Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs by Jina Bacarr

Author:Jina Bacarr
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Spice
Published: 2008-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

17

Through the salty mist in the cave, as the drizzling rain deepened the dampness, Caine wiggled his fingers into the blonde, her lower lips firm and supple on the outside, hot and juicy deep inside. He pushed harder and she moaned softly, then she became quiet as if she were afraid of showing her pleasure. He stroked her hard clit with his thumb, keeping his eyes on her face, his other hand holding her hip. She cried out again and again, breathy, feminine tones that made him hard. Her melting beauty seeped into his pores and sweetened his taste for this gorgeous eye candy that was his to fuck.

And to kill.

Why did that thought disturb him?

He slowed down, letting his fingers relax, but he couldn’t stop touching her. He traced the soft curve of her breasts, then took her nipples between his teeth and nipped at her sensitive peaks. Why was he trying to please her? The girl couldn’t be allowed to live. He knew what he had to do, how the scene would play out. Yet he questioned why he was still doing that dance. When would the killing end?

He had no answer. It was his job to cruise through the crowd, blend in with his surroundings, move in quickly, secure the intel, then extract the enemy when they least suspected it. It was a dirty job, an intense job, and few realized that killing at close range exacted a terrible toll on the assassin. The headaches afterward, the foul taste in his mouth that didn’t go away for days, the attacks on his mind at night so violent he couldn’t sleep. Yet he didn’t stop. He was a soldier first in the war against terror, he reminded himself, and a man second. He couldn’t allow personal feelings to come between him and his mission. Hadn’t he been forced to take down the girl he loved because she betrayed him?

He met her in a club in Soho, London’s crime-ridden red-light district controlled by organized gangs. Platinum-blond hair pulled back tight across her skull with long wisps hanging over her dark-rimmed eyes. Wine-red glossy lipstick, high cheekbones, a Slavic cast to her face he still remembered years later. She danced by herself, oblivious to everyone around her, her swaying body and graceful movements holding him captive. The girl claimed to be a sex slave brought to England from the former Soviet Republic of Moldova and a victim of Albanian organized crime. But in the end it was a cruel game by the Albanian Mafia to entrap him. And destroy the lives of CIA officers when they raided the club. Only he survived. He’d had no choice but to kill her.

Yet his instincts told him this girl was innocent.

Just how innocent? he pondered, observing her playing with her nipples, pulling them erect between her long pale fingers and twisting them. Her mouth was open, short esurient breaths coming from her, as if she expected her pleasure might end at any moment.

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