by Jasmin Quinn
He had to learn about Paris, its streets, its conventions – needed to do a weapons pick-up, needed to understand how to contact his handler. Would have to call for extraction when the job was complete. He had to learn his cover – his name, his backstory. That part was the least irritating. He wasn’t to pass for a Frenchman. Finn didn’t think he could pull that off anyway. But he needed to blend, look like he was at home, befriend the target, and then kill him. Not his wife or family, just him. Jackman wanted the body found, wanted to use it as a warning to both Savisin and other politicians. After the kill, he needed to return to his hotel, stay a few days, drinking scotch and eating well. Then leave the country as planned, on Jackman’s private jet, back to the compound to debrief.
It went exactly as planned. Finn found himself admiring Jackman’s organization. Every detail was accounted for. Everything was where it needed to be. It was smooth and uneventful. Finn struggled with his conscience after the kill. Felt sad for the congressman’s family, then hardened himself. He gave no mind to Overton’s family when he shot the human trafficker. He gave no mind to Lukov and to the other Russian’s who were caught in the crossfire. He justified it to himself. This was for Nika.
After his return, Nika and Finn decided to marry. Nika had been distraught at his absence, worried for his safety. Finn told her that everything was perfect. Her cover for him, the setting, the plan. That there was never anything to worry about. When they told Jackman of their wedding plans, he sanctioned it like a benevolent father. He offered one of private jets to fly to the Caymans, paid for their suite, the wedding, everything. Finn didn’t understand Jackman’s motive but was sure he had one; it didn’t matter, he’d figure it out later.
They arrived in the Caymans with six guards who posed as friends, staying close, following their every move. It was irritating at first, but Finn soon got used to them. The guards knew their own covers well and even the faked friendships appeared to be long-term with equal parts affection and silliness. They wed on the beach in the middle of the afternoon, Finn in shorts, a t-shirt and bare feet; Nika in a gauzy pink sleeveless sundress that reached almost to her ankles, the livid scars on her arm a reminder of his future, of his enemy.
They exchanged simple bands, hers rose gold, his white gold. And it was over in 15 minutes. No writing their own vows, just a promise to be with each other in life and in death. And sealed with a deep kiss. As they walked to their suite, he told the guards they would be there for the week. Ordering room service, swimming in the private pool, sunning themselves on the deck, probably nude. So fuck off, he’d said to them. Connect in the morning, noon and night. Just ring him from their rooms or the lobby.
Nika shifted in his lap, settling her pussy firmly on his hard cock.
“Finn,” she let out a sweet puff of breath. “Let’s do everything. I think we could do it three times before dinner.”
He watched Nika as she drew her lips down his neck. He loved her. He couldn’t fathom how much. It was so strong he thought it would burst from him bathing them both in a shower… of what? Blood and guts? He laughed out loud. His career as a poet was dead before it started.
Nika sat back, gazing into his face with a hard look. “Do you think this is amusing, Finn McQueen?”
“I certainly do not, Nika Petrova.” Finn tried to shed his mirth.
“Call me Mrs. McQueen.” Nika grinned at him.
Finn frowned. “I don’t think I can Nika, not yet. That reminds me too much of my mother.”
Nika gazed at him, her mouth pursed. Then she dropped to her knees on the floor and pulled Finn’s shorts down over his cock. She took it in his mouth without preamble, sucking on it hard, then forcing it down her throat three times before she gagged. She looked up at him with glowing eyes. “Do I still remind you of your mother, Finn?”
Finn groaned raking his hands through Nika’s hair. “For fuck’s sake Nika, stop talking about my mother.”
Nika shrugged. “Okay. I can’t really talk with my mouth full anyway.” She dropped her head again, wrapping her beautiful lips around Finn’s cock and sucked him until he exploded into her mouth.
Nika crawled up onto his lap and straddled him as she dropped onto him, kissing him deeply so he could taste her, taste himself. She tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head and arms, then drew her tongue slowly down his torso. His cock started to harden again. Maybe… maybe he could do three.
The End
Excerpt from The Darkest Hour – Book 1 of Running with the Devil by Jasmin Quinn
Available now on Amazon and Free on Kindle Unlimited
✽✽✽
Kelsie didn’t see him coming until he was on the steps and heading straight for her. She had a few single seconds to scream but was so shocked at the wild crazed man rushing towards her that she was paralyzed by fear. And those few precious moments were lost when he grabbed her and, in one fluid movement, twisted her body around, clamping one hand over her mouth and wrapping his other arm tightly around her neck and shoulders. Then he dragged her inside. It happened so fast - there were no words, no fuss, practically no noise. No one would know.
Then, in a deep, dangerous voice, he said softly into her ear, “Close and lock the doors or I’ll break your fucking neck.”
Kelsie was freaked out. His words left no room for hesitation or argument. Her adrenaline starting spiking as she pushed the doors closed and turned the lock. Her captor fleetingly let go of her neck to yank the curtains shut and snap the lamp’s cord out of its socket, but his other arm held her firmly, his hand cruelly covering her mouth. They were instantly bathed in darkness. He circled her waist with his free arm and dragged her into her u-shaped kitchen, pulling her onto his lap as he slid down to the floor with his back against the cabinets. They were effectively hidden from everyone and everything.
As soon as they hit the floor, Kelsie started to struggle. She tried to drag his hand off her mouth, tried to scream, but he had an iron grip on her and tightened it as he growled into her ear, “Stop your fucking hysterics and listen to me. Some very bad Russians are after me and if they find me, they’ll kill us both. So, it’s in your best interest to sit still and be very quiet.”
Kelsie weighed her options. He’d just threatened to break her neck, but he hadn’t. He could break her neck now to quiet her, but he showed no signs of doing so. In fact, as she stopped struggling, she felt him loosen his grip just a little. There was absolutely no way she believed that there were Russians after this guy. He was probably a strung-out drug addict or someone with a mental issue. Or a jewel thief or a stalker. Or a serial killer or a rapist, or both. She felt tears prick at her eyes as panic rose up in her, but she held them back. There would be plenty of time for hysterics later… she hoped.
And then she heard the voices, in the alley, speaking Russian and she froze. She knew about the Russian mob because she did research for her boss on their activities, had been in courtrooms while they were being prosecuted. They were not nice people. They did a lot of nasty things to keep their girlfriends in fur coats – extortion, money laundering, murder for hire, smuggling. The guy in her kitchen didn’t sound Russian, but that didn’t mean anything and if the Russians were after him, he must have done something big to piss them off. This was not good, not good at all.
Kelsie could feel him listening, his rapid breathing matching pace with hers. And then the voices moved on, fading away. And they both let out a breath. He said, quietly, “I’m going to take my hand from your mouth but if you so much as whimper, I’ll tie you up and gag you. Understood?” Kelsie nodded. She would do as she was told until she saw a way out of this. She didn’t want to be tied up and gagged, she didn’t want to be that helpless. He slowly removed his hand from her mouth and dropped it down onto her thigh. She took a deep ragged breath, but other than that didn’t move. Neither did he for a few minutes.
Then, “What’s your name?” he asked softly. She could tell that his face was buried in her hair, his light breath care
ssing her neck. She felt a shiver creep up her spine. At least he wanted to know her name. Serial killers dehumanize their victims, don’t want their names, don’t want to know who they’re torturing and raping and slaughtering.
“It’s Kelsie, Kelsie Scott,” she told him and then mentally slapped her head. May as well give him her rank and serial number too. Maybe she should tell him how old she was, what she did for a living, explain why she was standing out on the deck alone on a Friday night. But she clamped her lips shut and just sat there, on his lap, very still, waiting for his next move. He didn’t respond and for a minute she thought he’d blacked out. But as she shifted her weight slightly, she felt his grip on her tighten.
“Just give me a minute, Kelsie.” His voice was quiet, but deep and a little gruff. Kelsie stilled herself, feeling vulnerable on his lap, as one of his hands held her waist and the other gripped her leg. She could feel the hardness of his chest against her back, the strength of his thighs under her. He was not a soft man. Then she felt him smell her hair, and his hand on her thigh tightened almost imperceptibly. She knew his train of thought, knew where it was taking him. She needed out of his arms, off his lap.
His minute was up, and she dared to ask, quietly, “What now?”
She could hear him sigh, a little pause, and then. “Is there a window in your bathroom?”
Kelsie’s stomach flipped. An image of her being cut up in the bathtub flickered through her mind. “Why?” she whispered shakily as she tried to move off him.
He reached up suddenly and curled his fingers into her hair, yanking her head back against his shoulder and forcing her to look into his shadowed face. “You do get that you are in no position to ask me fucking questions?” he snarled at her. “What you need to do, Kelsie, if you want to get through this night, is answer my questions when I fucking ask them for no other fucking reason than because I asked you.”
Kelsie felt herself tremble and her throat tightened as tears threatened. But crying was not an option, not now. Even so, a single tear managed to escape down her cheek. She heard him sigh, and then he said less gruffly, “Because maybe I have to take a piss, and I don’t want to attract any Russians back to this house by turning on a light.”
Kelsie shrank from his swift change of moods. “There’s no window in the bathroom in my bedroom.” She wasn’t going to lie. She didn’t want to antagonize him further.
“Who’s in your bedroom?” he asked bluntly as he reached over and felt the fingers on her left hand looking for a wedding ring.
Kelsie hesitated. She was alone in the house, but he didn’t know that. Maybe if she invented a family, he would leave. But he dashed that hope as he said, before she could answer, “I hope for your sake, you’re alone.”
“I am,” she confirmed fearfully. There was no point in inventing a fake family – the house was not that big that he couldn’t walk through it and see it was empty except for her. He exhaled as he heard the quiver in her voice. She might be calm on the outside, but she knew he could sense her terror. And then he unwrapped his hand from her hair, dropping it down to her thigh again and said, “My name’s Dean. I’m a… ” he hesitated “… cop. I am… was working undercover for the Russian mafia. Somehow they found out.”
Kelsie didn’t immediately respond. What could she say? What kind of a cop terrorizes a woman in the middle of the night and holds her hostage in her home? Hmmm… nope, seems like poor timing. Maybe something subtler. “Then let me go,” she softly implored him.
“I can’t do that,” he responded quietly. “I can’t trust you not to call the cops.”
“If you’re a cop, then why wouldn’t we call the cops?”
“I know,” His voice was suddenly weak and tired. “But someone fingered me as a cop and there are only a handful of people who know – it has to someone inside my organization.”
“Who would do that?” Kelsie didn’t quite believe him.
Dean shrugged in the darkness. “Someone close to the operation. I don’t know who – yet.”
“Prove you’re a cop.” Kelsie challenged him, but carefully, guardedly.
“I can’t do that. I haven’t got anything that proves I’m anything but a thug working for the Russian mafia. Besides, the fucking Russians took everything I had on me.”
Kelsie didn’t know what to say next. Maybe he was a cop, maybe he wasn’t. It didn’t matter at this point. He was still holding her hard against him, unwilling to let her go. There was no reason for her to trust or believe him. Did she feel safe with him? No! Would she run the first chance she got? In a heartbeat!
“Let’s go,” Dean said gruffly, growing tired of waiting for her to process her situation. He hauled himself off the floor dragging Kelsie up by the waist as if she was a sack of feathers. “Walk slowly,” he instructed. “Don’t move suddenly or try anything stupid. Show me where this bathroom is.”
He held her close to him and as they shuffled toward her bedroom, she got a better sense of his height and strength. Of average height herself, she could feel him tower over her, could sense the broadness of his chest on her back. She felt a shiver trail up her spine as they moved into her bedroom and then to the doorway of the bathroom. “It’s here,” she said, expecting him to release her. But he didn’t. He looked around the bedroom making sure the curtain was drawn, memorizing the layout, then he pulled her into the bathroom and closed and locked the door behind them. Blackness consumed them. “Turn on the light,” he commanded.
Kelsie groped for the switch and flipped it on. Soft, warm light infused the bathroom. He let her go then, pushing her deeper into the room. Kelsie’s house was not extravagant. Two bedrooms, a study, a two-car garage. But her bathroom was her favourite room in the house with double sinks on the right side near the doorway and opposite, some hooks for clothing or wet towels and built-in floor-to-ceiling shelves that held toiletries and neatly folded towels. The toilet sat next to the shelves and was framed on the other side by a huge walk-in shower. Opposite the shower was a large jetted tub that she absolutely adored.
As Kelsie stumbled forward, she caught both her appearance and his in the mirror. Her long blond hair was wild, her complexion pale, and the pupils of her blue eyes dark and dilated. But his was worse. He was tall and muscular, maybe 35 years old. Full head of thick brown hair, in disarray. Cleaned up, he might be good-looking, but right now, his face was a mess of bruises, a shallow cut over his left eye, a split lip, blood on his chin and down the front of his shirt. The knuckles on his right hand were skinned and bloodied. But that wasn’t the worst part. The right side of his shirt and jeans were covered in blood – that couldn’t be good, he was seriously injured. She looked down at herself then and saw the blood on her hands, her arms, her legs, her night dress. She whirled around and stared at him. “Oh my god,” she exhaled.
Dean staggered forward then, grabbing the vanity to hold himself steady. “I was shot by those fuckers.” He reached past her and lowered the lid on the toilet seat, then sat down heavily.
“You need a hospital!” Kelsie exclaimed as she started to move toward the bathroom door. “I’m going to call an ambulance.” Suddenly she felt his viselike fingers around her wrist yanking her back to him. He twisted her arm painfully forcing her onto her knees in front of him.
“Listen to me carefully,” he growled gripping her wrist tightly in his hand and looking down at her, his face twisted in anger and pain. “I may be hurt, but I am still in control of this situation and… of you. Understand?”
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” Kelsie argued softly. “You might need a transfusion.”
Dean lost his temper. “I don’t need a fucking transfusion. We’re not calling an ambulance, we’re not calling the cops, we’re not calling your mom and dad or your boyfriend or any fucking one else. What we’re going to do is fix me up and let me get some rest so I can figure out what to do next. Got it?” He shook her arm for emphasis and then let her wrist drop.
“Yes,” Kelsie said f
aintly to his chest. She was afraid to look into his eyes. “I got it.” She rubbed the wrist he just crushed, trying to ease both the pain and her growing panic.
“Good. Now help me get out of this shirt so we can see how bad it is.”
Kelsie reached up with shaking fingers and started to unbutton his shirt. He touched her fingers with his left hand. “Gently,” he warned. She slowed her movements down, carefully undoing each button until his shirt was open. She gingerly parted it, her hands brushing his broad muscular chest and rock-hard stomach. He was bruised all over.
“They beat you.” She touched his bruises softly with her fingers, feeling tenderness wash over her.
✽✽✽
Excerpt from Black Surrender – Book Three of Running with the Devil by Jasmin Quinn
(planned for release in May 2018)
Michael Black stood in the lobby of his condo building trying to stay engaged in the conversation that was taking place between him and two of his elderly 1st floor neighbours. He had blood on his hands, not literally because he’d been wearing gloves at the time of the shooting. He generally had little regret after he dispatched someone, but this time that someone’s wife came home early, and he had no choice but to take her out too. One bullet to her heart and then a second to her head for good measure. He wasn’t alone when it happened; he was with that fucking cop, Finn McQueen. They’d already gotten the information they needed from the Russian. All they had to do was leave, but the Russian’s wife finding the body right on the heels of their departure didn’t give them enough lead time to do what they had to do next. He’d looked into the eyes of the cop, not to ask his permission but to assess whether he had the stomach for coldblooded murder. Finn had given him a short nod and walked through the Russian’s kitchen and out the same back door through which they’d entered the house, leaving Michael to finish the job.