by Sable Jordan
Cocooned in Xander’s arms, Kizzie had one more secret for the darkness to keep. She said she’d go, but if this was a glimpse of what she’d leave behind, well… she kind of wanted to stay.
August 1st
Tokyo, Japan
The rush of the train station behind her, Fay cut through the lush gardens of Shinjuku Gyoen on her way to the mile-high glass skyscraper she called home. This wasn’t her usual route, opting instead to go door-to-door via private car service than to take the train. But that cost money, money Fay had but she didn’t, and then the game would come to a swift end before Fay was ready.
She hadn’t done this since she was a kid, and at the time there wasn’t anything fun about a little girl in the streets of Moscow playing frightened mouse to her father’s angry cat. Vodka and gambling were a terrible combination made worse by excess, and her father was only good at the last. So Fay had no choice but to get good at the game. To know when she was being followed, to trust the tingling dread in her belly, the prickled hair on her nape really meant his eyes were on her, watching, waiting.
Fay paused to light a cigarette, head dipped and hand cupped as she brought the lighter up.
A soft scuff sounded behind her, barely audible. The end of the rolled tobacco glowed red as she took a long drag. Head tipped back, she puckered her lips and blew the smoke out in small, perfectly formed rings.
“Aren’t you tired of this?” Fay asked the silence once the last plume had cleared her mouth. “All this skulking about…months on end…”
The path wasn’t part of the original design, an unpaved trail carved out by years of impatience. It wended through trees and shrubbery, completely hidden from view in most places, like here, where she stood. The air was thick with a moist, loamy scent, dark and rich and green, acting as another shroud.
Taking the shopping bag from the ground, she adjusted her purse on her shoulder and spun around quickly, yanking the leash so Baya would come from whatever dank corner she had her nose in.
The trail was empty, darkened by long shadows cast by the setting sun. She took another puff of her cigarette, moving deliberately, seductively as she retraced her steps.
“It’s an odd addiction, isn’t it? The pull, the need? Nothing like these babies,” she said of her smokes. “Can’t just buy a pack of what you’re craving.”
Baya overtook her, ambling along, studying every bush and patch of grass. Fay crept behind her, giving her just enough leash to walk but not enough to go too far.
“Did you see the old woman on the train?” She snorted, sweeping her gaze from one side of the trail to the other, scanning the dark crevice between a pair of maples. “Of course you did. Those knobby fingers curled over the handle. Metal, wasn’t it? Her walking stick? Did you wonder if she could lift it high enough…deliver a good, solid strike that would rip into your skin?”
Baya yipped, tail wagging as she dove into the thick underbrush. A muffled gasp; the crunch of leaves underfoot. Fay tugged the dog back, grinning at the silhouette tucked behind the peeling bark of a plane tree.
The shopping bag went on the ground, her purse atop it. She stepped through fallen leaves, over roots and damp soil, closing the gap until she stood a hairsbreadth away. Another deep pull of her cigarette, she blew out the stream in a long gray line, directly into her would-be stalker’s face.
The woman grimaced, twisting away from the smoke.
“I’m flattered.” Fay reached out to touch her hair, let the tresses slide through her fingers. “You nearly matched the color, but not quite. Maybe not so much the clothes, but the hair was a good try… Though, I think she’s the one you really envy.”
The shadow’s eyes lowered to the black and white dog sitting at Fay’s feet.
“The pretty scarlet leash. The collar… Might be big enough to fit your slender neck… Wish someone would pat your head for being such a good girl, or,” a hard tug and Baya yelped, “yank you back into place when you misbehave?”
She fell silent, the soft rustle of wind in the trees and a low, keening whimper the only sounds. Closing the space between them she placed a soft kiss to the woman’s mouth.
“I know the feeling; will know it the rest of my life,” she whispered, then traced her tongue over the woman’s parted lips. “Just as I know there’s a second pull, maybe greater than the first. Eating away at you. Here you stand, an inch away from exacting your revenge…”
Fay backed away to take another draw of nicotine, assessing the look on the woman’s face. Her features were soft in the waning light, gaze somewhere between catatonic and euphoric, tiny mouth glistening with Fay’s spit.
“Do you remember the training? How many times did I best you? How many times did I leave you bruised and bloodied, seething…? How many times did you wish to return the favor?
“Pain…or revenge?” Fay cocked a brow, took a puff. “Which hunger do you feed?”
A glance back over her shoulder at the pink shopping bag. “Bought a present for you. Wear it tonight to the party—a ticket’s inside. And when you’re ready, come back to where this all began. I’ll bind you, give you the pain you so desperately need, and then give you the chance you’ve been waiting for. Either you’ll center my knot…or I’ll center yours.” Fay grinned brazenly. “Now, close your eyes and open your mouth. Thank me properly.”
The woman blinked rapidly before her eyes fluttered closed, mouth opened just a bit wider. With the last pull of her cigarette deep in her lungs, Fay sealed their mouths once more. Then she exhaled the smoke in a slow huff, holding the woman tight when she struggled to back away for air. Lungs emptied, Fay released her.
The woman lurched forward, coughing and sputtering. Her face was red, eyes welling with tears. She pressed a hand to her chest and sank to one knee, gasping.
Pulling her phone from her pocket, Fay snapped a quick photo with the caption Nothing. Then she crouched beside her. “If you can’t handle smoke,” she said, stubbing out the butt of her cigarette on the trunk of a tree, “how will you to stop fire?”
Harajuku, Japan
Leather and capes and lace. Multicolored hair. School girls. Collars. The odd furry suit. Masks.
Back against a wall near the door, Xander filtered through the menagerie as best he could, splitting his time between searching and staring at Kizzie’s neck. The up do kept the hair off her cinnamon shoulders, accentuating the fine column of muscle. She stood directly in front of him—just inches away—head turned toward the stage, arms crossed beneath her breasts.
His gaze lingered in the valley between the swells, came back to her bare throat. He frowned. At the same moment, a bloodcurdling scream rushed from the front of the room and Kizzie’s head drew back. Then she turned her surprised face up to him.
“So…fisting’s a hard limit?”
“Have you seen the size of your—” Kizzie snapped off the comment, the corners of her mouth turned up a hair. “You’re a hard—” Her hand shot up, palm out, and her eyes squeezed shut. “There’s a joke in there that I walked into. Just let it go, m’kay?”
Xander chuckled, she joined him easily, and damn if he couldn’t shake the feeling he’d enjoy hearing that sound for the rest of his life.
She cracked her knuckles again. She did it when she got antsy, he noticed, and since they’d been there a couple hours already without a word from him about why, his impatient Princess was plenty anxious.
“It’s burning you up that you don’t know the plan isn’t it?”
“Actually, I’m more bothered you shoved me into this getup,” Kizzie said, not looking at him. For the hundredth time she tugged at the short tutu, inching it down a bit more on her hips. The black briefs she wore beneath it didn’t quite cover her ass, and her cheeks spilled out from the sides.
Another yank.
Every time she did that Xander fought the urge to palm her sexy globes.
“This is the last time you buy me an outfit, Duquesne.”
“Fine by me. Told
you, I prefer you naked.”
Kizzie cut her eyes at him. “I sincerely hate you for this. Like, ‘hope you get eaten alive by fire ants’ hate you.
His lips twitched; her rant continued. “Foxy Brown…Lara Croft—both of these were viable options, but noooo, I’m dressed like some trashy character from the land the manga rejects rejected, while you show up in a tailored suit. How’s that even a costume?”
Xander glanced down at his clothing and shrugged. “Dos Equis guy?”
“And Phil?”
“Is Phil.”
She pursed her glossed lips. “Fire ants and fleas, Xander Duquesne. Fire ants and fleas…”
A man went by in full Shao Kahn regalia: spiked shin guards, wide shoulder plate—also spiked—from which hung a floor-length, burgundy cape. Spiked helmet and wrist guards; no other clothes apart from a pair of briefs and burgundy loincloth, a huge skeleton where his belt buckle would be.
He held a leash, the other end connected to the collar around the neck of a beautiful woman. A mask covered her mouth and nose, leaving haunting eyes on display. Dark hair rained down around her shoulders, a tiny crown perched in the shiny mass. Her Dom had taken obvious pains with his costume, but had gone to even more trouble on his sub. Thigh-high boots; a revealing bikini top that criss-crossed her breasts leaving the creamy skin of her belly and back exposed. Forearm guards and skimpy bottoms rounded out the outfit. All of it metallic blue with intricate silver detailing. All of it latex body paint. The only real prop Princess Kitana had were the steel fans.
Compared to most of the other subs, Kizzie could be a woman of the cloth. Conservative black tank, gobs of purple taffeta she still fought with. Her lace-up boots—made of real leather, he might add—and a pigtailed lavender wig completed the assassin ballerina ensemble. She even had her knife tucked in her thigh holster, a small concession since she’d wanted to bring her pistol.
She eyed the latex-covered woman.
“Thank me any time you’re ready.”
“Oh, thank you so much for your—” a glance down at the edgy rip in her shirt— “Prudence. And you owe me a new tank top.”
“Forgot the ‘Sir.’”
Smirking, Kizzie snapped off a half-assed salute.
A steampunk vampire inched along, tight burgundy corset constricting her breathing and velvet hobble skirt impeding her stride. Her partner trailed just behind in a corset and tight leather pants. A top hat angled over her hair and a large monocle secured by a leather strap covered her eye. Once her back was to him, the cutouts over her ass cheeks came into view.
Such was CosKink—where costume play and the debauchery of the Lifestyle collided. Xander had attended once before and so knew what to expect. Watching Kizzie’s reaction was an unexpected treat.
She cocked her head and circled a finger in the air to encompass the entirety of the party. “A lot of work to get laid.”
“That’s all you think the Lifestyle’s about? Sex?”
“In the last hour alone we’ve seen spanking and flogging, some crazy shit happen with clothespins, I’ve never even heard of ‘bukkake’ before, but now, thanks to you, I can’t scrub that image from my retinas.”
“I bet she can’t either,” Xander joked.
Kizzie rolled her eyes, swept an arm out toward the front of the room. “Gyno tables make fisting easier, and every scene ends in—oh, oh, uuuuh…” Her eyes closed, glossed mouth rounded in a sensual O as her hands moved over her belly and breasts. His cock jerked like a marine at a surprise visit from the president. The porn star moment came to an abrupt stop before he could properly salute. “Does that about cover it?”
“Damn good place to start.”
She huffed, nostrils flared.
“This is the easy part, the fun stuff. Most of what you’re seeing is months if not years of missteps and miscues; experimenting; knowing when to push and sometimes being wrong, sometimes causing pain you don’t intend. Communicating when you don’t want to. Kneeling when you don’t want to. Being raw and vulnerable and patient… and trusting when you don’t want to.
“That’s the test—the relationship. Working at it and dealing with the fallout from things you can’t plan for.” He shrugged. “That’s more than just kinky sex, Kizzie.”
“Dressing up like a schoolgirl or an avatar or whatever the hell that guy over there in the orange sequins and nipple clamps is,” she jerked a thumb over her shoulder, “doesn’t change the fact that sex is just sex. I’m just saying, scratch the itch and keep moving. Why waste time with the ‘yes, Sir, no, Sir,’, or gum up the works with emotions? Just—” His brow shot up; hers knit together. “Why the hell are we here, Duquesne?”
Xander gave a low whistle. “Whoever he was, he did a number on you.”
Her lips pressed to a thin line. “We’re wasting time. Let’s go so I can get out of this stupid thing.”
Kizzie backed away and he grabbed her hand. “Could you handle letting go? ‘Cause that’s what all this,” he indicated the party, “boils down to. It’s not just sceneing, not just saying things. It’s knowing what you want, and knowing I’ll give you what you need. Letting me push you to the edge, take you over and then bring you back. Again, and again, and again…”
A gentle tug closed the gap between them, and she didn’t fight it. “I think you enjoyed being whipped at Sacha’s. You want that again, but you’re sprinting away from it.” He searched her face for the truth. “Who hurt you, Princess?”
In classic Kizzie fashion, she snorted. “Blood draws sharks, Xander. A dolphin’s gotta be in the water so it sleeps with one eye open, swims fast and doesn’t bleed. But since you mentioned trust, you trust Phil?”
“Implicitly.” The response was automatic, and would have been an irrevocable truth if not for the last couple days. Xander spared a glance at a man in camo, his sub dressed the same. The height was right, but both were male. His attention went back to Kizzie.
“And me? If I were your submissive, would you trust me the way I’m supposed to blindly trust you as my Dom?” Xander didn’t respond and Kizzie quirked a grin, added, “I expected that. The wife?”
Xander clenched his teeth at the reminder of Phil’s carelessness. Naima was still a fresh enough memory in Kizzie’s mind and no doubt a spot she’d try to exploit. His silence gave her just the room she needed to attack.
“Not even your wife? The woman who promised to love, honor, obey—and I’m positive that chewy nugget was in there somewhere. The woman who got a polished rock and you on one knee in exchange for clean dishes and hot meals and crumb snatchers?”
Kizzie’s mouth curved into a shit-eating grin at what she undoubtedly deemed a victory. He didn’t like it. “Let’s—“
“Shoe on the other foot,” Xander said. “Given your profession, you’d trust your husband?”
Kizzie tapped her temple with a slender forefinger. “Smart dolphins don’t get hitched.”
“Connolly?”
“You think I’d marry Connolly? I might go for you older dudes, but damn…”
“Do you trust Connolly, smart ass?”
“Not with my pet rock.” The bright smile slipped a little, her playful demeanor changed to something slightly charged, almost defensive now. A subtle shift, but Xander noticed. “He’s…a shark,” she muttered, attention at the front of the room once again.
“Is there anybody in this world you do trust?”
“Living?” With a pasted on smirk she bowed slightly. The move gave him the perfect view down her shirt but he kept his focus on her eyes, the usually bright discs now dull and detached.
“We’ll have to work on that.”
Kizzie pulled her hand from his and held it up. “Save it for something you’ve got a chance at, like finding Sumi. It’s not gonna happen in this crowd. Too many people, and everyone in a costume.”
Hello again, Agent Baldwin.
His jaw clenched.
Last night Xander was sure he’d made inroads. Even when
Kizzie would have turned, would have let him bring her to a mind-numbing climax and then done it again, he just held her. And while his calculating brain saw it as a means to chip away at her tough-as-nails façade, in his heart he knew he hadn’t done it to play her; wasn’t aiming to seduce her.
He’d done it just because.
Scared the ever-loving shit out of him.
He was supposed to be playing her. Kizzie was his link to Connolly, so Xander had to coax her into talking somehow. Sex was the easiest and most enjoyable option. Truth was he liked having her snarky, pigheaded softness snuggled against his body; liked her unique scent in his nose. Kizzie fit him, rough edges, sharp tongue and all. Simple as that.
True to her word, however, it seemed she had zero qualms about letting him into her body, but her head was strictly off limits. Even now she stared up at him, dark brow lifted, gaze completely shuttered. In the span of a brief conversation he’d gotten too close and the concrete barriers flew up, reinforced with barbed wire. Was the trigger trust in general? Trust in Connolly?
What blood had that shark scented on Kizzie?
What was she hiding?
Tabling his one-sided conversation, Xander swallowed a sigh and tamped down unfounded frustration. This was the wrong time and place to try to crack Kizzie’s tough shell. Chilly attitude aside, she was right—not a chance in hell they’d find Sumi here. Which worked out just fine since he wasn’t looking for her.
A woman in blue robes glided by, a man in orange just behind. Clearly telling Kizzie about the finer nuances of the Lifestyle wasn’t getting through. Maybe he’d get a twofer out of this visit.
All around them the room was a flurry of activity, people coming and going and shifting. A space to the far left opened, near enough to one of the other doors and close enough to the front for Xander’s newly-formed purposes.