Palmer: Fashion Week Ch. 07

Her voice was cool and yet husky at the same time.

She pushed up from his lap and reached for the champagne bottle, taking for granted that he'd agreed the price. She poured two glasses, handing one to the assassin.

His gaze swept along her body as he took it. The black top was smaller than most string bikinis, and her extremely short black wrap skirt gave more than a hint of a metallic silver thong. Her legs were long and, like the rest of her exposed skin, shimmering with body lotion.

"Didn't I tell you that you wouldn't be disappointed?" she asked, following his gaze as she posed for him.

Raising both her hands above her head like a belly dancer, she rocked her hips in time with the music that filled the room. Her breasts spilled out of her little top in every direction and the dangling string of colorful gems in her pierced navel danced as if on a string. When she released her short skirt in one fluid motion, it pooled at her ankles, exposing her mouth-watering globes of her tight ass clad in nothing but the thong.

"Well?" she asked mischievously, tossing her black hair over one shoulder and then bending at the waist. "Is it worth the money?"

The sexy woman braced her beautiful body on the assassin's knees as she treated him to a view of her deep cleavage. She flipped her hair between his thighs, then up and behind her, before spinning easily into his lap, facing away from him. When she pressed her body back into him, she smelled fresh, spicy and intoxicating.

Reaching behind her, she released the tie of her top and pulled his hands to her naked breasts. Her erect nipples burned into his palms.

She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder with those large, almond-shaped eyes as she planted her high-heeled feet on the floor, grinding her toned ass against his groin. His cock began to grow with each sultry movement. When her tongue flicked across her full lips and she began to grind faster on him, he began to gasp.

His hands tightened on her tits but then she was gyrating off of him, smoothly peeling her loosely hanging top from her body as she turned towards him. Her full, olive-hued breasts were magnificent. He tried to tell himself he was here on business, but when she crawled back into his lap, he conceded that Boris could wait for a short time, at least.

He was going to fuck the bitch until she begged him to stop.

She rolled her body across him, making sure to caress the valley of her breasts across his perspiring face. One knee either side of him, she began to move on his cloth covered cock again. Fuck, he was so hard. With each grind, the silver thong pulled against the plump folds of her sex and shifted lower and lower on her mound. She was bare and silky.

"Want me?" Syrah whispered, her moist breath fluttering against his face as her fingers toyed with the buttons on his shirt.

She smiled knowingly as he nodded. Of course he did. Her tits pressed against his chest as she eased herself down between his legs. Her slender fingers found his zipper, yanking it down, and then she had his trousers open and his raging manhood in her hand.

"Want me?" she whispered again, swirling her tongue across his crown.

The assassin shuddered, feeling his balls swell. Yes, he wanted her. Badly. The pill he'd taken earlier made him feel superhuman and soon he'd have this bitch baying like a banshee. But first, he was going to let her show him what a good little cocksucker she was.

*

"This changes everything, Jack," Sandra Wilson conceded.

She'd spoken to Jennifer Finney first, for over an hour, and then telephoned Palmer. The first call had been official, but this one was equally as valuable. She'd trust Jack with her life.

He and Jenn had separately avoided the intimate details of the seduction attempt, but both of them had made Wilson aware of the effort to compromise her. The London Met's Head of Vice had been as surprised as them to discover that Volkov had rumbled her cover.

"It had to have come from your end," Palmer insistently told her. "Which means that Jenn's in danger of you leave her here. Get her back to England, Sandra. There's nothing more she can do here."

"That makes sense," Wilson slowly replied, but Jack could tell that her brain was whirring.

"Of course it does," he responded. "Look, she wants to do the impossible and trap Volkov for you, Sandra. But we all know that's not going to happen. Not in Dubai. The Met has no authority here and Volkov is too slippery to be caught out."

"But there have been developments, Jack."

He paused and glanced at Roxie. She was sitting in the chair by the window, a magazine in her lap, but watching him closely. He had the phone on loudspeaker so that she could hear every word. It was important that she understood everything that was going on.

"Go on," he said.

"I told you I had a contact in the police force over there," Wilson resumed, speaking a little more rapidly in her desire to share her findings. "The official report on the hotel shootings has been finalised. It will indicate that the position is as suspected—two gamblers who killed one another when they met up."

Palmer felt his stomach churn. Instinct told him he wasn't going to like what Sandra Wilson was about to tell him.

"But..." he said.

"The facts around the killing don't match up with that verdict, Jack. They're concealing that two more bodies were found at the hotel that afternoon. In nearby rooms. One was an elderly guest and the other was a hotel employee."

Palmer clenched his teeth. Why would there be other killings if this was a face-off between two gamblers? He glanced at Roxie again. Her legs were crossed, and he knew from the way her right foot was swinging back and forth that she was nervous. The situation was bringing back lots of memories for her. Most of them would be bad.

"Not only that," Wilson continued. "It seems that there was a fight in the room, quite a violent confrontation it seems. Some furniture was broken. Other was rearranged in the wrong place. And there was blood on the carpet. The two dead bodies were rearranged in position, to make people think it was a simple shoot out."

She paused to let the implication sink in.

"And you're telling me the official report makes no mention of the other deaths, Sandra? They're supporting the original story?"

"That's what I'm telling you, Jack. And here's something else," she added. "The official report shows the other deceased to be Vladimir Kazakov. The documents found in the room show that he and Yamamura to have a history of gambling debts. Neat, yes? And his fingerprints are all over the room. File closed. But, get this, the formal identification of the body showed that the other guy wasn't Kazakov. It was another assassin. Sergii Baranov. Complicated, huh?"

Roxie pushed up from the chair, smoothing her ponytail as she looked at him. She'd had enough of killings with the Dominic DeVere case. With an arch of her eyebrows, she walked across the room and slid an arm around Jack's waist and snuggled into his chest. It was as if she needed to feel the warmth of his body against hers.

He held her close as he thought it through. Okay, get your mind into gear, Jack. What exactly is going on here? What is it? Work it out! Fit the pieces together.

"Sandra..." he thoughtfully said. "This has all the hallmarks of a contract killing. That meant Volkov is behind this, he has to be."

"Is that instinct, Jack? Or do we have something more concrete."

"Of course it's instinct. But it makes sense. Volkov fell out with Tony Yamamura and had him removed. To distance himself from the killing, he made it look like they were engaged in a gambling dispute."

"I'm with you so far..."

He paused as Roxie shivered against him and slid an arm around her shoulders, pulling her even closer.

"They could have fallen out over some kind of business deal, and that arrangement also someone high up in Dubai society. That's how he's able to influence the police report. As it stands, he's officially in the clear..."

"I buy all of that, Jack. But the rest makes no sense. How do Kazakov and Baranov fit into this?"

He hesitated again. It was a good question. Kazakov and Baranov were both expendable, everyone was in Volkov's world.

"We need to work that one out, Sandra," he told her. "Would it help if we were able to put a trace on Volkov's mobile phone and listen in to all of his calls?"

"Funneee..." she began, but then paused.

Palmer had a good sense of humour, but his tone suggested that he wasn't joking this time.

"How?" she asked.

"The how is easy," he told her, smiling at Roxie as she stared up at him. "The question is how much. Want to know?"

*

Michelle Park grunted as she leaned forward, hands resting on the thin rail at the front of the booth. She could feel the heat of Kamal's body behind her as he thrust inside her.

His heavy balls were slapping against her sodden clit. Fuck, that felt good. She tightened her fingers around the edge of the rail as he retracted, drawing a half breath before he lunged back into her, harder than before. The rail creaked in protest.

"You're so tight," he huffed, as his driving hips picked up speed.

"And you're so big," she lied, turning to look back at him over her shoulder.

Not that she was unhappy with his size. She was used to huge cocks, but he was bigger than average. And he knew how to use it.

Boris had left the booth almost as soon as she'd gone down on Kamal and taken him between her lips. He was pissed with her, but he'd know she had no choice. He of all people would realise that when Nikky Volkov set something up, you went along with it. She'd make it up to the blonde bodyguard in the Lincoln on the journey back to the hotel. And again in her room. That's when she'd pump him for information.

Kamal's hand went to her dark hair, gripping it tightly and jerking her head back. Her fevered gaze fell on the stage infront of them.

A tiny brunette was being fucked by a man with rippling muscles and the swarthy skin of a Dubai resident. He had a shaved head, wide shoulders, and he was kneeling on the edge of the platform as he thrust his hips in long strokes. He was hot, Michelle decided. Maybe she could fuck him, too, after she was finished with the Arab.

She lifted up on the balls of her feet, pushing her ass up higher as Kamal became rougher. The muscles in her legs screamed, growing tight. This man might be a cocky, arrogant bastard, but he was a good fuck. And she had to admire his stamina.

"Uh, uh, uhhh geez...!"

Her face twisted as another orgasm shot through her. They were coming regularly now.

She bit her lower lip, attempting to stifle her scream, not that it mattered to her lover. He kept fucking her through the climax, his thrusts coming so hard she had to go up onto her toes.

He pushed down on the small of her back, shoving her against the rail with each forward pump, driving his shaft even deeper.

"You like that, bitch?" he snarled, his previously smooth voice now throaty and guttural.

Michelle turned her head to look at him again, sending him a message. No man ever got the better of her. She kept her gaze on his as she tightened her internal muscles around his cock. The movement took him by surprise and he cried out something in Arabic.

She did it again. And again. He was gritting his teeth now. When he started to groan, the meaning was unmistakeable. Her clutching pussy was bringing him to his orgasm and there wasn't a thing he could do about it, no way he could escape the inevitable!

When she tightened her muscles again, he did his best to hold his orgasm at bay. But he was fighting a losing battle. She suddenly began to pump back on his cock, so fast that he was taken by surprise. Thirty seconds later, his balls begin to tighten. She detected it, too.

Immediately, she pulled forward, off him. Turning her body, she sank down between his legs just in time to catch the first blast of cum in her eager mouth. Her graceful fingers stroked his juice-slick cock as he came, milking him as she swallowed every drop he had.

When she released him, she sat back and smiled up from her position at his feet with the look of a satiated feline.

*

Vladimir Kazakov had carefully followed Boris out of the building. The blonde bodyguard seemed careless, not bothering to check what was happening around him. That was an unforgiveable error. Kazakov wasn't careless, but he was angry. He'd been about to fuck Syrah when he'd heard the German leave the booth next to his.

Boris stomped his way to the same black Lincoln that Vladimir had followed to the club. There was no sign of the driver, who clearly wasn't expecting his passengers back yet. That was good.

The German opened the rear door of the car and climbed in, slamming it behind him. He was probably going to jerk himself off, Vladimir thought. What poor bastard visited a strip club and watched the action without getting any himself?

He checked around him and listened intently before easing himself forward. Dropping to his haunches, he stealthily covered the short distance to the car, like a crab, taking care to stay out of sight of the rear view mirrors.

His need for revenge was intense. Syrah's blow job had him ready to explode more than once before her experienced mouth had eased off, prolonging the exquisite torture. He'd be fucking her brains out now had it not been for Boris. He owed the bastard for that. He owed him too for being associated with Nikky Volkov. Had it not been for Sergii's gun jamming when the assassin was about to kill him in Tony Yamamura's apartment, he wouldn't be here to tell the tale.

He had just managed to overcome Sergii in the fight to the death that had ensued, and then he'd swopped clothes and identities.

After that, he'd set up the two bodies exactly the way Sergii had explained when he'd been gloating, and then planted the evidence as Volkov had apparently instructed. The Russian would believe Vladimir would be the one who had been killed.

He'd never be any the wiser until Kazakov contacted him. Then he'd panic enough to pay him the money he demanded. Enough to retire. Otherwise he would kill him, too.

He watched as smoke spiralled into the air through the open car window above him. Boris had lit up a cigarette. It would be the last thing he ever did.

"Hello, comrade," he sarcastically said, as he raised himself beside the open window..

Boris's eyes widened when he saw him and his hand instinctively reached for his gun.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Kazakov quietly said, placing the barrel of his Makarov against the German's forehead.

Boris looked sideways at him, but his eyes were darting around, searching for a way out. There was none.

"Before I kill you, I have a couple of questions," Vladimir calmly said.

He needed to understand Volkov's movements tomorrow.

The bodyguard nodded, but Kazakov could see from the look in his fearful eyes that he had no intention of complying. That was unfortunate. Boris raised his hand into the air, away from his gun, but then frantically stubbed the glowing cigarette between his fingers into the back of the Ukrainian's left hand.

Vladimir cried out in pain a nano-second before his Makarov flickered into life. The silencer kept the noise down to a spit.

"Bastard!" he snapped, licking the burn on the back of his hand as Boris slumped forward out of the window, a lifeless expression on his face.

He smacked him once across the cheek with the butt of his gun, delighting in the gush of blood, before turning away.