by Lyra Byrnes
You’re thinking crazy thoughts, Coco. It’s the exhaustion kicking in, and it’s hot in here, or cold, or something. She shivered. The pill she’d given him was an OSO special blend—half antibiotic, half hypnotic. He would be asleep within the hour.
And, dammit, she hadn’t been thinking. She’d strapped him to the wall as a means of immobilizing him as fast as possible, but she couldn’t risk his passing out and going limp in the shackles, cutting off circulation, getting gangrene or sepsis or god knows what. If she killed him now through inattentiveness, she’d be out of a job, just a scarred single girl who was handy with weapons but in possession of not one marketable skill in the sunlit world. Her place was in shadow, and keeping this hunk of deadly muscle alive was the means to maintaining that place.
Keeping him alive and getting information.
She checked her phone—finally Rod’s questions had come through, as well as various queries about maps, roadblocks, headquarters, arsenals, staff and structure. Basically, Western Oops wanted to know everything there was to know about the most powerful separatist force in Chechnya. Piece of cake.
Once again Alexi’s head hung forward and he began to sag in his restraints. Gingerly Coco moved toward the iron circlets, clicking them open and then swiftly recuffing his wrists in a pair of handcuffs. There was a bad moment when he began to pitch toward her, but she recovered quickly and shoved him upright again. He still had some tensile strength but seemed foggy and out of it. Good. He would know something was being done to him but not be strong enough to fight her.
She bent down to unlatch the second leg restraint and a powerful blow caught her in the belly. He’d used his wounded leg to knee her hard. She fell backward onto the floor with a thump. In one swift motion he brought his cuffed hands around the back of her neck and pressed the chain against her tender throat.
“Take off the shirt.” She could feel his warm breath stirring her hair. “Take off skirt and shoes.”
She toed off the shoes but it wasn’t easy to unzip and wriggle out of her skirt. The chain’s tension never relaxed while she struggled out of her clothes. Finally she grasped the hem of her shirt. He gave her a wry look and increased the pressure on her throat slightly with a tug. Understanding, she yanked hard and tore the shirt in two pieces. Finally she sat back on the floor, her knees raised, panting from exertion. All she had on was a pair of her “work panties”—plain black cotton that were serviceable enough but made her pale skin glow. Alexi seemed to like what he saw. He stared greedily at the scrap of fabric, a growl in his throat.
“Rise and walk.”
She stumbled to her feet, a hard nub digging into one heel. The pill—he’d spit it out when she wasn’t looking. All alone in this secluded place with a mad warlord, now was not the time to be anything less than on top of her game. Fiercely she willed herself to focus.
They shuffled toward the bed and he dropped her on it, face first. She rolled over in order to lunge at him upright, maybe jam her fingers in his eyes, but before she could sit up he snapped apart the chain between the handcuffs as easily as if they were made of wax then fell on her, flattening her body against the bed.
She felt vulnerable and helpless with his hard-muscled body pressing against her bare skin. Again his scent invaded her nostrils, an intoxicating blend of autumnal air, leather and sweat. Fight, she told herself, you’re not beaten yet. But all her training had drained away, been pressed out by his weight and his smell and the feel of his wild hair tickling her forehead. But more than anything, it was his eyes—those weird, brown-gold eyes—that pinned her in place. They did not look gloating or triumphant, but stared steadily into her blue ones.
For a long time neither of them moved. She could hear his breathing and the sound of night creatures stirring as they came awake outside the windows. Otherwise, the house was silent. He had one hand clamped around both of her wrists. Coco had never felt so helpless.
His lips touched hers with whisper-lightness. She felt herself pucker to receive them but he only brushed across her mouth, as if tasting her. He took her plump top lip between his teeth and sucked gently then flicked his tongue across her teeth, her bottom lip.
“Alexi¼” she groaned, not knowing what it was she wanted to say next.
“Shhhh.” Again he bent his head to hers, brushing his lips over her cheek, her forehead, her nose. He kissed her lightly. The sensation of that one soft touch sent an electrical zap directly to her crotch and she felt her legs soften as he settled his thighs between them, hard-muscled and erect. He kissed her again, not experimentally this time, but deeply, his probing tongue and leather-and-tobacco breath making her delirious.
His mouth became her whole world, a warm, intoxicating place where each nibble and swirl stoked another leaping flame from the fire inside her. She met his tongue with eagerness, whimpering. Her arms trapped above her head had gone limp. He pulled up to put space between them and moved his free hand to her bare breast. His massive palm covered the soft mound firmly, moving in slow circles to tease the nipple upward, harder and harder, until the pleasure turned to an ache. She heard herself moaning, felt her back arch into his hand as she silently begged for more pressure, or a hard pinch, anything to intensify his touch. But he continued to palm the needy breast leisurely.
He pulled his lips from hers and she almost cried out with disappointment.
“Not yet, krahsniy,” he whispered.
“What?”
That glorious smile overtook his grim face again. Coco realized with a start that she had lifted her hips into his, grinding her crotch against the huge erection that throbbed against it.
“You must beg for me. Is a rule.”
She bit her lip. Beg for it? Coco Fiori did not beg anyone for anything, not even this steaming hunk of enemy muscle. If she played his little games and let him have his way with her in exchange for information, then she was no better than some CIA tramp with GS-1 security clearance. But if she gave in to her own desires—her keening need to feel those lips on hers again, the hand on her breast and whatever monster he was concealing beneath the ridiculous one-legged jeans deep inside her aching pussy—then she was¼what? A slut and a lousy agent besides. She had already fouled up every single one of her precious rules on this case except the not-dying part. What little power she had was the power to make him desire her, and if it was strong enough, she might have the pleasure of firebombing his to-do list as well.
“Never.”
“Little bird with the hard head,” he said. “Say that again.”
Oh god, he had begun to push her down with his loins and rock his hips against her, each stroke of his bulging erection inflaming her more. The tough denim rubbed against her clit, over and over, like a long, rough lick. She opened her legs wider and brought up her knees to intensify the pressure.
“Oh fuck¼”
He took a fistful of her hair. “One more word,” he said hoarsely. “Fuck plus one more word. Say it. Say ‘Fuck me’.”
She was so close to coming, her body felt as if it were made of warm water, with a fierce wave cresting at its center. His hand drifted to her crotch and a tumble of new sensations played across her pussy—his big knuckles probing as he slid two fingers inside her slick opening, pulling the panties aside. She let out a gasp of shock, but her traitorous body welcomed the invasion, clenching around the invading digits. Her head thrashed from side to side as she rocked with his thrusting fingers.
“Mmm, fuck¼ Fuck you!”
He did not stop, but rather chuckled in her ear, his breath stirring her hair.
“Strong Amerikanski spy, yes? Modern woman. No man will own you.”
“That’s right,” she gritted between her teeth. Oh god, he pulled out and applied his wet fingers to her clit, rubbing it with a hard, circular motion. Her plump, slick button pulsed under his talented fingers. The wave rose, teetered at the top and when he lowered his lips to hers again, she exploded in a shower of dizzying sparks, her cries muffled by his
mouth.
Ripples of pleasure reverberated through her body, each a little less strong than the one before. The room swam into focus—Alexi on top of her, brushing a hair away from her eyes, the dark-gold wood of the walls, a jovial painted rooster glinting from the mantelpiece as if nothing at all had happened. As if she hadn’t just made the most foolish and dangerous mistake of her career.
“Oh god,” she moaned. “What have I done?”
“Nyet. I ask questions now.”
Chapter Seven
Cigarette smoke made her blink. Alexi had cuffed her by wrist and ankle to the smooth wooden posts of the bed then loped into the dark maw of the cabin. When he returned he wore only a towel wrapped around his waist. He ran a hand through his wet hair and now sat on the edge of the bed, a strip of fresh gauze around his thigh, smoking contemplatively. His body was hard, bronzed and beautiful, every inch of it.
Alexi blew out a stream of smoke, squinting into the firelight. He seemed to be a million miles away.
Think, she told herself. There has to be a way out of this. Quickly but with precision, her mind scrolled through a list of advantages and disadvantages to her situation. On the minus side—cuffed to a bed, van keys, cell phone and weapons out of her control, miles from anyone, unfamiliar landscape. On the plus side¼
Well, that was a nonstarter. Alexi hadn’t moved except to bring the cigarette to his mouth. He’d lit a fire and its colors danced over his chiseled muscles, lighting up the planes and curves of his form with red and gold. He looked like a dark god at rest.
If she could only get out of the restraints, out of the cottage. She was still fast and wiry, and even if she couldn’t make it to civilization, the landscape would surely hide her more easily than it would obscure his bulk. Once they were both out, she would have the advantage. The trick, of course, was to get out, and that wasn’t something she could do with him sitting there, staring into the fireplace, his bronze skin glowing.
“I don’t like these things—handcuffs,” he said quietly, without looking at her. “You like them, krahsniy?”
“No.”
“Is very difficult to make fight in my country for independence. We have no equipment, you see—bullets, guns, tanks. Is a rough and poor place.”
He crossed the room to toss the butt into the fireplace. Even in her anger and shame, Coco marveled at the tiger-like grace of his haunches as he moved. The bullet seemed not to have slowed him down or made his movements awkward.
“We were talking about that lazy slut who sucked my dick, the technique? In Chechnya, we must use other techniques, inside the head.”
“Now the word you’re looking for is tactics. May I have some water?”
“On battleground, in bed, is same. Psychological tactics.” He pronounced the last word carefully, as if throwing it in her face. “Is not so simple as the bonds in that cabinet, whips and collars and clamps, silly stuff. What I do is more effective, because once you change a person’s brain, is changed for always. These cuffs, you know—you put them on, take them off.” He shrugged. “No change.”
“Then I would like for you to take them off me. I’d also like some water.”
He left the room. Coco could hear him padding around in the kitchen, gathering plates, slicing something. The tap ran and then stopped.
The bed dipped again as he sat on its edge. He tilted the glass of water to her lips.
“Is not safe to let you go,” he said. “Eat.”
She leaned her head forward as best she could to take in the small bites of bread, cheese and sausage he offered. Between feeding her, he swigged from a bottle of beer.
“I thought you didn’t drink.”
At this, he unleashed his wolfish grin. “Long day, krahsniy. A girl shot me, kidnapped me. We did have nice visit to museum though. I don’t take alcohol on assignment.”
“Sitting in the Three—uh, that pub was an assignment?”
“To meet my adversary, yes.”
So his poor, rough country had some resources after all. He had known she was coming, known someone was after him. She was playing into his hands the whole time. Had he been planning to kill her all along? Was he still planning it? She thrust those questions aside. I’m alive for now, she thought, and I will use my time wisely.
“You had already killed Kaminsky,” she said.
“His death did not advance our cause. It was, in fact, great misfortune.” He sounded genuinely regretful.
“Your mistake, I guess,” she smirked.
“Yes.”
The fire hissed and crackled. Coco longed for a shower—she was still sticky between the legs, and worse, the memory of Alexi’s hand on her breast burned like an imprint left by a slap. She wanted to brush her teeth, scrub her skin, wipe him away and become herself again. Only with his scent gone could she be free to carry out her assignment, and she would carry it out. This was only a glitch.
One hell of a glitch though. She had been weak, weak and willing. Alexi was quite right about what he called psychological tactics. It wasn’t so much being lashed to the bed that took away her power, but the orgasm that crashed through her until she saw stars. Any fool could snap closed a cuff, but it took a being of sublime erotic magnetism to completely control the body of someone who hated him.
No, not hate. She had a job to do, and hate was too hot an emotion to allow to color her work. She had to remain neutral and feel nothing. I deal with facts, not emotions. Never mind the thing that just happened. That was a normal physical response to sexual stimulus. That thought made her feel stronger. It was a nice little arsenal of manipulation he had at his disposal, but she was way ahead of him. As long as she responded to him physically, Alexi would believe he had the upper hand. But whatever her body had done—or would do—her mind was her own, locked away. And he would never know it.
“Why, krahsniy?” he was asking. He had turned to look down at her and there was a strange expression on his face, almost pained.
“You were an assignment. My adversary,” she answered. “And you were trying to kill me.”
“No, no, not the shooting and,” he waved a hand at the darkening room, “all this. Why those men in the club?”
She opened her mouth and then shut it. It was not the question she had been expecting.
“That would be none of your goddamned business. You have no right to question me about my private life.”
“I don’t like these toys, but I will use them. Don’t be stupid, girl. You are my captive and Alexi asks the questions. If you lie to me, it will hurt.”
The golden glitter in his brown eyes was as bright as ever. She kept her eyes on his, considering how much to give up.
“Is this?” He trailed a finger down the thick, scarred skin on her side. Ever since it had healed, the area had been an odd combination of numb and sensitive. His touch was like balm, cool and soothing. He did not look away from her face, and his hand did not hesitate, just stroked the ugly patch as if it were as smooth as the rest of her skin.
“If you mean am I a piece of damaged goods who feels so ugly I can only make love in the dark to strangers, the answer is no. It was¼a one-time thing.”
“I see. So men have touched you here. Many?”
“None since it happened,” she admitted.
“We are all damaged, Coco.”
Her head and shoulders flew up from the bed, but the chains on her wrists jerked her back.
“Oh yes. I know who you are.” Alexi laughed softly. “Constance Marie Fiori, twenty-eight years of age, in Overseas Security Operations of United States. But most citizens, they know nothing of you, yes?” He continued to stroke her scar, spreading his range out to her belly and ribs, brushing over her navel. “Trained in negotiation, infiltration, martial arts, hand-to-hand combat and low-caliber artillery. Allergic to chocolate—is funny for a Coco. I don’t call you that, silly American nickname.”
“So we know each others’ names. I’m shaking in my boots.”
“Specialist in Southeast Asia. One day, this agent boards an airplane for Indonesia and disappears. Six months, file is blank. Why gone so long? This ‘damage’ you speak of, it was the one thing I don’t know about you. Now I know.”
“Please stop that,” she said. “Take your hands off me.”
He gave her nipple a vicious pinch.
“I ask again who is the good guys,” he hissed. “You think of that when they take your fingerprint, give you fake passports, cover story, when they tell you mummy and daddy and boyfriend can never know what you do? If America loves freedom so much, why she keep her means of enforcing it in the shadows?”
The shadows. That was her own term for the ninety percent of her life that made up working for the OSO.
“You’re right. It’s much better to just gun down a train of civilians and firebomb schools. The CRF is much more transparent.”
He ignored this. “Was your mistake?”
“What?”
“This.” Again, he traced a cool finger across her scar. “Even shadow American agents make mistakes. Or were you ambushed, outnumbered?”
“I was¼” How easy it would be to say that she had been taken by surprise by wily adversaries, to say that her backup had failed or she had been betrayed by her own agency. One little lie and she could retain the advantage of being a powerful cog in a mighty machine of peacekeeping. Maintain the flow of information, be sure it moves in only one direction. But it was too late for that rule, he already knew too much about her and something in his eyes told her he could smell a lie.
“The truth, krahsniy.”
“I didn’t secure the hotel,” she confessed. “I took it on faith that it was safe without checking. Only the rudimentary security measures were in place when I went out on that beach to wind down. I was feeling pretty smug about the operation. They blew it up while I was drinking a beer.”