The leather corset pushing her breasts up practically has me drooling. Her black leather skirt ends approximately an inch above her knees, and those long legs have no problems with the stilettos she’s wearing as she slowly and purposefully strides toward me.
When she reaches me, she doesn’t speak, at first. She looks me up and down and I’m literally too tongue-tied to say anything. Hell, I don’t knowwhatto say. I’m not even sure if she speaks English and I can’t speak German yet, beyond asking where’s the bathroom. The heels put her almost at my height of six-feet.
One eyebrow arches in a sexy way that makes my cock pulse. “Sprichst du Deutsch?”
I swallow hard and shake my head a little. “Sorry.” I already feel like a failure.
One corner of her mouth quirks up in a smile. “English, then?” Her speech sounds clear, with just a slight accent.
I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
She reaches out with her right hand, catches my chin with her index finger, and tips my head up, then back and forth, like she’s examining a prized hound.
How stupid I was, back then. That’s exactly what she was doing. I feel the tip of her perfectly manicured nail dig into my flesh.
“You will do.” She releases me.
Yay!
What a fucking dumb-ass kid. If only I’d known then, I would have run the other way, far and fast, and never looked back.
Chapter Three
Now
The scrape of the man’s chair on the floor tells me he’s standing again. I sense him move around the end of the table, to my right, where he approaches to stand just inches from me. Heat from his body washes through my right arm and that side of my body because he stands that close.
Thank god he doesn’t smell like cigars or I’d be puking in this fucking hood.
There are many ways to die but I’d prefer it not be from choking on my own vomit if I can avoid that, thank you very much.
I sit there, waiting. What this guy doesn’t know is that I was trained how to patiently wait for what comes next in ways that he likely cannot comprehend.
Mindfucks?
Yeah, been there, done that, too, long before I was ever trained in intelligence work, ironically. Literally trained by a master of mindfucks.
Torture?
Yeah, well, already been through plenty of that, too. The stupid thing is, some if it I willingly asked for and endured, well past what I should have tolerated, instead of it being forced on me.
Because I was a clueless and affection-starved dumbass, that’s why.
My moral compass completely burned out long ago, even before a bullet shattered my leg just moments before a car bomb damn near finished a bunch of us in our unit. Meaning between surviving that and my training both in the military and outside of it, mental tactics which work effectively on the average person tend to fall flat on me.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m no sociopath, because Idohave a conscience. Let’s just say the path my ethics follows has more curves than Stelvio Pass.
When the man touches one finger to the top of my head through the hood I flinch despite myself, because it’s spooky how the fucker knows exactly the things to do to trip my emotional buttons.
It’s exactly something He used to do to me, when I was on my knees in front of Him.
I don’t mean the colonel, either.
On my lower back, I’m well aware of the delta carved into my flesh there and feel a phantom fingernail trace it. Not accurately, but making the crossbar higher, turning it from a triangle into anA.
Alpha.
His.
