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“Why did you wait so long, sir?” she asked, eyes wide. “To finish Howard and the girl, and Bruno Ranieri?”
The question was not an unreasonable one, since Zoe might well end up replacing Reginald as team leader, tonight’s results pending.
But she was not yet entitled to the whole truth. He lifted his glass, smiling. “Let us talk about you, my dear.”
She flushed in embarrassment at her overstep. “Yes, of course. Please excuse me. I just wanted to be up to date, so that I’ll be—”
“Ready to serve?” he supplied, silkily. “Oh, but I have no doubt that you will be, my dear.”
His throaty tone made her brown eyes dilate to pools of black.
Julian served their panna cotta, set out tiny cups of espresso.
“You may go,” King told him.
Julian vanished. Zoe stirred a spoonful of sugar into her coffee. He listened to the sputter of the candles while Zoe’s heavy lashes swept low over her flushed cheek, fluttering, shadowing the perfect curve.
“Shall I, ah, lock the door?” She sounded hesitant, girlish.
The glow upped to a throb. “No one here is stupid enough to open that door. And if they are, their death will be no great loss to us.”
She giggled, and rose to her feet, stumbling. Performance anxiety. She peeked, to see if he’d caught it. He smiled, letting her know that of course, he had. But it was all right. No one was perfect. And with his help, she’d come closer to perfection than any other human creature.
But there was always room for improvement. Effort. Striving.
Her breath sped up. Her excitement was very real. He was an attractive man, youthful for his late fifties. Trim, fit and strong. Aware of how attractive the mantle of immense wealth and power he wore was to women. Men, too, of couse, but he’d never been so inclined, aside from some insignificant adventures involving drugs and group sex, back in his wild youth. The idea of using drugs in such a haphazard way now filled him with disgust. Drugs were an instrument of such power, such precision. Not to be flailed around like berserker idiots with a battle axe.
She took an unsteady step in his direction.
“The dress,” he said.
She glanced down, artful locks of hair dangling around her face as she reached to struggle with her zipper. Bosom straining. The dress dropped, slowed by the lush curve of her hips, then fell around her ankles. She was naked beneath it, clad only in stiletto heeled sandals and diamond drop earrings. The earrings were a gift given to all his female agents upon the occasion of their first outside assignment. The girls all treasured their earrings. Her breasts were full, high and perfect. Her pubis was shaped to a delicate swatch, as carefully trimmed as an eyebrow. Her musculature was almost overly defined. Lean, taut.
King scooped the plates with their uneaten dessert carelessly to one side with his arm. “Put your foot up on the table,” he demanded.
Zoe did so. He studied the elegant foot, nude in the scarlet peep toe. Her nails were lacquered a savage scarlet that matched her parted lips. Her eyes were heavy lidded, breasts heaving. She teetered on the single stiletto heel. The table wobbled, wineglasses trembling.
He did not steady her. She had to learn control.
“Do you want me to say it?” he crooned.
Her eyelids fluttered wildly. She sucked in a gasping breath. “Y-y-yes,” she quavered. “P-p-please.”
She shuddered, leg quivering as he slid his hand up the inside of her thigh, teasing his finger along the tender seam of her vulva. She was hot, damp, slick. He parted her naked, hairless labia, and thrust his fingers sharply into her slippery depths.
A sound came out of her that did not please him. Too strident. Zoe was an instrument that needed constant calibration. Perhaps he could make a tiny adjustment on her maintenance meds, to make her more steady, more consistent. But he didn’t want to dull her edge.
He would have to give the matter some thought.
Penetration was not strictly necessary, to give her what she needed. His voice alone would suffice. In fact, he could perform this service for her over the phone, from another continent. He often gave remote rewards for his agents in the field, both male and female.
But not tonight. Tonight, he wanted to feel wet heat. Rippling contractions clutching his fingers as he exercised his power over her.
“Now?” he prompted.
Tears streaked with mascara streamed down her face. She could barely gasp out the word. “P-p-please.”
He smiled, stroking her clitoris with his thumb, and recited one of the phrases that had been assigned to her. A verse of ancient Aramaic, from the Old Testament. His current criteria was that the code be in a dead language, from a text at least eight hundred years old.
