Last Kiss

by Jessica Clare

  Vasily hands me a small blue booklet. “Take this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Passport.”

  I open it up and examine it. There’s my face, but that’s not my name or my hair. The name on the passport is Karen Brown. The woman in the picture has dark hair, not my pale blond. I look up at Vasily, excited at this change. “Are we going in disguise?”

  “Da.” He sits down across from me, not bothering to wipe down his seat. I suppose he doesn’t care as much about germs as I do. “Once we get into the air, you can go in the bathroom and fix your hair. I am told there is dye there for you.” He says this without emotion, but he looks weary. Tired.

  I wonder if he’s sad. One of the bad guys he killed today was his friend.

  I watch him, but I’m not sure how to handle his emotions. The only thing I’m good at is distraction. “Smith is the most common surname in the United States. The most common female name is Mary.”

  “Yes, but Mary Smith would look very obvious, would it not?” He stands up and goes to the bar at the front of the plane and pours himself a drink. An alcoholic one. It’s clear, like water. I like clear. It’s so clean. He sips it, then throws the entire thing back and pours himself another.

  “I’m thirsty,” I tell him.

  He gestures at the bar, indicating that I should pour myself a drink. I unbuckle my seat belt and get up, crossing to him. Instead of getting my own glass, though, I take his from his fingers and turn it. I drink from the exact spot that his mouth pressed to when he drank. There are reasons why I do this, I tell myself. One reason is that it’s a bit of rebellion, a way for me to control the things that control me. I am forcing myself to win this silent war. So even though my skin prickles with awareness and my brain screams about his saliva, I try to tune it out, because I have a higher purpose.

  In the past, when I drank from the same spot Vasily did, his gaze went to my mouth. My breasts, then my mouth again. It’s a distraction for my captor, because distractions are the only weapons I have at the moment, and the need for weapons has to override any sort of phobia.

  And I glance up at Vasily to see what he thinks of my distraction.

  His focus is on my mouth, and when he takes the glass back, he drains it. “Did you know that vodka destroys all bacteria in the mouth?”

  “Does it?” He pours more vodka in the now-empty glass and hands it back to me.

  Vasily moves closer to me, so close that I can practically feel his breath. His lips are rather attractive this close up, sculpted and fine. “If I kissed you now, I would have no germs to transfer to you.”

  “That’s very . . . interesting,” I say, dazed. “Do you want to kiss me?”

  “Da, I do.”

  “We should try it, then,” I tell him. “For science.”

  His fingers go to my chin and he angles my face up, until my body is pressed against his and our lips are mere inches apart. “The boys that kissed you before, Naomi, did they use tongue?”

  “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.

  CHAPTER NINE

  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 coun
tenance 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.

  CHAPTER TEN

  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.