Page 27 of Agency
Adding more powder, I further obscured the scar on my chin, further blended that distinctive stretch of tissue into the rest of the surrounding pale landscape.
“Not bad,” I muttered to my reflection as I turned side-to-side, checking my profile in the slinky dress. “Not bad at all.” Fixing my gaze in the mirror, I took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay. You’re doing this, honey. You know the plan. You know the egress strategy. Candy won’t be slowed down for much longer, and you need to make this work. You got this. Now go.”
I swept my makeup off the counter and back into my clutch, then headed back to rejoin Smolensky. His back still turned to me, I padded over to him with swaying hips. One of my hands touched his shoulder as I came up behind him, slid down over the front of his suit jacket as I leaned forward and placed my clutch on the table in front of him.
My barely covered breasts pressed into his back and neck, and he let out a low groan of obvious appreciation as my hand continued to travel over him in an imitation of the best faux affection money could buy.
“You know,” I purred in his ear as my other hand joined with its compatriot and continued to slide over his front, “I think I’d like to show you my appreciation for such a lovely dinner.”
“Oh?” he asked, turning to his left to get a better look at me.
My right hand slid back from him as I leaned closer and moved my lips down closer to his. Eyes hooded and heavy-lidded, I let my mouth hover a fraction of an inch from his as my eyes searched his face.
Finally, our eyes met, and I leaned in.
The kiss was… well… the kiss was kind of gross.
His lips were thin and dry, and he tried to force his tongue into my mouth sooner than I was ready–which, goes without saying, would have been never. But, still, I pressed my painted mouth to his, till my crimson lipstick was coating his lips nearly as thoroughly as the makeup had coated mine. Smearing my lips over his, I made sure he got as much of the thick layers as I possibly could.
Then, I sucked his thick, groping, gross tongue into my mouth, but not before I mentally noted how tired of this job I was becoming.
How many targets liquidated over the years? How many jobs had I pulled?
Dozens, easily. All of them more than deserving, though. And probably none more deserving than this asshole.
But, still.
I pulled back from our kiss, smiled despite myself as I watched his tongue grope and lick his own newly red-painted lips. His eyes were glassy and glazed with lust, and his mouth looked like he was halfway to being painted as a clown as I reached down to his lap to check on the progress of the little blue pill he’d had to have taken when I first arrived.
There he was. There he definitely was.
Not insignificant, but not anything worth writing home about, either. Hard, pulsing, and a little over five inches. His poor little criminal heart was probably already straining with pumping the blood through hardened arteries and veins, and I could practically feel every torturous beat in the pulsing throb of his member.
“Very nice,” I whispered, my hand moving from his lap to his palm. My thin fingers wrapped around his thicker ones, and I began to draw him up from his seat. Fingers and eyes locked, I stalked backwards towards the bed with my other hand behind my back as I used kisses like bread crumbs to lure him away from the dinner table–every kiss smearing more and more of my red lipstick across his mouth.
One step, two steps, three steps, four, we drew closer and closer to the bed, till I could feel its great presence near my thigh.
Sweat beaded on the Russian mobster’s foreheads as he gasped for air like a novice runner finishing a 5K, his complexion already matching the beet-red war paint with which I’d anointed his lips. He wasn’t feeling right, but he was also feeling that desperate want. Not of lust, but to dominate–to assure himself that he was still a man.
“Come on, Grigori,” I said, goading him with my words till he was next to the bed. “Come to bed with Yvette. Show me what a man is really like. Show me what I’ve been missing out on all these years by only fucking Americans.”
Then we were together, kissing once more.
Our fingers dropped, and his leaden arms felt as if they used some of the last of their strength to pull me close. Hands sliding over my bare back and down to my ass, the murderer and extortionist grabbed great, desperate handfuls of my muscle and flesh like my thighs and ass were life preservers on the roiling sea. He needed, even as he kneaded, and his twitching cock pressed into my belly in a kind of desperation.
Our lips parted again, and I looked into his eyes as he tried, and failed, to suck in a full breath.
Glassy, still. Glazed, still. But, now… fearful. Fearful as realization began to dawn, and he began to recognize the sensation of his throat closing up. Releasing my ass, he reached for his coat’s inside breast pocket.
He’d realized too late, though. A quick shift of my weight, and I was using my hip as a fulcrum to flip him onto the bed.
He let out a surprised, wheezing rasp as he went sprawling spread eagle across the comforter-clad memory foam mattress.
A quick jump up, and my feet were planting themselves in the weirdly squishing foam to either side of his torso, straddling him.
Grigori looked up at me, dark eyes filling with a cocktail of emotions. Surprise, outrage, anger, and, finally, fear. Ironically, even as he lay there choking on his own anaphylactically closing throat, his eyes flickered down his body to where he could just barely see up my dress to my lacy, black panties.
I rolled my eyes and dropped to my knees, using them to pin his arms to the mattress.
