He stuck his hands in his pockets to keep from clenching them. “For this program to work, wouldn’t she feel most comfortable with someone she knows well?” He took a breath, attempting to keep the conversation from breaking down into a shouting match.
She smiled again, and this time, Julia placed a gentle hand on his arm. “You mean someone she knew intimately, Jason. Training doesn’t work that way.”
“How then?” Before he finished the sentence, reality slammed into him. “Who’ll be training her?” Heat rose in his face, and he took a step closer to her. The idea of Zoe thrown into the most dangerous part of the mission, unprepared, grabbed him by the throat.
“Now is not the time.” She checked her watch, standing a little straighter, which didn’t help her height but made a point. “You know what’s involved.” She walked over to her desk and leaned on it.
He didn’t answer.
Three sharp raps on the door and Melissa barged into the office, giving both Jason and Julia a grim look. “Sorry I’m late. She’s still here but should be on her way out.” Melissa crossed her arms over her chest. The tight business suit she wore and low-cut blouse pressed the curves of her breasts higher. No wonder the first lady chose her for this particular position.
Julia groaned, hands clasped together and held under her chin. “We need to make this count, people. There’s no room for errors.”
“Zoe’s been working during the setup and practices this week. She wasn’t a problem then,” Melissa offered.
“No, I don’t want the chance of her running into our guest.” Julia’s voice rose to a level bordering on hysteria.
Jason checked his watch, then looked at Julia, who tapped her tiny, pointy shoe while glaring at Melissa. Four men in business suits walked into the office, the first lady’s private security guards.
“The first lady is on her way down,” one of the men announced. “And the target will be here in ten.”
“We’re out of time,” Julia said to Jason. “Get her out of there.”
CHAPTER 2
Did she dare? Zoe hadn’t even tried her own badge and code on the door at the end of the hall yet. She padded to the men’s room door to make sure no one was around, then knocked. “Hello? Housekeeping.” No answer. She entered, and it was much larger than the ladies’ room with two more showers and a condom dispenser. Zoe frowned at that. Are you kidding me? In the basement of the White House?
She left the men’s room, and tiptoed down the hall, trying each door she passed. All locked. Not surprising, but her curiosity was focused on the door at the end. Why would a room for storage or mechanical equipment need a keypad access?
She swiped Celia’s badge and punched in the PIN, but the light remained red. She tried again, slower, and still got red. Then she tried the PIN in reverse.
The light turned green. She turned the doorknob, walked inside a small vestibule and was blocked by another door, locked, of course. Like Alice in Wonderland, the mystery begins with doors and keys. She flipped on the light in this small antechamber. The key on Celia’s badge with the piece of tape opened the next door.
Illuminated only by the light from the vestibule, this room appeared spacious. A few objects or furniture stood in shadows. The scent of leather and disinfectant mingled in the warm air. She felt along the wall for a light switch then decided against it. Using the backlight from her cell phone, she crept around the room, examining each object. One large chair stood in the center. It was elaborately carved with straps attached to the arms and legs.
Zoe stiffened and took a step back. An interrogation room. Not a meeting room. Her mind flashed to Turkey. They’d tied her down when the deal went bad. Her hand reached for her neck, and her body shook, remembering the pain when the knife blade broke her skin. Sweat soaked through her underwear.
She shoved the memories out of her head. The White House was the last place she expected to find an interrogation room. In one corner was a bed with pulleys and more straps. On the other side of the room was a table with several small objects she suspected were torture devices, instruments for pain and truth serum drugs. Her stomach rolled, and the taste of bile rose onto the back of her tongue. At the far wall in the shadows was a tall, wooden cross. That looked familiar, but she couldn’t place it. What kind of torture did they do in the White House?
As she moved around the room, she thought she heard voices in the walls. She shook her head. It wasn’t real, only memories. The voices continued.
She dropped her phone and covered her ears with her hands. Go away, you’re not real.
“Zoe. What the hell are you doing in here?” Jason’s voice. She was hearing things.
Zoe spun around and saw a figure silhouetted in the doorway. “Jason?”
“Yes, you have to get out of here. They’re coming.” He picked up her phone and handed it to her. It started buzzing, and her thoughts sharpened.
Jaw clenched, she marched up to him and clamped her hand around his throat. The weight of her body continued the momentum until she slammed him against the wall. Her knee pressed into his groin, and her nails dug into his neck. “What the hell happened to you? You dump me after Turkey, then left Langley without a word. Or were you looking for an excuse?”
He winced from the pain in his throat or groin, she wasn’t sure. “I didn’t dump you at all. I was reassigned and sent out of the country while you were visiting your dad. I couldn’t contact you.”
“Six months ago,” she argued, not releasing her grip. “You could’ve left a message that you were heading out. When did you get back?” Why didn’t he just say the fuck-up in Turkey was her fault? Maybe then they could move on.
“Couple weeks.” He groaned. “I work here. Secret Service.”
She fought the urge to rush into his arms. Every muscle in her body ached for him. God, she missed him. As reality quickly registered, her body chilled on the inside. Their last job hadn’t accommodated relationships and emotions. Why would it be different now? She grabbed her phone and turned her back on him. “If you didn’t trust me as your partner, you should’ve told me. Instead, you disappear.”
“I can’t explain it now. They’re coming. We have to go now.”
“Who’s coming? What’s going on? Is there a security problem?” She blinked several times and adjusted her scarf, but it wasn’t necessary. Jason was the only person who didn’t gape at the ugly scar.
He grabbed her arm, turned her to face him. “I’ll give you details later.”
Her body stiffened. “Are they bringing someone down for interrogation?”
“What?”
“Isn’t this an interrogation room?”
“Interrogation room?” He chuckled. “It’s a bit more complicated.” Again, the voices emanated from behind the walls. He looked toward the sounds and held up a hand to be quiet. At least she wasn’t crazy. He’d heard them, too. Then silence.
Footsteps approached down the hall. “Shit, too late,” he said as he closed the inside door. The room swallowed them in utter blackness. Zoe held up her cell phone for light. Jason flicked on a penlight.
“Which way?”
“In here,” he ordered. He grabbed her arm and shoved her into a small storage closet, then closed the door. Her cell buzzed. “Phone off.”
Zoe glanced at her phone and let out a sigh as she turned it off. “Thank God.”
“What?” Jason asked.
“It’s Damien.” Zoe let out a breath. She hated when her brother was late, even when he was beating the crap out of her in the Words With Friends game.
Jason’s expression softened. “Iran?”
She nodded, her eyes adjusting to the dim lighting.
“Turn it off. Now.”
“Okay. What’s happening?” As much as she wanted to be angry at him, her stomach fluttered with excitement and her sex throbbed. He always managed to turn her on, especially when they were in danger. He smelled so good, too. A new shampoo, body wash? Whatever it was, it made her
remember so many scorching-hot nights, breathless from hours of fucking. She wanted him again, wanted him now.
He took the phone, made sure it was off and stuffed it in his pocket. His penlight was still on. “Now listen to me. We cannot leave this closet or make a sound until it’s over, under any circumstances. Do you understand?” His frown grew fierce and his eyes wild.
“Yes.”
He cupped her chin with his hand. His mouth was close to hers as he whispered, “I’m sorry, Zoe. I should’ve called, should’ve explained.” He squeezed his eyes closed then looked at her again. “Please, trust me.”
“Trust you? But I don’t know what the hell is going on.”
“Zoe, please.”
She knew that tone, knew him well enough not to argue. Trust wasn’t always easy for her.
“No sound.” He turned off the penlight.
She leaned against the wall, listening. A rush of adrenaline surged through her. The sound of her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Like old times on a mission together. The doorknob to the room rattled. Then the door squeaked open, and a sharp click of the light switch sent a shudder of excitement through her. The sound of people entered the room. Zoe tried to estimate the number. At least three, maybe more. Women and men by the voices and heeled shoes. She gasped but only a whisper. He placed a hand over her mouth, and she nodded. She held her breath.
“Anything you need before the room is sealed?” a male’s voice asked.
“No, we’re good. Seal it.” Was that the first lady? Slowly, Zoe’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, and a sliver of light appeared beneath the door. Another sliver of light cut through the doorframe where the old wood had warped. Angling her head just so, she squinted through the crack, trying to get a fix on the outside room. As they moved around, four people came into view, two men and two women.
Good God, one woman wore leather fetish wear—a corset, thigh-high boots and stockings. And the other with blond hair wore a black scholar robe. Beneath the robe she wore five-inch heels. Their faces were covered with elaborately decorated Mardi Gras masks. Two men were also present. One young guy with a muscular build was dressed in a black T-shirt, tight pants and wore a leather face mask. Between the robes and the guy all in black, the scene had a Gothic, macabre feel. What kind of rendezvous was this?
The older man wore business clothes. He was the only one without a mask. When he turned, Zoe thought he looked familiar. He was a small man, middle-aged and not very attractive. By his smile, he appeared to be enjoying the encounter. Zoe studied the furnishings now that the room was lit. Shit. This wasn’t an interrogation room. It was a kinky-sex dungeon. Under normal circumstances she’d have been laughing. This wasn’t funny. This was the White House.
The blonde had to be the first lady. The voice, the mannerisms. Oh my God. Shock and panic ripped into Zoe. She didn’t want to be here to see this. Zoe tugged Jason’s arm to take a look. He tapped her hand once, their signal for “no.” Then he paused and did a series of two taps. She took that to mean, yes, yes, he knew. So quickly they fell back into their old patterns where they could communicate without speaking during a mission. Why couldn’t they talk about their love life? Why had he left months ago without a word?
The woman with dark hair must be Melissa. She had the same build and hair. The first lady was into kinky sex? Who knew? Did the president know? No wonder Jason had looked terrified.
Oh God, oh God. Jason must’ve heard her ragged breathing. If this hadn’t been the White House, or if this had been a torture scene, she could’ve handled it, but she hadn’t been prepared to observe a scandal at this level. He squeezed her shoulders and rubbed them gently. She took a slow breath in and let it out easy. What the hell?
Quiet. She must be quiet. Peering through the crack, Zoe watched the woman with the long, dark hair strut up to the older man and whisper something to him. Yes, it was Melissa. She’d shown Zoe those boots the other day when she noticed the box by her desk. Melissa had called them her party boots. Zoe hadn’t thought anything of it.
“Let’s get started,” the first lady announced as she untied the robe, revealing her outfit. Her breasts thrust high over a red corset, thigh-high stockings and spike heels. Matching satin gloves came to her elbows. She strode to the table, picked up a crop and smacked it in her hand, then came around to stand beside Melissa. Both women kept their bodies angled in a particular way so their backs always faced the one wall with an intricate mural of American national parks.
“I’m Mistress D,” Melissa said to the man as she stroked his back, speaking in a soothing tone. “Remove your clothes, please. Place them on the chair, then present yourself to me. When I ask you to present yourself, I want you to stand with your legs slightly apart, hands behind your back, right hand over your left and eyes looking down at the floor. Understand?”
“Yes, Mistress.” He lowered his head and began to undress. Shit. If only she could figure out who the man was.
“Mistress R is here to observe only,” Melissa said, referring to the first lady. “If she feels the scene is getting out of hand, she’ll signal by smacking her crop or stopping the scene.”
The first lady stepped to an area out of Zoe’s view.
Jason placed a hand on Zoe’s shoulder to pull her back. She responded with a one-finger tap to his hand.
The man was standing as Melissa had requested. She made a few adjustments. “Very good. This is how I want you to stand when I ask you to present yourself. It’s a small task and a way for me to break up our time together. I can also see how well you’re handling my session.”
Melissa picked up a leather flogger, smacking the knotted thongs on the nearby table. The man jerked, but he didn’t look up. Naked, he stood sideways, fully aroused. His cock jutted straight out. Melissa approached the man and brushed the thongs across the tip of his cock.
“Kneel,” she ordered, pointing to the bench. He complied. She hit him on the back and buttocks gently with the flogger in caressing strokes, a warm-up. Then harder and harder. Zoe cringed with each strike, her fingers digging into the doorframe.
The encounter was like watching a burning building in slow motion, mesmerizing and scary. Zoe knew people got into this bondage stuff. It didn’t do much for her, although her body heated up with each strike. His moans were of pleasure mixed with pain. He was enjoying this. After a time, Melissa stopped, bent down. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, Mistress,” he answered with enthusiasm. There was an accent, Middle Eastern, Zoe thought. She knew six languages fluently as well as basic words in a few others.
“Do you like this?” Melissa asked the man.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Good. We’ll see how well you obey.”
“Yes, Mistress.” He rocked on his hands and knees and shifted side to side.
“Relax. Stop fidgeting. You’ll enjoy this more.”
He took a deep breath and stopped moving, except for his toes and fingers.
“You know the rules and have your safe word.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Melissa then picked up a cane from the table. She touched his buttocks with it, not hitting, just touching as if teasing. She did that several times. After the fourth or fifth time, she smacked him hard, and he swore in Arabic. The moans and strikes were loud. Zoe wanted to cover her ears. She cringed and squeezed her eyes closed.
When she opened her eyes again, the man followed Melissa over to the wooden cross shaped like a giant letter X. “Present yourself to me,” Melissa ordered.
The man stood in front of the structure, arms at his sides, head bowed. Melissa walked around him and studied his position. “No, this is not correct,” she scolded. “Right hand over the left.” He made the correction.
When Melissa was satisfied, she directed him to lean against the cross, facedown. She strapped him down in a spread-eagle fashion.
The implications of what was going on in this room were beyond imagining. If the public found out about th
is, what would happen to this administration? The peace talks? This was more damaging than a stained blue dress. This was a nightmare.
Jason touched her shoulder. His fingers slowly skimmed down to her upper arm, where he grasped her and tugged her closer. Outside, the bondage ordeal continued. Red marks crisscrossed the man’s back and buttocks. She’d seen enough. Jason’s other hand slipped to her waist. He leaned into her. Warmth, hardness, and the scent of male. She shouldn’t be so turned on. The hairs on her arms stood up. Her breasts felt heavy, and her nipples grew tight. What was Jason thinking? After all this time, he wanted to get busy with her in a closet? Really?
She pulled away and tapped a “no” on his arm.
He tapped “yes” on her hand and slowly turned her around, pulling her against his body. God, he felt good. So many nights she’d imagined Jason in her arms like this. She had to control her breathing to keep from making any noise. The real torment was being trapped inside the closet. Sex with Jason had always been the hottest when they were on a mission. Why couldn’t they have sex and a relationship like normal people?
They didn’t know how to do day-to-day. Everything they once had came tumbling back. She wanted him again, wanted to give in with complete and utter abandon. Her body was on fire, throbbing, needing him now at the wrong place, the wrong—
Craaack!
In the next room, a flogger or cane smacked what sounded like bare, taut skin in quick repetition. The man cried out.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No, Mistress, more, please.” Another sharp crack sent shivers up Zoe’s spine. How could he stand the pain, let alone enjoy it?
Jason’s warm, moist mouth pressed on her ear, her neck, and she sucked in a little breath. His tongue drew a line to the hollow of her throat.
Yes, she ached to say, yes. Jason’s touch was torture, sweet, sweet torture. She gave in a little, pressing her sex against his hard shaft bulging beneath his pants. She did want him but not here, not now.
On his arm, she tapped “no.”
Spice Box; Sixteen Steamy Stories Page 221