Last Kiss (Hitman #3) (8 page)

“Tongue?” I struggle to think. It’s hard to concentrate when he’s staring at my mouth so intently, when he’s so close to me. Touching me. I should be revolted.

I should.

I’m not, though. I’m prickling with awareness and ready to be kissed, I think. “Are you going to use tongue on me?” I ask breathlessly. My nipples are pricking, which is an interesting side effect of this.

“Not yet,” he tells me softly. “Perhaps when you ask for it.”

When I ask for it? I frown at the thought of this and I open my mouth to protest, when his lips cover mine.

And . . . oh.

I think of germs, immediately. My brain has been trained to automatically go into warning mode at the press of skin against
mine. But then I remember the vodka. He tastes of vodka, too. I smell it on his breath and on mine. We’re clean . . . and I can relax.

His mouth is curiously firm against mine, his lips pressing against my own. They’re soft, light kisses. Gentle. Teasing. It’s nothing like I’d expect from an assassin. And I’m fascinated by the dichotomy. I relax against him, leaning into each kiss, following his lips when they press mine apart. His tongue flicks against the open seam of my mouth and I gasp at the flare it sends through my body.

“I . . . I thought you said no tongue,” I whisper when he pulls away. His eyes are heavy-lidded, and his thumb skims over my lower lip.

“That was not tongue,” he tells me in a husky voice, thick with accent. “That was promise.”

And I shiver all over again.

VASILY

I am trying hard not to stare at her lips, the plush ones that pressed against me, but my gaze is caught, like a spider in a web. The way she moves her lips, the circles she makes when forming letters, the soft flick of her tongue as it flashes in and out of view as she speaks.

I want that softness, that wet, fast tongue on my body, running up my neck and down across my chest, and then lower.
Lower
.

My own throat suddenly feels parched, the alcohol drying up every cell in my body. There’s something strange and different about her. My earlier threat has no effect at all nor was she affected by my killing of Aleksei in front of her. What is more disturbing is that I’m attracted to her. Me, Vasily Petrovich, who has emotional attachment to no women but the women in my family!

When I have sex with a woman, it is nothing more than
relieving a basic bodily function. No different than pissing or eating. In the past, I’ve struggled to find women who were comfortable with this arrangement. Women like to be touched, kissed, caressed, and they seek to run their fingers over your body, disturbing your hair, wrapping your cock in their soft, limp hands.

And under each caress is a hidden motivation. They want money or for you to save their brother or father or even lover. No one touches me without desire to achieve a boon.

Is she different? The eyes that don’t meet mine are full of secrets, and diving down into their clear blue pools will likely be my death. There has been no one who has wrought an orgasm from me fiercer than my own hand. Yet there is something compelling about Naomi and her inquisitive mind and the eyes that seem to take in everything.

And I want her—badly. I want to rip open her clothes and press my body against hers. I want that soft body to feel every plane of my hard one. I want to shove inside her and feel the tight clutch of her pussy around my aching cock. So much that I want and that I cannot have.

Swallowing back my desire, I try to redirect the conversation away from the unhealthy lust I feel for her. “Where in Rome will we need to go to find our contact?”

Her fingers tighten slightly on the glass as she takes a healthy swallow of the vodka before answering, but it is no answer at all. “I need a new cap.”

Her distress is palpable. “We will get one in Rome,” I promise.

“I want my cap, not a new one.”

“Why not a brand-new cap? Your other was worn and old. Perhaps it is not the cap you seek, but a desire to return to Rio.” The desire for her old tattered headgear is likely a ruse.

“Because a new cap won’t be the same.” The space between her brows wrinkles with her frown, and I clench my fingers to keep from comforting her.

Why she wishes to return to Brazil gives rise to a new set of questions. In my short time with Naomi, I’ve learned that pointed and direct questions result in the best response. “Other than your cap, do you have reason to return to Rio?” I watch her body for signs that she is obfuscating, but she appears only earnest now.

“Yes, I’d like to wipe the computer. I can do it remotely but it’s easier when I’m sitting in front of the actual box.”

“Your computer . . . and hat . . . are most likely in the hands of the Golubevs.”

She scowls. “Then we should go after them. Will they return to Russia?”

“Do you not know their itinerary?”

“Why would I? I’m not a Golubev! I want my hat.” The glower on her face deepens, and her whole countenance darkens as if she is wearing a thundercloud as a mask. And the tense and unhappy expression increases my yearning inside to reach over and soothe her brow. To rub my finger along the lines of her forehead and down the petal-soft skin of her cheek until I can trace the hard, jutting bones of her jaw and the soft, plush skin of her lips.

Abruptly, I change the subject. “Why did you not leave Hudson? For eighteen months you have worked for him, running an extraordinarily profitable illegal enterprise. With your skill, you should have been able to send coded messages to someone.”

“Yeah, right. To another computer geek? How’s she supposed to mount an offensive to fly down to a foreign country and extricate me from a compound guarded by freaks with machine guns? And if I tried and failed? Hudson showed me pictures of what
he’d do to my family. Logically it made sense to accede to his demands. Besides, I was shortchanging the pay of his guards. I thought eventually one of them would kill him in anger. Did I do wrong?” The glance she shot me is quick but illuminating. She feels some kind of remorse for her actions, perhaps in part because she didn’t do more to free herself.

“Was it peaceful there, Naomi?” I ask gently.

She stares inside her glass for a long time, the occasional swirl of clear liquid the only sign she’s still conscious. “Very,” she finally says.

“I can give you that . . . and more.”

“How?”

“You would like Russia, Naomi. In the winter at the
dacha
, the snow falls and a blanket of white covers everything.” I piece together all of the things I know she likes from what little time we’ve spent together. “It is very orderly, although small. Only seven or eight rooms. I could add on to it if you like. There’s a wood-burning fireplace that heats every room and only one way in or out. No surprises.”

“Why would you offer this?” she asks, her voice small, but pleasure and curiosity coloring every word.

“It is yours for as long as you want it if you do but one thing for me.”

“The Madonna?” she asks.

“Yes, that’s right,” I reply, because that is the only answer that makes sense now. The feelings of need and wanting possession are too strange for me to comprehend. I push them back but it will be only a matter of time before they overwhelm me . . . and her.

“And if I find it for you, you will take me to this place in Russia?”

“After the Madonna is taken to my home, then you will have
free run of my
dacha
. It is yours to do with as you will. Funds will be at your disposal to renovate and add on what you need.”

She could build a mansion out there to rival the tsars of the old country if she would agree to stay. The desire to ensconce her in my private world is so strong that it is a taste on my tongue—both bitter and sweet.

She appears to consider the offer.

“Do I get to go when I tell you where the Madonna is or after you retrieve it?” she cagily asks.

“After it is returned to the Petrovich vaults, then you may go.” Her cleverness and quick mindedness impress me. She would make a formidable enemy but a powerful ally. I want her, more than I should, and I will do whatever I can to make it so she aligns herself with me. Right now the carrot is a more viable option than the stick. Threats have little power over her. I cannot tell if it is because she has no fear because she does not care, or if it is because she cannot feel fear.

“All right. I want a baseball cap, too.”

“Of course.” I hide my satisfaction by pulling out my phone and pretending to review all the messages I have missed in the last few hours. “Why don’t you go and color your hair, Miss Karen,” I prod her. “You should be ready when we land in Madrid for refueling and then get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.” I hope.

“Will you do it?” she asks.

Placing my phone on the table, I peer at her. What trick is she playing now? “I thought you did not like to be touched.”

“I don’t but I also don’t like the color brown unless it’s food related, because brown things are normally cooked long enough to destroy
any bacteria. I might be sick if I see it on my hands, though.” She shudders, holding her hands out as if they are already contaminated.

“I am your humble servant,” I say, rising and giving her a short bow. She pushes to her feet. Her oddities are notable. I wonder if she was born idiosyncratic or made this way by some trauma. But we all have our flaws, and mine are so great it would be hypocritical to be critical because she requires things to be done in a certain way or has an attachment to an old, worn cap. There is a medical diagnosis for some and perhaps she is one of those. I am no doctor. What I do know is that parts of me that I believed were buried are throbbing with life.

The jet’s bathroom is small despite its luxurious appointments, and it is not made for two people. We are pressed close and when the door falls shut, it is stifling. There is no room for us to maneuver, and my larger frame is dwarfing her. Even if she feels no conscious fear, her hindbrain is encouraging her to shrink away, make herself a smaller target. And my instincts are getting excited by this. My blood is pumping at her subservient stance, and the enclosed space is magnifying every sense. The warm smell of her body wraps around me. She shifts and her hip brushes my thigh, which causes every muscle to tense in anticipation. This will not do.

“One moment, Naomi,” I say. Using the bag, I prop open the door to the bathroom, giving us slightly more air. In my absence, Naomi has opened the box and is reading the instructions.

There is a paintbrush, a plastic bowl, and gloves.

“We need a towel,” Naomi announces. In a compartment outside the bathroom, I find towels and washrags.

“Put this around your neck,” I order. Outside the bathroom I peruse the instructions and then toss them aside. Color and wash.
Easy enough. I pour the ingredients together and the color in the bowl becomes a dark, almost black mix. I hear gagging from inside.

“That’s so gross. It’s going to feel like mud. I’m not putting it on.”

“Then you’ll sit in an enclosed space for a very long time as customs officials in Madrid question you repeatedly about your activities. You would like that more, perhaps?” I raise an eyebrow in inquiry.

With pursed lips she shakes her head.

“Then sit on commode and we will begin.”

She places a towel on the seat and settles gingerly on the terry cloth. With a deep breath, I enter the room . . . and immediately realize how I’ve worsened the situation. With Naomi seated, her mouth—her sweet breath—is positioned directly at groin level. My animal response cannot be contained. My cock swells and with each breath grows harder and larger.

“You’re supposed to use the gloves.” She points to the counter. For a minute I think she’s referring to protection. That she wants me to unzip my pants and unwind my cramped organ so that it can be soothed by her tongue and engulfed in her wet mouth. It takes a moment before I register the small opaque rubber coverings are for my hands. Or rather for someone’s hands.

“Those are much too small to fit,” I say, and then wince at the unintended sexual innuendo. She does not respond to it.

“I suppose they are made for women. There are special products made for men, I believe, which is completely unnecessary. Studies have shown that male and female grooming products are made with essentially the same set of ingredients with scent being the main differential. Men experience baldness at a higher rate because of enzymes in the male body that convert testosterone
into dihydrotestosterone. Women have less testosterone so they don’t produce as much dihydrotestosterone.”

She glances up at me with an expectant look.

“Very interesting.” I give her a wry smile. Her comments have allowed me to gain some small measure of control over my unruly body. At least I am not in danger of stabbing her eye out with an unwanted erection. “Shall I?” I point to the bowl and with a nod, I proceed.

She continues to talk about male-pattern baldness, the words becoming a hum of background noise, blending in with the jet.

NAOMI

I whimper when the first of the chemicals touches my head. The overwhelming smell of it, plus the dark color, makes me uneasy. I am reminded of tar, of mud, of all the dirty things I don’t like, and it’s hard for me to sit still and let him work.

“Shhh,” he soothes, and his fingers begin to rub at my scalp. He’s still not wearing the gloves, and this feels a little shocking to me. A little dangerous. He’s doing it wrong, and he doesn’t care what happens. He’s going to get all filthy, and he doesn’t mind at all?

I wish I were like that. Sometimes, I feel trapped by all the rules my brain has set for me. I’m trying to rebel, to take control, but just pressing my mouth to the same spot on his glass has exhausted my willpower. If I press my lips together, I imagine I still taste him, and I’m not sure I like this. I don’t dislike it, but I’m not sure I like it, either. It feels a bit like ownership. I am now
owned by Vasily, who wears no gloves and touches filthy hair dye so I don’t have to.

His boldness encourages me. This is a man who has said he does not like to be touched, but he’s touching me, and he’s not even grossed out by it.

I’m starting to understand how he feels. I don’t like germs, but . . . I’m fascinated by the thought of being contaminated by Vasily’s germs. It’s an odd thought to have, but I can’t help but press my fingers in the same spots that he has put his. On my temples. Against my hip. Now, his fingers are in my hair, mixing in filth, so I won’t touch that, but the temptation is there.

Earlier, I put my mouth on the spot where he drank. I suppose I’m testing myself with these small rebellions. I’m seeing if my mind can handle it. The kiss surprised me. It didn’t make me sick. I wasn’t even revolted. And now that I’ve tasted Vasily, I’ve shared his germs. His mouth is safe, in theory, because it’s something I’ve now been exposed to. Maybe if I’m covered in Vasily’s germs, I won’t get sick when he touches me, because we’ll have communal germs. We’ll have been thoroughly exposed to each other’s bacteria.

Maybe he needs to kiss me all over.

I rather like that idea—building up an immunity to one person’s microorganisms by constant contact.

I wonder if this is what he thinks when he runs his fingers through my hair. He’s very quiet, but I feel his hands on my scalp. They rub and rub, and I close my eyes, trying to remain still and remember that he’s pushing chemical filth onto my head.

But for some reason, it’s bothering me less the more his fingers touch my scalp. The hair dye scent is filling my nostrils now, the chemicals making my eyes water with their proximity, but the rest of my body feels curiously languid. At peace. It’s odd.

It’s . . . nice.

“Let me know if you’re going to vomit,” I tell Vasily. I’m seated next to the small sink in the lavatory, and I don’t want any splash back.

“Vomit?”

“Yes. Vomit. Expel one’s stomach contents forcefully. Purge. Expel. Regurgitate. Puke. Hurl. Throw up—”

“I know what you speak of. Why would I vomit?” He sounds confused.

Now I’m the one that’s confused. I frown as he squirts the last of the chemicals in my hair. Both of his hands go to my scalp and he begins to rub again, working the last of the horrible tarlike chemicals in. My eyes almost roll back with the pleasure of his touch—
strange, strange, strange, this isn’t like you, Naomi
—but I force myself back to the present. “You have told me repeatedly that you do not like to be touched, yet you are touching me without gloves. As I said, let me know if you’re going to vomit. I don’t want to be hit by it.”

“
Da
.” The word is clipped, dissonant. “I will not vomit.”

“Then you lied? After all those warnings to me about not lying to you, you’re lying to me?”

“Lied?”

“About not being touched,” I say as his fingers scrub at my scalp. “Clearly it does not bother you as you stated.”

“You state you do not like germs but you drink after me.”

He noticed that, did he? “There is scientific reasoning behind putting my lips where yours have been.”

“Is there?” He sounds amused, and I resist the urge to smile back at him.

“Lots of science,” I agree.

There is a long pause. Then, Vasily announces to me, “I don’t like to be touched. You are correct about that.”

More lies. Either that, or he’s not as familiar with his boundaries as he thinks. I reach out and poke a finger at his arm.

“What did I just say to you?” he snarls, irritated. His fingers stop massaging my hair.

“I wanted to see your reaction to stimulus. No touching at all?”

“None,” he grits, and his voice is so black with sudden anger it’s practically burning a hole in my head.

Now it feels as if we’re both ignoring the fact that he has his hands in my hair. “Have you tested this theory?”

“What?”

“How can you make a blanket statement such as ‘I do not like all touches’ if you haven’t tried all touches yet? I don’t like to be touched either, but I like to quantify it,” I try to explain to him slowly. Perhaps the inhaled chemicals are getting to his brain, because he is looking at me as if I’m the crazy one. He’s the one making broad, ridiculous statements. “Skin contact is unappealing in most situations due to germs and natural skin secretions. Fabric between skin is acceptable, but strangers are never acceptable. You have to start with a control point. What is your control point?”

He stares down me, eyes narrowed like he wants to twist my head off. His hands leave my hair and he pushes me aside, cleaning his hands under the faucet. “We are done with this ignorant conversation.”

But I’m not done. I lean over and poke his thigh. He stops what he’s doing and turns to stare at me incredulously. His very demeanor says
what did you just do?
All the while, brown chemicals and foam trickle into the sink, clean water rushing over his hands.

He looks pissy but not sick. I gesture toward him as if to say
see?
“You did not snap at me that time. If this was a scientific experiment in regards to touching, I would have to conclude that you dislike touches above the waist, but below the waist is perfectly acceptable.”

“I will snap your finger off if you poke me again.”

I give him an exasperated look. Does he not know how to run a scientific experiment? “That reaction doesn’t count. You’re responding to the stimulus of my conclusion, not the actual touch. My theory stands.”

The growl in his throat is one of annoyance.

“Shall I touch you below the belt so we can test additional stimuli?” I’m still seated on the toilet, and his hips are mere inches from my face. I examine his belt buckle, the cut of his trousers, and the way his penis fills them out. Judging from the jut of his crotch, he has a very large one. I try to extrapolate the full length of it from the visual I have, but I’m starting to become flustered myself.

“Do it,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. It’s so quiet I almost don’t hear it over the rush of the water in the sink.

Vasily wants to test my theory. He . . . he wants me to touch him near his penis?

I’m encouraged—and oddly aroused by this. I’d like to study my own reaction to the Vasily-stimuli. Am I wet between my legs? Is my clitoris throbbing and sensitive? But I’m more interested in Vasily’s reactions at the moment. My hands go to his thighs and I slowly place them there, palms flat against the fabric.

He doesn’t move. He’s utterly still, perhaps waiting for me to do more.

It’s fascinating to touch this big man. This is a safe touch, the fabric under my hands a soft weave that allows me to feel the heat of
Vasily’s skin through the material, and the hard muscles of his legs. I run my hands up and down his thighs slowly, but I really want to put them on his penis and see how he reacts to that stimulus. It looks really large at the moment. I find it intensely interesting.

“Are you well?” I ask him, not looking up. I can feel his gaze boring into the top of my messy, chemical-covered head, and I’m not sure I want eye contact right now. Of all things, eye contact is the most difficult for me. It feels too intimate, even more intimate than cupping this stranger’s groin would be. “Do you feel the need to vomit yet?”

“
Nyet
,” he says harshly. But his breathing has increased in its rapidity. A moment later, he shuts the water off and it’s quiet in the tiny bathroom.

He’s still waiting for me to do more. A little thrill rolls through my body, and I feel my own pulse responding to the stimulus.

“Can I keep touching?” I ask, and my fingers curl against his legs a little, scratching at his skin through the fabric like I would a skittish cat. It’s the same soothing motion he used to massage my scalp minutes ago, and I wonder if it feels as good to him as it did to me. “Or are you overstimulated?”

“Keep. Going.” His voice is a thickly accented hiss.

My gaze turns back to his penis and it seems larger in his pants, the entire area tented now. He’s aroused all right. I feel smug that my theory has been proven; Vasily does like touches below the waist. But my smugness falls away a moment later when I feel an answering pulse of arousal between my own thighs. I don’t need to keep touching him to prove my point . . .

But I do anyhow.

I slide my hands upward, to the tops of his thighs. My thumbs graze along his inseam, and then I boldly press upward, until my
fingers and thumbs are framing that area of such intense interest. When I push against the fabric, his erection juts out against it, more bold and prominent than I’ve ever seen. I’m tantalized by the sight of it, and instead of my careful, flat-pressed hands I’ve been using up to this point, I want to explore him.

I lift one hand and gently touch my fingertips to the farthest tip of his fabric-covered erection. It feels hard, urgent, as if it desperately wants to escape the confining trousers. I skim my fingertips along his length, gauging it with his hand and wondering at the feel of him. I rather like this, this safe touching and knowing that I’m driving him crazy. It’s nothing like my last sexual experience, which was all sweaty skin and fluids. “I wonder if people have sex fully clothed?” I muse. I might be interested in that.

Vasily bites out some Russian word above my head. It sounds like an epithet, and not a happy one.

Immediately, I feel like I’ve made a mistake. Vasily is staring down at me, and the look on his face is so intense and so personal that I can’t handle it. I feel as if I’m being stripped naked and penetrated by his gaze. I blink rapidly and then look away. My hands fall to my lap.

The moment is broken. I don’t know that I want it back. I just want Vasily to stop looking at me while I feel so vulnerable. I don’t know what to do when he looks at me like that.

The entire world seems to hang in that moment. Then, Vasily reaches over my gross, chemical-covered head and jerks a few paper towels into his hands. “I will return when it is time to rinse,” he says thickly, and storms out of the tiny bathroom.