Spy Games: Lethal Limits (40 page)

Submission was supposed to work. Charlotte was a submissive and her Dominant was dead, burned to a crisp in the explosion. It didn’t matter to Jake that he had been her husband. He was a Dominant, he was gone, and Charlotte needed a new one. Period. So Charlotte went from being raging angry to submissive and quiet, sometimes on her knees in a corner until the numbness returned and she could cry. The submission helped in some ways, but she still didn’t appreciate Jake’s dominance.

But for some insane reason, they still wanted to save her, which was why she resided in a hotel in Brussels with two American secret agents on surveillance duties. Stuff movies couldn’t make up.

What they didn’t understand was her life was crap, with no purpose or path. Everything she cherished was gone, her life a chess game gone bad only she couldn't quit. They thought she had pieces on the chessboard—middlegame. She thought she was in checkmate. If not checkmate, then she was at least in the endgame only no one would move the pieces. She was just sitting there, staring at the board, waiting. Angry as hell as she waited.

“I’ve brought food,” Chase told her, rustling in the bag.

She didn’t answer, because she was done being angry for now. She only felt two things—angry or sad. Sad Charlotte didn’t speak or eat and felt like her insides were full of painless clear jelly. Angry Charlotte spoke volumes but didn’t eat, either. When angry, she felt like someone had slammed a freight train through her gut and she screamed at them. Fuck Jake, fuck Chase, fuck life, fuck submission, fuck you, I won’t eat. She just wanted to sleep and dream of how things could have been different.

“Charlotte? You hungry? Come eat. Cheeseburgers, your favorite.”

She hated her new name, chosen because the old her—Abigail Rothschild—had died. Both guys had picked out a name but squabbled over which was better. So they flipped a coin and Jake had won. It made her feel like she was owned by two college roomies and she was their new, suicidal pet to watch over. They did a good job, too, despite the challenges. She hadn’t found a way to kill herself. Yet.

Chase sighed. He did that a lot when he looked at her. She sensed that if she wanted to die, he’d be the one to unhook the leash and let the submissive, suicidal pet go. The problem was finding the words, the voice, to ask him to end it. Fuck you didn’t say it. Neither did the tears. But she had to ask. Beg. Plead. She was done. So done, and she wanted to join her family. She knew they were waiting. She was tired of waiting.

Chase sat on Jake’s bed, and it squeaked and groaned. One boot hit the floor, then the other. He stood, the bed protesting even though he was six-one and carried not a milligram extra of fat. All hard, dark, and dangerous man with a mushy inner core.

He came to the edge of her bed, lifted the covers, and climbed in behind her. One arm slid under her head, the other wrapped around her middle. He smelled of winter, just a hint of citrusy cologne, and French fries, so much more soothing than Jake’s clean scent. He picked up her hand with his left—no wedding ring on despite his marriage—and laced his fingers in hers.

And her tears fell, quiet tears, but he always knew. Sometimes, he’d kiss her hair, her nape. He’d stoke the loose strands of hair at her shoulders, her cheek. His touch would ripple the numbness, like fingers disturbing the glassy surface of a pond. Feelings would bubble up, ones she hated. Tears would drip, and she’d name them—fear, loneliness, overwhelming sadness. Despair.

He sighed again, his breath hot on her cheek. “You can’t be angry all the time, Charlotte. It’s not working, and I’m not letting you die. So if you can’t be angry…what do you want to be?”

Charlotte blinked, shocked. Chase never spoke when he held her. No one had ever asked her who or what she wanted to be, not even in her old life. Definitely not now. Jake didn’t ask anything, he demanded. Chase demanded, too, but now he was asking.

Something inside her woke up. Not anger, not sadness. Something else. A sense of purpose. Path.

Endgame.

If she wanted the pieces to move, then who did she want to be?
They
had taken everything from her.
They
had left her a useless shell of woman. Suddenly, she felt the burning need to channel the anger, to turn the freight train in her gut outward, off the rails, into someone else. Isn't that what Jake wanted her to do? Channel it?

But the game she played was stalled, going nowhere. No one asked her if she wanted to move her chess pieces. They moved them for her or told her where to put them. But Chase was asking her who she wanted to be, where she wanted the pieces to go.

Endgame.

“I want to be the woman who kills those motherfuckers. I want my endgame.”

“Jesus, Charlotte.” Chase stiffened behind her and sucked in a breath. Probably shocked that she’d spoken, never mind what she had said. “You realize what the endgame will be? We’re talking true checkmate. You go after them, you’re dead.”

“Yes.” She knew the odds. She’d been an agent, too, batting for the English team. Not as hardcore of an agent as her two owners, though. Just an informant, one who found out way, way too late about the real game in progress. She never saw it coming. Now everything was gone. “I don’t care. I don’t have anything left to live for.”

“You need training. These men are killers, cold, hard and mean. They eat girls like you for breakfast and then sell them on the black market. I can’t even tell you that training will save your ass in the end. Fuck, I know it won’t.”

“You said I need anger management. Training would focus my anger.”

“Jake isn’t going to go for this.”

“Fuck Jake.” She held his hand tighter, squeezing it. Desperate. She wanted the pieces to move, and Chase could move mountains when he wanted to. “They took everything, Chase.”

He kissed her hair and held her tighter. “Yes, they did, sweetheart.”

“You guys saved me. You owe me an end to the game. I want to die anyway, so why not let me go out swinging? Train me to be a real spy. Give me the tools to fight. I want those motherfuckers dead.”

Chase sighed. Stroked her hair. Kissed her nape. He held her hand tighter, squeezing it, as if the act would make her change her mind, make her wake up. Too bad. She was awake. Clear, for the first time since she had woken in an American hospital and discovered her life was gone.

If he said no, then she’d do it herself, because she was done playing suicidal pet to two secret agents. She was now Charlotte, not submissive, weak Abigail. She would become cold, hard, and mean, and she would train to be the woman who killed the motherfuckers.

And then she would die.

“Please,” she begged.

The clock on the wall clicked the long seconds. Finally, Chase cleared his throat and whispered, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter One

Five years later…

Aaron James opened his eyes to complete darkness. Disoriented, he sucked in a breath and realized something was against his nostrils, covering his head. Fuck, why? He went to brush it aside and panicked when his hands met rope, wrapped tightly around his wrists behind his back. His feet were tied, too. A cloth in his mouth tasted of laundry soap, the knot digging into the back of his head.

Shit. He waited for the director to call cut to end the scene. Waited for long moments that seemed to drag into hours, the room completely silent, which was weird. Why didn’t they stop this? Fuck it, he was awake. He didn’t recall getting here, but perhaps he’d had too many drinks at lunch. Double fuck.

His heart pounded harder as every nerve ending became alive with the drive to survive. This wasn’t a movie. This was real, and though he was paid handsomely for his acting skills, he’d never been put into a position to really fear for his life before. And though he considered himself brave enough, being gagged and bound, at someone’s mercy, left him quaking in his boots. Sneakers. He had on sneakers.

Then he smelled something, someone. A note of floral and citrus, so delicious, so womanly, so familiar…

He groaned, his fear dissipating some. The scent was gone, just a hint lingering on the back of his tongue. He heard nothing, just a whisper of fabric now and then, and maybe someone shouting outside?

He creased his brow, and the floral scent returned, tantalizing his senses, waking his dick, which was wrong, so wrong. Where had he smelled her before? How he could be turned on when he was obviously someone’s hostage, he had no clue. He swallowed—but had nothing to swallow—as his dick stirred in his pants. Yes, he was wearing pants, because the material tented a little off his growing hard-on.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” The voice was husky, feminine, and English. Upscale London if he guessed correctly. He knew accents since they were his trade. And damn it, somehow, he knew her.

She must have leaned in because her light scent invaded his nostrils head-on, floral and citrus dancing with a note of woman, scents that went through his blood, straight to his groin, as if his cock had a nose.

“All tied up like a gift, you are. Delightful,” she murmured. “I’m going to take the hood off now and have a peek at my present. I love Christmas, but I don’t like to wait.”

Aaron’s breath hitched as the hood was lifted, and he met bright eyes so deep blue they were almost violet. Those eyes widened further as her gaze locked on his. Electricity crackled in the air between them, and she inhaled sharply as if recognition stunned her as much as it did him.

Aaron stared, his heart hammering.

Charlotte.

His mind flew back to October, to his brother’s wedding. Jake had demanded he dance with Charlotte, his brother’s aloof co-worker with a penchant for tequila. He’d been attracted despite the cold shoulder—full breasts on a lean body, nice hips. She wasn’t beautiful but definitely pretty, with gorgeous bone structure any photographer would want to capture.

Despite Aaron’s hatred of weddings, dancing, and anything he was forced to do, it had been the best dance of his life, followed by one of the best kisses, as quick as it had been. Fuck Chase Sanders, his brother’s best friend, for barging into the downstairs banquet hall and ruining it.

But why was she here? In LA, dressed in all black like a sexy burglar, simpering at him? The Charlotte from the wedding reception didn’t simper. No, that woman glared and spat fire. But he also sensed she’d been out of her element there, just has he had been. Still, he found it hard to believe she’d be more at ease breaking into his home.

His erection recognized her, too, because it jumped like it had when he’d danced with her, the blood racing through his veins, far, far away from his brain. They stared at each other for what seemed an eternity, her breath quickening, matching his shallow pants, her eyes as wide as his had to be. What would he give to kiss her again?

“Such a pretty gift, all wrapped up, so close to Christmas,” she breathed, her cheeks denting with a dimple as she smiled at him with mischief. She wrinkled her pert nose. God, could a woman’s skin get any creamier than that? Pale and flawless except for the scar under her left ear he noticed when she turned slightly, cocking her head as if to listen for something.

She did the unthinkable and straddled his lap, her face inches from his, looking down into his eyes, the heat from her crotch searing his shaft. He should be afraid. Terrified. But something told him this wouldn’t be like his first time. If she just rode him into oblivion, this time, he’d enjoy every moment of it.

“So handsome.” She touched his cheek with a gloved hand, her fingers warm through the leather. Her sleeve rode up and a tattoo around her wrist was exposed, a delicate chain of daisies with a yellow butterfly. He knew that, from somewhere, too, but didn’t remember seeing it on her when they danced. She wiggled on his lap, the ridge of his cock angling against the heat of her crotch through those thin black pants of hers.

He groaned through his gag. If she just rode him, even while he was bound and gagged, he’d be more than grateful for the gift. It was a new experience, to be so damned aroused over a woman, under such extremes. Maybe that’s what the problem was—this was way too extreme. He’d fought feelings like this for years. Now they were punching him in the gut as hard as she ground against his cock.

“Happy to see me again, are you? These ropes excite me, too. It’d be more exciting if it were the other way around. I love a good bondage session.”

He groaned again. He didn’t like kinky shit, but he did like Charlotte. Way, way too much.

Her hand slid along his jaw, fingering the gag in his mouth. “I don’t have a lot of time, but I want to kiss you again. I have no clue why I’m this attracted to you, and I need to get it out of my system. So if I take off your gag, will you let me?” she whispered.

She licked her lower lip and all coherent thought left him. Aaron felt his head dip and nod on its own accord. He didn’t do it. But something in him wanted to kiss her, too, as stupid as it was to be tied up and at her mercy. She would taste so good. His dick bet on it.

She took down the gag and leaned in, her breasts pressing against the rope on his chest, erotically alluring as her heat seared him. Aaron wet his dry lips, needing her mouth on his as much as he needed water. More so. She closed her eyes, and her lips brushed his, her gloved hands bracketing his face.

Aaron moaned against her mouth, and her tongue darted in, stroking his, igniting the flame in his belly, spiking his erection to a frantic, throbbing hard-on the size of Texas. She slanted her lips across his, deepening the kiss, her fingers threading his long hair, massaging his scalp in time to the thrusts of her tongue. He moaned again, wanting this to never end. Wanting more. So fucking hot.

She must have heard a noise because she jumped a little, his cock riding harder against her crotch. She ended the kiss by giving him a quick, sharp smack on the lips, then she dismounted. And though his dick still raged, the passion in her eyes cooled to a frosty chill. Lusty to frosty in a nanosecond, and suddenly she was Wedding Charlotte again.

“He’s in here, cowboy,” she called. “Trussed up like a Christmas goose. The house is clear.”