Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs. Jina Bacarr

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      I smile. “In wartime, an agent extracts information by force—” I drop my bra onto the floor, then turn around slowly, folding my arms over my nude breasts “—though I prefer other methods.”

      He grins, though I see puzzlement in his eyes. “Our countries aren’t at war.”

      “Aren’t they?” The smile fades from my face, replaced by a deliberate tenseness around my mouth. “Who are you working for, Ivan?”

      “I work alone.”

      “You’re lying.” I trace my fingers over my breasts, circle my nipples, which are hard and aching. “I’m asking you again, who do you work for?”

      “You think I’m going to tell you?” He shakes his head. “I don’t intend to end up buried alive in a nailed coffin.”

      I let out a sigh. Whatever the outcome, he’s a KGB pro-fessional of the old school. He knows the game. He knows the risks. Like most informants, the most striking thing about him is the contradiction between his evident strength of character and his vulnerability where sex is concerned.

      Which doesn’t help my situation. If I don’t get him to talk, I won’t find Sharif.

      I grab another ice cube and sweep its icy tongue over my nipples until it melts. Ivan is also going into a major meltdown. He plays nervously with a swizzle stick, drumming it up and down against the glass. He’s so hot, the sweat drips down his face and wets his shirt in a wide, dark stain across the front.

      “I can’t wait any longer.” He unzips his trousers, wide gray pants made from a cheap fabric. “I’m so hard, I could fuck you all night.”

      “Really? What a capitalistic idea.” I take in a deep breath, close my eyes. You’ll never get the chance, Ivan. Though I’d love to demote him maximally, I won’t. I need him. Besides, he disarmed me. No prob. My backup will hear my call for help if he gets carried away.

      “I’m hard,” says the Russian, grabbing his crotch. “Take off your panties.”

      I shake my head. “Not yet. My pussy is so hot, it needs cooling down first.” I have to work fast. I haven’t gotten the chip or the intel from him.

      With a quick movement, I plunge an ice cube under my red thong, between my labes, making a sweet circle on my clitoris. I let out a loud groan. I shiver both from the chill and the high state of arousal surging in me. The ice burns on my clit. I push it deep inside me, the sensation so intense I want to scream. I’m so hot, the cube melts in seconds, dripping down my thighs in glistening rivulets, tickling my skin like icy fingers. A puddle forms between my high-heeled boots.

      “Enough of your games.” He comes toward me, wiping his mouth with his hand. “I want you.”

      “And I want to know what your organization is planning.”

      “That wasn’t part of our deal.”

      “I’m willing to pay.”

      “You’ll pay with your cunt—”

      “Ten thousand dollars extra.” I direct my disarming smile at him. It’s standard equipment for a TA special agent. This smile—and my government-issued cleavage—draw men to me like a prostitute wearing nothing but a pink boa and red high heels.

       Didn’t the one-eyed Jack prove that?

      I pull out a wad of used hundred-dollar bills from the hidden pocket in my corset, then stack them neatly on the table.

      “It’s all there, Ivan.” He counts the bills, hissing through his cracked teeth. Greedy bastard. I’ll use that weakness to find out what he knows. “What is their target? When will they strike?”

      Bitterness turns his face hard and pale. “No information until we complete the deal.”

      Can I trust him? Before the fall of the Soviet Union he rolled up more than one KGB double agent and sent him to his death.

      “How much do you want?” I ask.

      “Twenty. And your pussy, too.”

      “Next time we meet I’ll give you the money—”

      He smirks. “I want to get into your cunt now.”

      “The information first, Ivan.” I twist my collar with the embedded microphone, making certain the rhinestone stud containing the listening device is pointed directly at him. I don’t wear a comms earpiece since the Russian would have detected it when he was feeling me up and smelling my scent. “Or the entire deal is off.”

      He grins. “Clever, aren’t you?”

      “The money speaks for itself. There’s more where that came from if you play ball with us.” I am at once smiling at his compliment and frustrated by his reluctance with words. “Tell me what your organization is planning.”

      I move closer toward him, run my fingers up and down his cheek, the black tips of my nails scrapping across his skin like chalk against a blackboard. He shivers. Good. He’s weakening. I snuggle up close to him, wrapping my left leg over his thigh. Biting down on my glossy-red lower lip, I toy with my garter. Tiny biofeedback sensors are hidden in the black leather garter circling my leg. If I can get him to touch the sensors, I’ll know whether or not he’s lying.

      “I assure you,” he says, pulling on my nipple and rubbing it between his forefinger and thumb. “After our leader receives the funds he’s been promised, there will be an attack against government officials.”

      I wince, but I refuse to show weakness in front of him.

      “Where, Ivan, where?” Frustration zaps the breath out of me. He’s so busy playing with my nipples, I can’t get him to move his hand down to my thigh. Damn. I press my bare breasts against his chest and lick the pulse at the side of his neck. “Tell me.”

      “No. I want to fuck you.”

      “You won’t get any pussy if I don’t get the intel.”

      His eyes narrow. He leans over me. His breath smells unpleasantly of vodka and garlic. “I’m meeting up with my connect in Paris. A Chechen. I can arrange for you to meet him.”

      I exhale. Sharif? Is he telling me the truth? I’ve got to find out. I’m not about to send him to nirvana with my pink pussy lips for a lie. Besides, I have a personal stake in knowing this information. If Sharif is in Paris, I can’t take the chance he could locate me. I have an apartment on the Right Bank, though I change digs often. In my business, it’s safer that way.

      “Touch me, Ivan,” I say, grabbing his hand and placing it on my thigh. “Here.”

      I place his index and middle fingers on the two biofeedback sensors disguised as phony rubies. With his fingers on the sensors, I ask him again what their plans are. I get the same answer. A meeting in Paris. With a man I believe is Sharif. Is the converted Muslim getting ready to unload the artifact he stole from me? It has yet to resurface, not even in a private collection when the U.S. government seized Syrian artifacts on loan and auctioned them off to compensate СКАЧАТЬ