Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs

Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs
Jina Bacarr

Breezy Malone has left her cautious archaeologist`s life behind, only to be poured into a leather corset and demand that bad guys ask—no, beg—for mercy in her new gig as a covert agent for the FBI.A covert sex agent, to be exact. Not that she`s given much choice. The FBI is dangling the ultimate carrot—if she can use her seduction skills to trace an ancient, stolen artifact, it`ll lead her to Sharif, the terrorist who framed her for a murder that landed her in a Middle East prison.Now she`s prepared to break any rule to make sure Sharif pays. But a mysterious and alluring agent called One-Eyed Jack is on her tail, and Breezy`s not sure if he`s friend, foe or something even more dangerous…a sensual distraction aimed at throwing her off her guard. She`ll show him who`s in control. …

SPIES, LIES & NAKED THIGHS

JINA BACARR

To my husband, Len. Nobody does it better.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

When I was a little girl I wanted to be an archaeologist and go on digs. Later when I had the opportunity to explore the catacombs outside Rome, I strayed behind the group and got lost. I wandered around alone in the underground caves with only a small flashlight to guide my way, marveling at the bones buried in the crypts. That was the first time I heard the bones “whisper” to me. I never forgot that. It became part of my story when I wanted to write about an archaeologist-turned-spy in the Near East.

In the world of covert ops, a spy works alone. So does a writer, weaving her tale in front of her computer, dreaming, planning, writing. What no one sees is the world behind them. Our backup. And I have the best backup in the biz. Thank you to my fabulous editor, Susan Swinwood, whose editorial guidance helped me bring my story full circle. And as always, thank you to my dear friend and wonderful agent, Roberta Brown.

Prologue

Somewhere in the Syrian Desert

A virgin moon caressed her ivory buttocks against a black basalt sky, stimulating him. Stars sparked their celestial approval, pleasing him. And a beautiful blonde lying nude in his tent aroused him.

Allah is good.

He rubbed the girl’s taut brown nipple between his thumb and forefinger, evoking a succulent sigh from her that made him smile. Then he pulled on both her nipples faster and faster until she began gasping for air. She trembled under his touch, subjecting herself to his will, though he sensed she fought against her desire. That resistance would disappear once she opened up under his stroking, her honey-sweet juices seeping down her thighs, a testament to his skill.

Empowered by his dominance over her more than his craving for her flesh, he gazed down at her like a sly jackal salivating over its prey. He reveled in what he saw. Her mint- green eyes ached for him, peering over the transparent veil covering her mouth moist with her hot breath.

“Now?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “Not yet, my beauty. I’m anxious to take you, but first I must complete the ritual.” He felt her shiver, but she didn’t resist when he spread her legs and rubbed rose oil on the smooth skin of her inner thighs. A preliminary stimulation before receiving his gedheeb, his rod. Underneath the loose white caftan covering his nude body, his need swelled, his glans tinted a deep crimson and red lines streaked from either side of his groin to converge at his navel. The sign of a primeval sect that reviled women and vowed to sacrifice their semen only during the heat of day. He emptied his passion when the mood suited him, but like the ancients, he believed the sun was man, its scorching, burning heat penetrating the desert sands with energy. The moon was woman, a cold, arrogant and selfish being, forcing the beauty of the desert to vanish into a hellish darkness between her legs.

Outside, a petulant night wind kicked up a powdery cloud of sand, dragging its long tentacles along the outer boundary of the tent in a noisy guffaw and reminding him of his oath. Wiping the sweat off his face, he shook off the ominous tingling up and down his spine. He was working himself into a sensual state, something he’d sworn against, yet he couldn’t help himself. Her burning eyes enslaved his will, forcing him to admit she’d upset the delicate balance of his being. The wind wailed its warning, a sibilant sound that grated on his nerves, but he ignored it. He was past listening. He observed the girl as a lover would, inspecting her, admiring her, his enjoyment of her physical beauty as much a part of the ritual as riding her to final abandon. Her face shone with an eerie whiteness in the candlelight, her gentle moans crawled over his skin like ghostly fingers arousing him.

He yearned to delight in the dewy moistness between her thighs, pussy softer than silk with wiry rays of sunshine encircling it, buttocks smoother than golden cream, hard bud plump and rounded, protuberant. His nerves taut, his fists clenched, he made his decision. He’d indulge in a quick coupling with the girl, then be done with her.

He lifted her nose veil and touched her warm cheeks flushed pink, then raked his fingers through her long, burnished hair braided with sweet-smelling white flowers. He knew she observed his every move from under lowered eyelids smeared with antimony to give them a silvery-white crystalline sheen. Yet she remained so still the swinging blue- glass pendants hanging from her earlobes lay flaccid against the silk pillow under her head. She reclined on a low pile of perfumed mattresses covered with a white counterpane, gold-and-purple silk pillows scattered at her head and feet. Dim saffron-colored candlelight caressed her curves.

How could he resist such beauty? Full breasts, smooth and pure as white sand, and a narrow waist rounded out into firm buttocks tempted him to devour her like a flame. At his request, she’d smeared henna on the palms of her hands and on the soles of her feet, then fastened a low-swung belt made of gold ribbon around her waist. The belt sparkled with tiny copper bells that sounded when she undulated her hips toward him in a teasing manner. He frowned. This charade could only end in the girl’s misfortune, but what choice did he have? The blonde was beautiful, but dangerous to the jihad. In a few hours, she would know her karma and he’d have what he wanted.

But first…

His thumb and forefinger twisted her sensitized nipple and she moaned. Louder.

“You want more?” he asked.

“Yes,” she breathed out, wetting her lips and beckoning him to kiss her. He didn’t. Instead, he turned her over and inserted his finger deep inside the small cleft moon of her buttocks. She cried out and bucked hard against his hand. He was amused she was so eager to show him passion. Didn’t she know she was but an instrument to quench his insatiable thirst for release? Yet he couldn’t deny the erotic feeling her soft skin moistened by the rose oil evoked in him or the sensation of her surprisingly tight butt hole under his expert touch. He increased the rhythm and the speed of his finger to match her grinding hips, the copper bells around her waist ripping through the stillness into a ringing cacophony. He couldn’t stop. Desire for her sharpened his senses, the pungent smell of myrrh filling his nostrils along with her musky odor. Her body tensed as if ready to explode, her hips jolting up and down, the tight crown of her anal muscles squeezing around his finger while he pumped her to satisfy her dark, secret desire. Her ragged breath and earthy moans made him quiver with anticipation, knowing he’d succeeded in unleashing the wanton in the girl. He pulled on her braided hair and jerked her head back, muttering, “Yes, that’s it. Release your fears and let them go.”

Under the tutelage of his skilled fingers, she twisted and writhed with abandon. He shifted his weight and maneuvered closer, plunging his finger deeper into her, groaning while savoring the heat of her excitement. He felt his pulse quicken. The girl was primed, ready to surrender to him. He removed his intrusive digit and she collapsed on the mattress, panting hard.

Pulling off his white mantle, he wiped the sweat off the back of his neck with the garment, disturbing his spiraling long black hair, matted and damp. As was customary, a small platform stood nearby with his personal items: his scent of mandarin, musk and lavender, along with a box of beeswax, flower garlands, lotions and perfumed powder to remove the odor of perspiration, as well as a jar of lemon peelings and betel leaves for sweetening his breath. After tossing the robe on the soft fleece carpet, he washed his hands in the basin of water for that purpose, then grabbed a condom and a pack of cigarettes. Al-Amra, a local brand. Long and slender, like the girl. He slipped the condom on his penis to catch his semen as a way of placating his God, but instead of grabbing a cigarette out of the pack, his fingers clasped around cold metal. A digital camera that fit in the palm of his hand. He stroked the cold metal and saw in his mind the many nights of pleasure he’d have watching the blonde on the video while she languished in hell. He pressed down the shutter button to the record position and pointed the camera toward her, then lit more candles to highlight the curves of her body.

“Now, my lovely one, you shall receive the talisman of divine pleasure.” He saw her take in her breath at the mention of his shaft. Foolish girl. She imagined herself in love with him. A wicked smile turned up the corners of his mouth. She was but the tool to show his power to the mujahideen.

He held her hips tightly as her back arched toward him and lifted from the mattress, her buttocks quivering. Then he thrust his hard cock into her….

1

Two years laterZurich

I lean over and tighten my sagging black satin bra strap before gravity takes over and my left breast pops out. Not easy to do when I’m running through the trash-strewn cobblestone alley smelling like dead cats and urine in thigh-high, black-leather embroidered boots with stiletto heels and a beaded Cleopatra wig, heading for the Central Plaza Hotel to hook up with my Russian informant, and I’m late. He insisted on meeting me at the piano bar in the hotel situated on the riverfront, a favorite of his, where the ex-KGB agent downed shots of vodka during the Cold War.

Not a good sign. His turf, his rules. I hope today’s mark doesn’t give me any trouble. The last man I shot asked me if I liked to sleep in a T-shirt or lingerie. Nothing at all, I said, then before he could take me down, I took him out with my Glock 22. After all, this is a job. And I’ve learned to do it well. The name on my U.S. passport identifies me as Breezy Malone, a twenty-nine-year-old female; place of birth, Philadelphia. I’m taller than average with sun-streaked, white-blond hair and green eyes. Since my recruitment as a special agent for Theta Agency, I’ve become proficient in adapting disguises, served as a provocateur to entrap extremists and participated in numerous black ops, including major “wet” operations.

Contrary to popular imaginings, the latter has nothing to do with ejaculation but with rolling up political insurgents in Europe and the Middle East. No thumbscrews for torture or blunt objects for persuasion for me. I use vaginal wizardry to entice the target. I go where other government agents can’t, taking down sophisticated men in gray tweed as well as terrorists who view the world with a piercing gaze and an AK-47.

As an Arab-speaking agent, I use my language skills as well as my personal attributes, often obtaining more intel by keeping out of the subject’s arms. If a man is only physically attracted to me, he will lose interest once he has had sex with me. But if he comes to rely upon me more for companionship and sympathy than merely for sex, the operation has a better chance of success. From supine and supple positions to tease and torture, I can execute any sexual task required of me. Using erotic techniques I learned at the TA training camp near Prague, I snare my target in a black-leather web of intrigue and lust.

My curvy body is the ultimate honey trap.

I check my weapon hidden in my bondage belt along with my prepaid cell phone and wad of cash tucked away in my corset. I’m not fond of the black-leather armor and skimpy red thong I’m wearing, but it’s part of the job. Fit in with the locals. Everyone on the streets is wearing crazy outfits. Guys with silver-painted bodies and sporting frizzy purple wigs, girls wearing lacy bras and bare-bottom cowboy chaps. I see latex and sequins everywhere, flower pasties, even pink-feathered boas. The Love Parade attracts big crowds in the Swiss capital for a weekend of love and beer, though it’s more about sex than love.

The perfect place to exchange cash for trash. Bureau-speak for useless intel. According to recent chatter picked up on the street, the Russian knows more than he’s selling about terrorist activities in Western Europe. We can’t afford any more intelligence failures. Everybody knows the game has changed. No longer are attacks planned and executed by a single al-Qaeda mastermind. Fueled by an ever-increasing well of recruits bound together by motives and causes, it’s up to me to find out what the Russian knows and who he’s working for.

Unlike military interrogators who push emotional buttons to get the intel, I’ve taken on the persona of a dominatrix to whip the informant into shape with my sexual tricks. With my sharp black nails flashing from the tips of my fingers to my mouth glossed with Sinfully Red lipstick, I’ve been sent to flush out this ex-KGB agent by my handler, Rork, Special Agent in Charge.

Unlike authorized FBI counterintelligence agents, TA special agents need a handler, an agent who can provide technical support in the form of service weapons, operating funds, clandestine communications gear, spy cameras and other specialized equipment.

A sudden stab of adrenaline strikes me, hitting me in my gut. I’ve also got personal reasons for working this case. I’ve waited a long time for this day since I went over the prison wall in Syria. If the Russian is involved with a certain Chechen-based renegade, as I suspect, then we’ve got business of another kind to settle. Every target I take down brings me one step closer to finding Sharif and bringing him to justice.

I’m about to round a corner when I sense someone sniffing me out like an animal in heat. Nothing new to me. Since I received government-issued breast implants, I’m used to being stared at wherever I go. But this is one pussycat who hasn’t got time for primal games.

I slow down, walk purposefully down the alley. I’m a TA special agent who knows her job, wants to get it done and get back into my slinky, formfitting catsuit. Black. I disappear in black, my chin-length sugarcane hair turned up in a perfect flip.

I wipe off the back of my neck with my hand. The damn wig is hot and sweat is dripping down my bare back. I inhale the smell of my own body heat and a familiar desire to relieve the gnawing ache between my legs hits me. Good. I can use my own need to keep the mark off balance, make the Russian forget he’s a card-carrying member of an elite terrorist group.

Out of the corner of my eye I see movement to my right. The answer to this blonde’s wet dream spills out of a doorway, weapon drawn. I stare at him, narrowing my eyes, then peek at him through my false eyelashes. Uneasy but not shaken, I hold my breath. The tattooed bodybuilder stud with the spiked, black-crow haircut and patch over one eye is pushing the cold barrel of the rif le against my neck. I’ve stared down the barrel of a T.A.R. 21 Tavor assault rif le a few times in my terrorist-fighting career. That doesn’t mean I’m used to it. My throat tightens and my nerves become taut, the icy metal against my flesh signaling a sense of impending danger loud and clear.

Where did he come from? Who is he?

He wasn’t on my radar a minute ago.

“Want to have some fun, Fräulein?” he says in German. I bet he cuts a notch in his rif le butt for every girl who says ja. Not me. Every move I make is under surveillance. It goes with the job.

“I don’t understand you,” I toss back at him in English, relaxing my stance, trying to appear insouciant. No doubt he’s a raver out for extra action and he chose this alleyway to frisk the first piece of tail to stroll his way. Why not? No cars allowed on the street during the parade. No cabbies. And the street revelers aren’t within earshot but carousing up and down Bahnhofstrasse, eating, drinking and ogling the free show.

“Give me what I want,” he says in English with a slight accent, “or I’ll—”

“You’ll do what? Spank me?”