk. Then, I feel the chain move again, and Vasily stops, his hand touching my arm. I stop, and to my surprise, his fingers brush my earlobes and he taps them.

I pull out the earplugs reluctantly, almost afraid of what I’ll
hear. But the music is a low throb many rooms away, and the air seems to echo here. It’s cooler. And it’s quiet.

“Is that better, Karen?” Vasily asks. His voice is different. His thick, liquid accent is gone, replaced by a flat tone. It’s surprising to me but I don’t show it. He’s playing a part.

I lick my lips. “Yes, master.” I remember my part, too.

“Good.” He caresses my cheek and then gives it a pat.

“Your slave is quite lovely,” the man with the high-pitched voice says. He’s got a hint of a French accent. “Where did you say you got her again?”

“Brazil,” Vasily says in that accent. “Best purchase I’ve made so far. Nice and obedient.”

“How’s her scream? She juice up when you hit her?”

That seems an odd question to ask. I ponder what this man means, but Vasily answers. “She’s not a fan of pain . . . yet. I still have much training to do. We’ll get there. Isn’t that right, Karen?”

Whatever he says. Inwardly, I shrug at the odd conversation. “Yes, master.”

“Well,” says the other. “Come. Have a seat and we’ll talk business. Cognac?”

“Thank you. Come, Karen,” Not-Vasily says and tugs me forward with the chain. I hear fabric—maybe leather—flex and realize he’s sitting in a chair.

“Go sit next to my chair, Bella,” the other voice says, and I realize he must be talking to the other girl. “You can sit at my feet.” She makes a whimpering sound that doesn’t quite sound like agreement, but is silent otherwise.

Everyone is sitting down. This presents a new problem. Do I remain standing? Do I sit? Where would I sit? I picture a dirty
wood floor. Or worse, an old carpet that’s hiding thousands of dust mites. I whimper, unsure what to do.

I feel the chain move and Vasily stands. “Good Karen,” he tells me, and his hand caresses my cheek. “You’ve remembered your training.” I’m confused until he continues. “She can sit nowhere that is not mine. I am teaching her that I am the absolute in my world.”

“You’re a tough man, Dmitri,” the other says, and I hear the sound of pouring liquid.

“Just firm,” Not-Vasily says, and I hear the rustle of clothing, and then something brushes against my calves. “My jacket is on the floor, Karen. I permit you to sit there.”

He knows I don’t like germs—except his. I’m so grateful to Vasily for thinking of everything—for knowing how my mind works without me having to say a word—that I sit down and automatically cling to his leg, wrapping my arms around it.

His hand goes to my head and he strokes my hair, and I can’t help but preen a bit. I’m doing well at this, aren’t I?

“Isn’t that a pretty sight?” the other man says. I hear footsteps approach. “Do you share?”

“Not yet,” Not-Vasily says, the sound flat. “She’s still in training.”

“She for sale?”

“Not yet. You interested when she is?”

My arms tighten on Vasily’s leg. I know this is a game but the words are still alarming.

“I am.”

“I shall keep you in mind, then, Emile.”

Emile. Ah. This is the purveyor. Vasily has somehow managed to get him alone into a room so they can talk business. He’s a clever man. My hands stroke his leg and I want to touch him. I
want to feel connection with him. I slide my fingers up his pant leg and feel his firm calf.

And I feel aroused by touching his skin. His heat, the feel of his fine leg hairs, the muscle that flexes under my touch, I love all of it. I’m not thinking about germs anymore, just of touching Vasily. And I caress and stroke his calf, lost in thought.

I wonder if I can make him orgasm from me touching his leg alone?

My fingers stroke along his skin in the small area I can touch. All the way up to his knee, then down to his ankle. He’s so hot; the human body averages 98.6 degrees, but Vasily feels warmer. I pay attention to his silent signals as he talks to Emile, discussing world matters or American politics or something. Their voices are an uninteresting hum, and I’m more interested in the way Vasily twitches, just a bit, when my fingers skate over the back of his knee. My nipples are prickling and I can feel the flesh between my legs growing slick with arousal.

And I really, really want to do more. My hand goes to my breasts, then down to the waistband of my panties. I’m about to shove my hand in there to work myself over when I hear, “No, Karen,” in a firm, Not-Vasily voice.

I stop. “Yes, master.” But I’m frustrated and sexually hungry and I’m really into this game. Karen wants to keep touching her master. She wants his skin, his taste, his germs, the small shudders he tries to hide as she touches him.

A filthy, naughty idea strikes me and I bite my lip, then get on my knees and press my breasts against his leg. My hands go to his thigh and I realize vaguely that it’s gone quiet in the room. I don’t care. Vasily is my entire world at the moment, and I’m thinking about the way he touched me on the plane and made me come.

I want to make him come. The shameless thought is eating away at my brain.

“Karen?” Not-Vasily says in that oddly flat voice, all personality and sexy Vasily leached out of it. “What do you want?”

“I want to pleasure you, master.” My breath is hitching with my own excitement. “Let me put my mouth on you.”

There’s a long pause. His hand strokes my hair ever so gently. “Is that so?”

I nod and rub my breast against him, like a cat wanting to be petted. My nipple scrapes along his pant leg, and I can feel the friction through my bra cup and I love it. A breathless little moan escapes me. “Please.”