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I
I never thought I'd liked threesomes. Too much eye contact. Too many elbows. Too much potential for things to go wrong. But this one came with MI6 clearance.
It started on my last day in Manila. I saw her through a swarm of sweating tourists and brown-skinned locals.
She sliced through the crowd like a wire through clay. Local, no doubt. Almond eyes, slightly slanted. Long, dark, wavy hair that looked styled but probably wasn't. Her purple dress popped against the market's dull browns and greys.
And she was staring straight at me.
She moved fast. Not quite running--more like precision gliding.
I was leaning against a table in the shade of a bar, trying not to look like a target. Luggage beside me. Camera around my neck. Phone in one hand, beer in the other. Basically a walking ransom note.
She didn't break eye contact. Not once. I saw something in her hand as she closed in.
This is it, I thought. This is how I get stabbed.
I'd already been stressed. Could've just gone straight to the airport. But no. Had to spend a few pesos on one last beer.
She reached me. No hesitation. On her toes, lips at my ear. Goosebumps rolled down my neck. She pressed something between my palm and my phone.
"Room 301 at the Maynard Inn," she whispered--and vanished back into the crowd.
I watched her go. That little plump ass bounced beneath the purple fabric like punctuation.
I didn't even register her words at first. Too busy watching her leave.
We'll think about what she said later, I told myself. Probably a scam. I go to some hotel room. Get mugged. Or worse.
But still... that ass.
I would've watched her until she disappeared completely, but something tugged at my peripheral. A bald man was staring at me. Another man--stockier, meaner--smacked his arm and nodded down the market, toward where Purple Dress had gone.
The bald one looked back at me. I dropped my eyes to my phone. When I glanced up again, they were already jogging away, heading in her direction. Same trajectory, way less grace.
I stared at my phone, but the screen had gone black. All I could see was my own reflection--camera strap, sweaty shoulders, and a face still tingling from her breath.
Room 301 at the Maynard Inn.
I checked my palm. She'd given me a key card.
I put the beer down and switched phone hands.
Definitely a scam, I thought. But then--who were those two guys chasing her? Part of it, probably.
That's the play: she looks panicked, hands off a key card to a white tourist--me, obviously--and bolts. Then two goons show up, sell the scene, chase after her. Nobody has to say anything. The whole thing is implied.
I'm honestly surprised they didn't stop and ask, "Did you see a woman in a purple dress?" That might've been too on-the-nose. Just making eye contact was enough.
Yeah. Scam.
I slipped the key card into my back pocket and picked up my beer. I had no real plans except the airport. Already shot every beach my editor wanted. Uploaded all the blurbs. He'd hand it off to some SEO copy monkeys to spin into "Top 10" listicles or whatever.
Now I had three days to kill. No obligations. Just me, the heat, and a shrinking budget. Airport back Stateside seemed prudent.
Right on cue, the editor pinged me. Thumbs up on the shots. "Payment en route," he wrote.
I cleared the notification and started typing: Mayn--
Autocorrect handled the rest.
The phone knew I was in the Philippines. Maynard Inn. Thirteen-minute walk.
I finished my beer and slipped the phone into my front pocket. The key card stayed in the back, close enough to forget--or remember, depending on the next beer.
I'd check the place out. Just see what it looked like. Maybe book a room. Maybe not. Ask for 300 or 302. Pretend it's sentimental. See what happens.
If it's a scam, fine. Maybe the hotel staff's in on it too.
But if it's not...
Well. I didn't have to fly home just yet
II
It was a scam -- just not the kind I expected.
The Maynard Inn was modern and clean. Three stories, air-conditioned lobby, automatic doors. Not some seedy dive lit by a flickering sign. Families checked in, tourists checked out. Luggage wheels clicked over tile. A laminated sign listed breakfast hours in three languages.
Whatever this was, it had polish.
The front desk clerk didn't blink when I asked for Room 302.
"Of course, sir," he said -- thick Filipino accent, smile trained by TikTok or corporate onboarding.
I took the elevator with my bags. Camera slung over my shoulder. Ten seconds to the top floor. Swiped into 302, stepped inside like I belonged, and slid the bolt behind me.
I dropped my gear on the bed and pressed an ear to the wall shared with 301.
Nothing.
I sat. Waited. Thought about room service -- whiskey, maybe just a glass. My hands were shaking.
This is stupid.
Trying to be useful, I grabbed the empty ice bucket and stepped out. Found the machine a floor above, filled it. Passed only one person in the hallway -- a cleaner with headphones in.
Back at 301, I paused.
The keycard from Purple Dress still burned in my back pocket. I pulled it out. My hand trembled slightly.
The door in front of me was glossy, fake wood maybe. A little peephole glared like a dead eye. Under it, the blocky white numbers: 301.
Was someone staring back?
I told myself I could still bail. Say, "Oops, wrong room," and vanish.
But my curiosity had already made its move.
I slid in the keycard. The lock clicked. Flashing green.
I cracked the door.
Didn't step in.
If someone lunged, I'd hurl the ice bucket and run. That was the plan.
But the room was empty.
Same layout as mine. Bed made. TV off. Bathroom door open. Shadows in all the right places, but nothing moved.
Unless someone was hiding.
I shut the door gently behind me, listening for the latch. Turned to head back.
Didn't make it.
Something pressed into the center of my back -- hard and deliberate.
A voice whispered near my ear: close, low, female.
"Walk into your room. Slowly. No sudden movements."
British. Raspy. Stern. A voice like gravel over silk.
I obeyed.
She moved with me, keeping pressure on my spine. I put the ice bucket down and unlocked the door. I stepped in. She followed, nudging it closed with her foot.
"Turn around. Slowly. Hands up."
I turned. Raised them. Slowly.
And got my first look.
She was short -- I had at least a foot on her -- but she'd planted herself just beyond arm's reach. Smart.
Blonde. Green eyes. A stare you didn't look away from. Tank top, blue jean shorts. Athletic build. Compact but dangerous.
And in her hands: a small black pistol with a suppressor the size of a cigar. She held it like she'd held it a thousand times.
"Sit on the bed," she said. "Hands where I can see them. Away from the bags."
I sat.
Arms up. Mind racing.
She didn't move. Stayed near the bathroom. Gun steady.
"What's a photographer doing with the key to Room 301?"
I wet my lips. "It was a mistake, I--"
"Don't lie to me, Liam."
She stepped forward. The gun hovered in the air between us like a question mark.
"How--"
"I'm MI6. You're Liam Carmichael. I know your date of birth, where you studied photo journalism, your mother's maiden name, and where your brother Eric is buried."
I flinched.
Eric died of leukemia when we were kids. Hearing it from her mouth made me want to punch something.
"The only thing I don't know," she continued, "is why you're holding a keycard to 301. Hand it over. Now."
I hesitated. Not because I had a plan -- because something in me rebelled at being ordered around. Or maybe I was just done playing passive photo tourist.
"I don't think MI6 has jurisdiction in the Philippines."
She let out a dry laugh -- the kind that says you're adorable when you're dumb. Then she showed her teeth. They didn't fit the stereotype. Somehow that made things worse.
"My jurisdiction," she said, "is the suppressed 9mm you won't hear until it's too late. You'll be face down on this bed for days before anyone finds you. Maid knocks when checkout's overdue. By then? I'll be a different name, in a different country."
"That simple?"
"That simple."
"But silencers aren't that silent," I said. "Someone'll hear. And what'll your report say? That an MI6 agent dumped a dead American in a hotel room with a bullet in his head?"
"No one will care."
"I think they might."
She tilted her head slightly. "You want to take that chance?"
Then she cocked the gun -- softly, but loud enough to shut me up.
I didn't blink. Just stared into those green eyes. She wasn't bluffing.
Slowly, I moved for my back pocket -- eyes up, hands deliberate.
"Other side," she said. "Right pocket."
I froze. Smiled, thin and nervous. Switched hands, repeated the gesture.
"You were watching me," I said.
"I have the room across the hall," she replied. The edge had softened, just slightly.
I pulled out the keycard and held it up between my fingers like a poker chip. When I looked at her, something had changed. Her stare was still fixed, but it wasn't on me. It was past me -- somewhere behind her forehead.
She raised a hand to her ear. We both listened to the elevator ding. It was the maid getting off.
The MI6 agent stepped forward, took the card without a word, and holstered her weapon like she'd just finished filing paperwork.
I stood there, arms still raised. My shoulders burned.
"Don't try anything funny," she said. "I will hurt you."
"I believe you."
"Stand up."
I did.
She stepped in -- fast and clinical. Hands under my arms, down my ribs, across my chest, my back. Legs. Thighs. A security check with muscle memory. She stepped back, gave me the full once-over.
"Probably easier if you just strip," she said.
I stared. "Seriously?"
"Strip," she snapped.
I obeyed.
Unbuckled. Dropped my pants. Peeled off my shirt. Now I stood in socks and boxer briefs, feeling less like James Bond and more like a guy being processed at Heathrow.
"Better take those off too," she said.
Her tone had changed. Not flirty -- but not cold either. Her eyes flicked over me. Professional curiosity, maybe. Maybe not.
I hesitated -- then slipped off the socks, then the briefs. Just me now. Bare-assed in a hotel room. No shield. No charm. Just tan lines and regrets about drinking too much beer and not working out.
She smiled -- that same thin-lipped grin that somehow made me feel more naked.
Who says the British have bad teeth?
"Spin around," she said.
I turned. Half expected to be bent over.
"Alright, alright." She clapped her hands once, lightly. "You're clean. Get dressed. I need you to do something."
iii
We slid into her room like nothing had happened. I didn't even see her unlock the door. Inside, she let go of me and pointed at the bed. I sat. She paced -- tight little loops between the foot of the bed and the TV stand.
Somewhere down the hall, a vacuum hummed. Mid-afternoon. My stomach growled.
She didn't say anything. Just walked. Faster now. Tighter circles. Something had changed.
"Room 301's been cleaned," she muttered. Mostly to herself. "Cleaned?" "Wiped. Whoever was in there -- gone. No trace."
She stopped. Eyes sharp on mine.
"Can I go?" I asked. Her stare narrowed.
"Who gave you that card?" "I told you -- woman in a purple dress." "You said she was local. How do you know?" "I said she looked local. Just... beautiful." "And the two guys?"
I described them again. Bald. Stocky. Something organized crime about them. But memory's a bitch -- after a few rewinds, it starts turning fiction.
Scar? Gold chain? I wasn't sure anymore. And Purple Dress? I remembered her curves. Confidence in the voice but fear in the eyes. That was it.
She stopped pacing. But something inside her started to move.
"I don't know your name," I said.
"You don't need to," she replied.
"Then I'll call you Stacy."
She froze like I'd insulted her mother. "Why Stacy?"
I shrugged. "You look like one."
"Don't call me that."
"Then what is your name?"
A pause. Not long, but enough to clock it.
"There's no harm in telling you I'm a double-O."
I grinned. "No way. That's not real. Just give me a name -- I'll call you Agent Whatever."
She gave a tight smile. No teeth. No warmth.
"Double-O Nine. Agent Maris."
"So it's true -- secret agents just casually drop their identities to random tourists?"
"It's more complicated than that. And I need you, for now. Once this is over, you'll be back in America or wherever your next budget flight takes you.
"No one will believe you spent an afternoon with MI6 in the Philippines. And if we cross paths again -- which we won't -- I'll pretend you're just another crank.
"So I don't care what you believe, Carmichael. I'm Double-O Nine. Agent Maris. And I need to know who gave you this keycard."
She held it up like it might detonate.
I opened my mouth to repeat myself -- then heard the elevator ding.
Maris snapped to the door. Fluid. Quiet. Focused.
I stood up, but she cut me a look and motioned: stay put.
A man's voice echoed down the hallway -- nervous, fast. I recognized it. The front desk guy.
Not English. But unmistakably pleading.
Then came the knock. Not his. Heavy. Loud. Room 301.
More desperate chattering. Then a second voice. Deep. Cold. A keycard swiped. Lock clicked.
The desk guy gibbered something. Then: smack. Silence.
Next came chaos. Beds dragged. Drawers yanked. Furniture broken like it owed someone money. The unmistakable sound of a TV dying a brutal death.
I looked at Maris.
She was frozen against the peephole. Tense. Focused. A loaded spring.
I should've watched her stance. Her posture. Looked for her weapon.
But instead, my eyes ran down her golden legs. Those jean shorts were practically sculpted on.
I remembered the silencer. The way it had hung from her hand. And for a second, I imagined easing up behind her, slipping the shorts down, and--
She turned around.
My eyes scrambled up to her face -- a second too late. She'd caught me staring.
She didn't call it out. Just walked over, grabbed something small from a duffel bag on the floor and tucked it into her side pocket.
"Stay here," she said. "Don't touch anything. I mean it."
A pause at the door.
"I'll be right back."
She vanished like a ghost.
I waited two seconds, flipped the bolt so I wouldn't get locked out, and slipped into my room.
It looked like a robbery and a hurricane had double-booked it. They hadn't ransacked the mysterious 301. They'd destroyed my room.
And my stuff.
Clothes were everywhere. My camera was in shattered pieces. Tripod bent like a pretzel. Laptop gone. Passport and wallet gone. Even the camera memory card -- snapped like a dry twig.
I leaned on the doorframe, stunned.
"Fuck," I said aloud.
I shut the door, slid back into Maris's room. Empty. No sign of Maris other than a duffel bag on the floor.
I ran to the elevator and hit the button. Counted the seconds. Ten.
Thirty seconds later, I was on the street.
Took me five more to spot her -- Agent Maris, slicing through the crowd like a shark through reef fish. Far away.
I smiled and followed.
I moved like a dog off-leash at its first park -- awkward, eager, completely obvious. Running like an idiot.
She didn't look back. As I got closer, I stayed low, hung behind street vendors and motorbikes, keeping pace through the mid-day rush.
Two blocks in -- gone.
I stopped cold. Scanned. Heart thumping.
Then -- a shove.
"Let's go," Maris snapped, appearing behind me like she'd teleported. "I don't have time to lecture you. Just move."
I stumbled into step beside her, trying to catch my breath.
I still had no idea who we were following.
But that's why she was the secret agent -- and I was just the guy with the broken camera and a missing passport.
iv
I won't bore you with the chase. Like I said -- I couldn't even see who we were chasing. Just a sweaty hustle through some Filipino city grid.
A few quick stops, at least one U-turn, and I'm pretty sure we looped the same block twice.
Not that I was complaining.
Maris had told me: Stay back. Keep your head down. Shut up. Which translated, basically, to: Follow her ass.
I could do that forever.
It became a kind of game. Her backside -- taut and flexing beneath those fading blue jean shorts -- stopped belonging to a person and turned into a fixation. A compass made of curves.
What would I find if I caught up? White cotton briefs? Black lace? Nothing at all? Just bare British skin, smooth and devourable.
Walking with a boner is hard but I managed.
We finally stopped at a large industrial building near the edge of a block. Still people around -- this is the Philippines, after all -- but fewer. Quieter.
Maris leaned against a grey brick wall, peeking around the corner.
I approached carefully. Normally she'd wave me off. Not this time.
I came right up beside her. Close enough to smell her sweat -- lavender and hotel soap. Fresh. Sharp. Human.
And I thought: Did I really follow her this far just because I'm horny?
"He went into that building," she said.
She nodded toward the corner.
"Take a look."
We held eye contact a second longer than necessary. Then I broke it and peeked out.
Ten yards off -- plain concrete. High wall. Barbed wire. Nothing fancy.
"You're losing your erection," she said.
Every ounce of blood shot from my dick to my face. My stomach dropped. My skin flushed.
Maris smiled.
"I'm a secret agent," she said. "I notice these things."
"Uh," I said.
She laughed -- a low, real thing -- and gave me a palm-to-the-chest push. Gentle. Familiar. The Maris version of a wink.
She turned to peek around the corner again.
The way her body twisted made me picture her lying sideways on a bed -- thighs bared, tank top riding high, one cheek buried in a pillow seam.
That frustrated, sexy tangle women do when they're exposed but in control.
I felt myself harden again. I killed the thought.
Having Maris around was like having a mind reader -- one with a gun.
"So what's the plan?" I asked.
She shot me a side glance. No smile.
"Well, since you followed me when I explicitly told you not to..."
Her tone wasn't mad. Just cold.
"You're definitely staying put this time. And if you don't? You die. I die. And whoever's in there -- probably dies too."
"Hostages?" I asked.
"I don't know." She sighed. "I don't know anything yet."
She looked at me -- her green eyes softening, just a flicker.
That quiet look women give you when bad news is coming.
I hated it.
"You said you could recognize the woman who gave you the keycard?"
I nodded.
"Alright," she said. Then, softer: "Okay."
She checked the corner again.
"You can follow me. But we need to be careful."
v
We crept around the side of the industrial building and found a fire exit blocked by razor wire.
Maris crouched and pulled a compact multi-tool from her side pocket -- slow, quiet, precise.
She didn't look at me. She knew I was watching.
I stayed behind her, because why wouldn't I? Life or death, sure -- but that ass wasn't going to admire itself.
Sweat had soaked through her t-shirt, tracing the arch of her spine. Her tan shorts clung to her hips like shrink-wrap.
The curve of her backside looked sculpted -- deliberate. Even in the shade, her golden legs glistened.
I was hot, breathless, and throbbing. In my head, I dropped to my knees and pulled those shorts down.
Face-first into heaven.
"You can stop staring at my ass now," she said, deadpan. "I've cleared the way."
I blinked back to reality. She was turned halfway toward me, smirking -- half amused, half annoyed.
I flushed. "You first."
"Hey." Her voice sharpened.
I looked up.
Her green eyes pinned me -- focused, unblinking. Not cruel. Just in charge.
"No fucking around. We move quiet. Slow. This alley's dead quiet -- no one should see us. At the top of these stairs is a window. You stay low, stay still. When I say, you peek. Confirm the girl."
"And if she's not there?"
She didn't answer. Just turned and climbed.
I followed.
Less fixated now. More alert.
The blood still pumped below my belt, but the mood had shifted.
The staircase groaned under our steps.
Maris kept checking behind her -- not at me, but toward the street. She wasn't worried about me. She was worried about being seen.
At the top, a steel landing barely held our weight. A metal door. A dirty window.
I started to doubt everything. This whole plan. My role in it. What the hell was I doing? I thought. I should have gone to the police. Or the American embassy.
Maris pressed down on my shoulders -- firmly, silently. I dropped below the window. She stood above me, angled just out of view.
She leaned in to peek through the glass. Her hips were at my eye level now -- inches away.
The scent of sweat and fabric softener hit me. My brain flashed: tongue, seam, zipper.
Then she crouched beside me. Fast. All business.
"Two men in front of a woman tied to a chair," she said. "They won't see you -- we've got height and shadows. But still -- slow."
I rose just enough to peer over.
Street noise filtered up -- scooters, horns, background chaos. Heat pressed against my neck. Through the smudged glass, I saw it:
Two men -- one bald -- standing with their backs to us. A woman in the chair. Purple Dress.
I couldn't say for sure they were the same goons, but my gut said yes. Maris tugged my shirt. I ducked back down.
"Well?" she asked. Her voice low, urgent.
"It's her," I said. "I think it's the same guys. Can't be sure."
She nodded -- once. Eyes scanning something over my shoulder. Calculating. Then she focused on me.
"Okay. Stay here. I mean it this time."
Her tone was sharp. There was real heat behind it now.
I nodded.
"Say it."
"Say--?"
"Say you'll stay, Carmichael. Because if you move, we're both dead. Maybe your crush too."
I swallowed. "Okay, Agent Maris. I won't move."
Something flickered behind her eyes when I said it. Almost a smile. Almost.
"Good. I'll be back. I promise. I won't leave you here."
Then she slipped down the staircase -- gone into the alley below.
I crouched on the platform, knees burning, trying not to breathe too loud. Maris had vanished around the corner. Total silence.
I shifted just enough to face the street -- head down, body still, invisible. A few people passed, but no one looked up.
Time dragged. Ten minutes, maybe more. My legs twitched. I risked a peek through the window.
One of the men inside was burning his cigarette into Purple Dress's arm. Her mouth was gagged with something white, but the pain was unmistakable.
She was screaming behind it.
My jaw locked.
We were one floor up. A fire door beside me. One handle away from getting inside.
Yes, I thought. I could go in. Help.
Then: No. There's a reason the trained agent didn't.
But what if I was quiet? What if the door wasn't locked?
I wavered. Heroics clashed with instinct. Still halfway between brave and horny.
Then it happened -- fast.
The man with the cigarette twitched like he'd grabbed a power line. Dropped. Blood pooled at his chest.
The other guy panicked -- clutched his hand, already bleeding.
And then: Maris.
Emerging from the shadows, gun up -- same one she'd pointed at me. Steady hands. Ice in her veins.
I stood. Almost without thinking.
Through the dirty glass, I watched her speak to the second man. He begged. She didn't care.
One shot. Down he went.
She moved to Purple Dress -- untied her, checked the wounds, whispered something.
Purple Dress said something back, then went over and kicked the shit out of the man who'd burnt her.
She kicked him again and again all over. She stepped out of her heels, picked one up, and started stabbing his face. Repeatedly. Not frantically. Rhythmically. Like she was tenderizing a steak.
I could hear the wet smacks through the window.
Maris limped over and yanked her back, arms around her waist.
Isabel dropped the shoe. Her chest heaved. Her hands were soaked red.
Maris looked up -- straight at me. Through the window.
She pointed.
My gut said duck.
I didn't.
Purple Dress followed her gaze. Met my eyes. Shook her head -- recognition but no importance.
Then they vanished the same way Maris had come.
Fifteen minutes later, I saw them jog down the alley. The brown girl's hands were clean.
Maris waved me on -- a sharp, clipped gesture. Let's go.
I clattered down the metal stairs. Way too loud. Legs like rubber. Heart racing.
A black sedan with a "RideShare" sticker idled at the curb.
Purple Dress slid into the backseat. I followed -- still dazed, still processing. The ass that'd gotten me in this mess now sat inches from my face.
Maris jumped in front and gave the driver a hotel name.
He hesitated -- mumbled something like "too far" -- but she handed over a wad of cash.
That shut him up.
"What the hell was--" I started.
Maris turned around just enough to kill the sentence. Her green eyes found mine -- sharp, direct, lethal.
My jaw clicked shut.
I turned to Purple Dress.
She stared out the window, silent. Four bright burns marked her upper arm -- red, angry, raw.
But her legs were dark, smooth, and sculpted. My throat tightened.
I looked away. Swallowed. Faced front.
We weaved through Manila traffic -- trucks, bikes, horns, heat.
Maris was already on her phone. Typing fast.
vi
We were in the car a long time. Long enough to leave the city behind.
The backseat was tight.
Purple Dress placed her hand in the narrow strip between us. She kept her eyes on the window, blank and unfazed, as the car dipped and swerved through Manila's outskirts.
Each turn nudged her hand closer. It grazed my thigh once. Then again.
She didn't flinch. Didn't look at me. Just kept watching the dark blur outside like she was somewhere else entirely.
I stayed still, breathing in the stale air: leather, sweat, and whatever oil the driver had slicked through his hair. Under it all, the sour grit of Manila dust.
The car swung hard through a bend and her hand slipped away. I don't know why I covered my thigh with mine -- reflex, maybe. Pointless.
The next turn tossed us again and this time her hand brushed against mine. She still didn't look at me. Didn't say a word. Didn't pull it away.
We ended up in another part of Manila entirely -- fewer streetlights, more rust. The kind of place where secrets settle behind dark windows.
The driver dropped us at a hotel. Not a chain, not a dump. Just one of those anonymous concrete boxes you forget even while you're inside it.
Maris handed him a wad of cash and said something in his language that made Purple Dress raise an eyebrow.
I couldn't tell if it was fluent or just well-rehearsed, but either way, it worked. The driver peeled off like he wanted to forget us too.
Without a word, we followed Maris down a tiled hallway. She walked like she'd been here before.
The lobby was empty. Apparently she already had a room. She stopped, slid in a keycard, and pushed the door open.
"Inside."
The place looked lived in. Clothes everywhere. Bags half-unpacked. Empty takeout boxes stacked like trash Jenga by the window.
"Mind the mess," Maris said. She didn't sound like she did.
She dropped onto the bed eyes closed. Her hips settled into the mattress like they belonged there.
"Make yourselves at home. Chairs are over there. Just toss that crap on the floor."
The chairs weren't usable -- one buried in laundry, the other in garbage. Purple Dress picked up a bra from one and tossed it without blinking.
I scraped the trash off the other and added it to the overflowing pile by the bin.
"How long have you been here?" I asked.
No answer. Maris just stretched her arms above her head and sighed.
Then silence. No one moved. No one filled the space.
The room was dim and slightly warm, like the air hadn't been touched in hours.
Muted colors. Drawn curtains. A single lamp glowing low.
The kind of quiet where even the ice machine sounds guilty.
Something about it pressed against my chest. Like the air was waiting for permission to move.
"Her name is Isabel Gutierrez," Maris said, eyes still shut.
Isabel cleared her throat. Stared at the floor. Her discomfort was visible -- like she'd been handed a name she wasn't ready to claim.
"I was just asking about the room," I said.
"I know what you're asking, Carmichael." Maris propped herself up on one elbow.
The shift moved her breasts to a sideway spill, and for a second, I forgot what she was saying.
"So let's skip the small talk. Liam, meet Isabel. Isabel -- your decoy. Or distraction. Or whatever you thought he was."
I looked at Isabel. Her mouth opened like she meant to speak -- but nothing came out.
She looked between us like we'd conned her into something.
"She was supposed to pass a message to one of our field contacts," Maris said. "That was the plan. But something went sideways.
"We don't know what. You happened to be standing in the right place, looking like the right kind of pawn. So she used you.
"Bought herself a few minutes. Unfortunately it didn't work. And you got your stuff destroyed."
"I was burned," Isabel said.
Her voice cracked a little but not out of weakness.
"They knew the meet point. I didn't know what to do--"
"The rendezvous number?" Maris asked, brow twitching.
"Compromised," Isabel said.
Maris scoffed. The room went still.
Even an MI6 agent couldn't hide that kind of reaction. Something big had shifted behind her eyes.
"So we're compromised," she muttered, more to herself.
"Anderson said--"
"Enough about Anderson," Maris snapped, eyes cutting toward me. "No more."
She didn't follow up. The silence tightened around us.
Isabel turned toward me and gently placed her hands on my arms.
"I'm sorry, Liam. I thought... if I gave you the key, maybe they'd follow you instead. And if something happened to you -- well --"
She faltered, then pushed through.
"You looked like the kind of guy who'd walk into a scam with his dick out. And I knew MI6 had to be nearby. I figured she'd intervene. I'm sorry, if there's anyway I can make it up to you--"
"Wait," I said.
Her hands stayed on me. I didn't mind -- but my eyes went to Maris. She didn't return the look. Not right away. In the corner of my vision, her chest screamed like trouble.
The room felt tighter. The sweat, the city-smog stink, the cluttered furniture -- all of it pressing in at once.
"I don't get it," I said finally. "Any of it."
"You reminded me of someone," Isabel said, now cupping my face. "The guy I was supposed to meet, maybe."
Her eyes locked onto mine.
"Oh Jesus Christ," Maris muttered from the bed.
"You two saved me," Isabel said -- still holding my face, but her gaze flicked toward Maris. Then back to me. "You saved me."
"But... wasn't that room... 301, empty? Clean?" I asked, mouth dry.
"That room," Maris said, "is classified. Forget it happened." Then to Isabel: "And cut the shit. This place is locked down till my team arrives. Try not to fuck anything that moves."
Isabel laughed -- a real, rich, belly-deep thing. She let go of my face. My skin burned where her palm had been.
"What?" I said, stupidly.
Maris rolled her eyes and sat up. Scanned the room. Then stood and grabbed a pair of leggings from the floor.
I tracked Maris's every move. Couldn't help it. She was fluid -- efficient -- like someone who knew her body was a weapon and used it anyway.
Out of the corner of my eye, I felt Isabel watching me. Her hand still rested lightly on my forearm -- heat through skin.
Territory claimed.
"Isabel's a high-end escort," Maris said. "Clients were -- are -- gunrunners, arms dealers, a few with diplomatic immunity. Real charmers."
"You're a spy?" I asked Isabel, half-knowing the answer.
Maris snorted. "She's a whore. I just told you that."
"An informant," Isabel said, standing now. Her voice had edge. She walked over to Maris, who stood holding leggings and a white cotton tee.
"A nymphomaniac informant," Maris added. "If I didn't have to babysit both of you, I'd book another room and let you get it out of your system."
She glanced at me. "Maybe I should. With him?" she said to Isabel. "It'll definitely be a quick fix."
Isabel laughed -- head back, mouth wide, no shame. A real laugh. A predator's purr. For someone with no belly, she could gut-laugh better than most.
Maris held out the laundry. "You're smaller than me. But these might fit. The leggings were already tight on me when I bought em. If you want."
Isabel didn't move.
"They're clean," Maris added.
Still no response.
"How long until your backup gets here?" Isabel asked, holding Maris's eyes.
"I don't know," Maris said. "An hour, maybe two."
A pause.
Isabel gave a subtle nod. Then turned to me.
She walked slowly -- hips swaying with hypnotic rhythm -- and stepped between me and the bed. A foot away. Too close to think. Too close to move.
My breath hitched. Shortened.
"No," Maris said.
But it wasn't a command. It was a warning. Maybe permission.
And then Isabel Gutierrez -- high-class call girl, informant, chaos in heels -- let her dress fall.
No preamble. No delay. Just her body, packaged and radiant.
Smooth brown skin. Black lace cupping full breasts, thin straps framing her collarbones.
A flat stomach, tight and glistening with a sheen of sweat that caught the hotel lamp like oil on canvas.
Her panties matched the bra -- black, lacy, barely there. And breathable. It was the kind of lingerie designed to seduce and survive the Manila heat.
She reached behind her back and unclipped the bra. It didn't fall right away. Instead, she leaned toward me -- her mouth brushing my ear, breath hot and sugared with sweat and perfume.
My shoulders tensed like a live wire.
I caught the scent of her -- floral sweetness tangled with something raw and human and hungry. Earthy. Urgent.
She stood upright again and let the bra fall.
Her breasts were small, firm, perfect. Dark brown nipples, stiff and pointed like they knew where to aim.
My mouth opened instinctively, useless and waiting -- a man about to pray.
Her burned arm hung slightly forward -- like an unfinished question. She bit her bottom lip. Slow. Deliberate.
Holding my gaze like she could see everything I was thinking.
Then, in that sultry voice that started all of this, she whispered:
"Mr. Tourist, a bad man burned me. Will you bandage me up? Will you fix me?"
My dick twitched like it had its own heartbeat. It pressed against my shorts like it was going to force its way out.
vii
"Nope," Maris said, grabbing Isabel by the wrist and yanking her back.
I stood before I knew it -- caveman reflex. My cock throbbed against my shorts, balls already aching for release.
One last glimpse of Isabel's thonged ass -- chocolate perfection, with just the faintest stretch marks that made it real -- before Maris sat her down like a misbehaving pet.
"I'll fix you," Maris muttered, yanking open a first-aid kit from a duffel bag on the floor.
She knelt between Isabel's open legs -- not touching, but close enough that the heat felt shared. Isabel didn't say a word. She just held out her burned arm like a trained submissive.
"You can sit, Carmichael," Maris said, not looking at me.
I obeyed. No hesitation. Dropped into Isabel's old chair like it had been waiting for me.
The view was unreal.
Isabel -- practically naked, legs parted, tits rising and falling with every breath.
Maris -- kneeling between her thighs, gauze in hand, cleavage deepening each time she leaned in.
My dick strained like it wanted to burst through the denim.
"Done--" Maris started.
But Isabel moved first. I saw it in her eyes -- that feral gleam. She grabbed Maris and kissed her.
Hard. Wet. Like hunger wearing lip gloss.
Maris didn't pull away. Not at first. Then she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"No. Goddamn it."
"Come on," Isabel said. "You need to get laid."
"I'm not a les--your arm is--"
Another kiss. This time slower. Deeper. Isabel cupped Maris's face and took control of the rhythm.
Maris resisted -- for half a second -- then melted into it.
They kissed and kissed. Isabel's hand slid down, cupping Maris's breasts. Then she pulled off Maris's tank top with blunt efficiency.
A gray cotton bra underneath. Nothing fancy. But Jesus -- that tank had lied. Her tits were huge. Contained, but barely.
Two heavy curves sitting proud in their cups, daring the fabric to hold them.
Their breathing picked up -- sharp now. Maris started to whimper as Isabel squeezed her tits harder, rougher, urgent.
Then Isabel slid off the bed and moved her panties to the side. She straddled Agent Maris -- naked cunt pressing down on double-O nine's golden, bare thigh.
Their skin met with a quiet stick -- sweat and heat and want.
My belt betrayed me -- a metallic jingle, unintentional but loud.
Maris broke the kiss. "Not with him here."
"What do you mean?" Isabel grinned, not looking away. "I can't fuck you -- I don't have a dick."
"I don't have a condom," Maris snapped -- but the edge in her voice was gone. Fading.
"I bet you're on birth control," Isabel said, eyes flicking to me. "Occupational hazard."
I sat frozen. Heart racing. Cock pulsing like a second heartbeat.
Whatever this was, I was all in.
"Come on," Isabel purred, pulling Maris to her feet and guiding her toward the bed.
Maris looked back at me -- half in doubt, half in heat -- like she couldn't decide whether I was a lucky bystander or the third point of a triangle she hadn't meant to draw.
Then she crawled onto the bed -- slow, deliberate -- and got on all fours.
"Oh--" she gasped as Isabel's hand cupped her ass.
"Such a nice booty," Isabel whispered, kissing the fabric.
"Oh God," Maris groaned. "This is either a mistake or--"
Another kiss shut her up.
I watched Isabel grope her tit through her bra -- firm and eager. That did it. I stood and dropped my shorts in one motion. Boxers too.
Isabel turned, smirking. Curled a finger.
"Come here, tourist."
I didn't walk -- I floated.
My cock pressed against Maris's ass -- the denim rough, but not enough to matter. Isabel guided my hands to Maris's hips like she was positioning a sculpture.
"Carmichael," Maris said, voice tight. "You better be clean."
Isabel laughed. Maris turned her head, eyes locked on mine.
"I mean it. No surprises."
Before I could answer, Isabel dropped to her knees and wrapped a hand around my cock. She spat on the head -- warm, wet -- and looked up.
"Looks clean to me," she said. Then took me in her mouth.
I groaned. Tightened my grip on Maris.
"This is insane," Maris whispered.
"But so good," I muttered. Not even sure who I was talking to anymore.
Isabel pulled off with a wet pop.
"Don't be a buzzkill, Agent Maris," she teased.
Then, businesslike, she unfastened Maris's button and yanked the shorts down.
White cotton underneath. Thin. Soaked through, clinging to hot skin like it missed the action.
Maris arched her back and kicked the shorts away. Still wearing her bra, still pretending this wasn't happening.
She glanced over her shoulder. "What? You're not going to take my panties off?"
"I'll slide them to the side," I said.
I leaned in and kissed her.
She kissed back. No hesitation. No doubt.
Isabel's hands moved between us -- trailing seams, teasing skin. Then I was kissing Isabel -- hot mouth, soft breath, full control.
Maris sat up. Her bra hit the bed. Those pale breasts bounced free -- full and tight and suddenly very real.
I turned and took a handful. Her right nipple into my mouth. She gasped -- surprise first, then pleasure.
Isabel laughed, delighted.
Maris crawled forward again -- all fours. Doggy style.
The old classic. Still undefeated. Isabel pulled my shirt off.
I was behind Agent Maris. Cock rigid. Isabel gripped me at the base, stroking slow -- guiding me toward home.
"She's ready," she whispered.
She angled me forward, steady hands positioning me with precision.
I pushed in. Slow. Deliberate. Heat. Wetness. A tightness that dragged a groan from deep in my chest.
Maris let out a tight little moan -- somewhere between a curse and a prayer.
Isabel's hands gripped her hips, rocking her into me. I closed my eyes, overwhelmed.
No thoughts. Just sensation.
Here I was -- buried inside a British secret agent, guided by a naked Filipina goddess.
No condom. No caution. Just heat and hunger from a moment you don't come back from.
I opened my eyes.
Maris's face was half-buried in a pillow, lip caught between her teeth. Don't stop. That's what her face said.
I braced her hips. Held steady.
The view was obscene -- in the best possible way. Her ass: pale, heart-shaped, flushed with heat. White cotton panties bundled and pulled to the side.
Each thrust sent soft ripples across her cheeks, just enough jiggle to hypnotize.
I slid my hand over the curve, grabbed a fistful of flesh and cotton, parting her just enough to watch myself disappear inside her again.
I groaned. Thrust deeper. Felt her clench around me. Heard her muffled moan dissolve into bed sheets.
Isabel pressed close, fingers trailing over my cock as I drove into Maris. Her breath hit my neck.
"Fuck her," she whispered, lips brushing my ear. "Just like that."
Then she climbed onto the bed and straddled Maris's shoulders -- thighs wide, skin gleaming.
Maris didn't hesitate. Tongue out. Mouth open. She dove in.
Watching it -- watching them -- nearly broke me.
One woman grinding on my cock. The other riding her mouth like it was her last meal. I wasn't just watching--I was part of it. Caught in the middle like some goddamn sex totem.
I locked my grip on Maris's hips, planted my feet, and slammed into her harder. She took it all, her face buried between Isabel's legs, moaning into wetness.
I closed my eyes. I had to.
Maris took it all -- her breath catching between each push. I could feel the shape of my cock rise inside her, bending, stretching with every shift of her hips against mine.
My God, I thought. This is the best fucking sex I've ever had in my life.
I opened my eyes and grabbed her hair. Pulled. Her mouth stayed buried in Isabel's pussy -- moaning straight into her lips, licking, gasping with every surge of my cock inside her.
I leaned in, grabbed a bouncing tit with one hand, rubbed her back with the other before gripping her by the shoulder.
Her nipple danced against my palm -- my brain shuffling, my body light, like I might pass out from the pleasure.
I breathed into her neck. All three of us gasping. Wet, chaotic, alive.
Then I straightened. Both hands on Maris's hips as flesh slapped and heat built. Her moans rose in rhythm -- pain, pleasure, pressure -- all poured straight into Isabel's cunt.
Isabel writhed against Maris's face. Her dark skin slick with sweat, hips rolling in slow waves. She leaned back into the pillows, tits rising and falling with every breath.
I traced her curves with my eyes -- Isabel's stomach tight, her nipples hard, her teeth clamped around that plush lower lip.
Was this real? I closed my eyes and thrust harder.
"Fuck me, Carmichael!" Maris screamed over her shoulder. "Cum inside me!"
I looked at her as she said it. Red face. Sweat gluing strands of hair to her forehead.
Jaw clenched. Muscles coiled. My eyes dropped to her ass, bouncing side boob, then flicked to Isabel's slick, glistening cunt.
The rhythm below me -- between us -- was too much. Too fast. Too perfect.
I wanted it to last forever.
I dragged my gaze up Isabel's body again. From the blonde head between her legs to the hypnotic roll of her hips.
Her breasts circled with every movement, dark nipples tracing soft, lazy spirals. Her mouth was open. Lips parted just enough to moan, or laugh, or scream.
And then -- Her eyes found mine. Locked.
She wanted me to look.
As if on cue -- she whispered:
"Fuck."
And I came.
Like a freight train through a tunnel. No brakes or control. Just release.
My knees buckled. My body shook. I collapsed forward and sideways, dragging Maris down with me -- still buried inside her.
One last rise of her hips, then flat on the mattress. Isabel followed, slumping into her like a slow-motion crash.
We were drenched, gasping, tangled up in sweat and heat.
Isabel was laughing. So was Maris.
I laughed too.
The three of us, tangled in sweat and heat and afterglow. Just a sloppy, naked knot of skin and noise and bliss.
"Oh God, I needed that," Maris said. "I hate needing people."
"What about me?" Isabel said. "After the day I've had? Jesus."
"I'm, uh..." I swallowed. Blinked.
"Speechless," Maris said, smirking.
"Lucky bastard," Isabel chimed in. "That kind of service usually runs a few grand."
"And that's just for the hour," Maris laughed, voice husky now.
I laughed with my eyes closed. Then opened them.
This was only going to happen once.
I lay on my back, soft now, with Maris curled up beside me -- her ass tucked warm against my thighs. Her shoulder by my face. Her scent still short-circuiting my brain.
Isabel shifted across the bed. I watched her.
"We've still got time," she said. "Think you've got it in you for round two?"
"I do," Maris said, propping herself up on one elbow.
Same as before -- that smooth, confident rise. From this angle, I caught a side boob hanging like a half-glimpsed secret.
"I wish I had a toy or something," Maris muttered. "We could just get each other off while we wait."
"I've got fingers," Isabel offered, all grin and no shame.
"Give me a minute," I said, forcing myself upright -- just to turn and get a better view. Maris on her side, tits hanging like sideways figure-eights. Jesus Christ.
They both laughed -- from the gut. Hands over their faces like schoolgirls who'd just set fire to the chapel.
I felt my cheeks go red. My skin hot again.
Already, I started to wonder if they were even real -- Or if this was just some fever dream. The kind that nearly gets you killed.
I tried to keep my eyes open.
It got a lot easier when Isabel shoved Maris onto her back and buried her face between her legs.
Maris's toned stomach rose and fell. No teasing -- Isabel dove in like she had something to prove. She was feeding off the remaining heat.
I slumped into one of the chairs, hand between my legs. Surely there was another load in there somewhere. I wasn't twenty, but Jesus -- there had to be a second round.
Isabel's small, plump ass was pointed straight at me. Back arched, cunt glistening -- just inches from my face. I could smell her.
I got hard again. Not slowly. Instantly.
I stood up and stepped behind her. Round two.
viii
Isabel's ass gleamed in the low hotel light. The room stunk -- sex, sweat, perfume, and something I couldn't name.
Burying my face in her plump little cheeks amplified it all. The taste too. Sweet, with a hit of blood and salt. I spread her open and ate, slipping two fingers inside.
She moaned like it was exactly what she'd ordered.
Maris moaned too. I couldn't see it, but I could hear it. I was rock hard, stroking myself like a caveman waiting his turn.
When Isabel was slick enough, I got up and planted one foot on the floor, a knee on the bed.
Slapped her ass with my cock. Rubbed my thumb over her asshole, just to see her reaction.
She looked back and smiled. That half-drunk, half-hungry smile. I nearly came.
"No lube, I'm afraid," she said. "And that costs way extra."
"That ass should be illegal in at least three countries," I said. "I'd do time for it."
She turned, still on her knees, and kissed me -- not just horny but soft, like she liked me now. Or maybe she always had.
Maris came over and draped a hand across each of our backs. She kissed my chest -- tiny, wet kisses -- then worked her way down while I moved to Isabel's neck and bit her like I meant it.
Isabel moaned. I moaned. Maris took me into her mouth.
My brain short-circuited. I didn't mean to lose focus on Isabel -- but she understood.
She let go, dipped down, and joined Maris between my legs. They whispered something to each other I didn't catch, then giggled.
I slapped my forehead.
"What is this?" I muttered. "Some goddamn loophole in time? Did I die?"
They didn't laugh this time. Isabel looked up and smiled while Maris kept working -- all business, no mercy.
Isabel took my balls in her mouth, and my vision sparkled. I had both their heads in my hands, holding hair back, gently pushing.
Maris worked my shaft and head. Isabel handled the base. It was obscene.
Then Maris opened her throat and grabbed my ass, practically begging me to fuck her face.
I let go of Isabel's head and gave Maris both hands -- one on each side. She gurgled as I thrust inside her.
Isabel was right there beside me, tits pressed to my arm, hands over mine as I face-fucked Maris. Maris looked up at me, green eyes soaked, face red, tears running.
"Arrrgggarrgggarrggg."
"Every thrust is a fucking prayer," Isabel whispered, like it was sacred.
I pulled out with a gasp. "Jesus Christ."
I stumbled back into the chair behind me, nearly falling over a pile of clothes.
The girls laughed. Maris was quieter -- catching her breath.
Isabel didn't miss a beat. She got off the bed, peeled off her black panties, and strode over to me, naked and beaming.
"May I sit?" she asked.
I nodded, dumb and eager.
She turned around, reached down, found my cock, and guided it into her. No hesitation. Warm, wet, and tight -- she slid me in to the base.
She settled her hips down, rolling them gently, getting comfy like she planned to stay.
I gripped her hips. Not controlling, just feeling her move. My breath turned ragged. Thank God I'd already come once -- if Isabel had done this first, I wouldn't have lasted thirty seconds.
"May I?" Maris' voice -- somewhere behind me.
I didn't answer. Couldn't. Then my balls were wet again. Maris had dropped down and taken them in her mouth.
"Oh God," I pleaded, half-laughing, half-broken.
She rose, standing between my knees, one thigh rubbing my leg, her crotch warm on mine.
She bent to kiss Isabel, hands roaming. Isabel moved harder now -- less rhythm, more chaos. She bounced, swirled, fucked herself on me like she was trying to break something.
I was in heaven. Hands on Isabel's hips, then her back, then Maris' thigh. The small brown ass smacked my pale skin. The face behind it devoured Maris like hunger incarnate.
Isabel's petite hands pawed at Maris' ridiculous tits. My cock throbbed inside her.
"Jesus," Isabel breathed. "You ready to come yet?"
"Second round's always better," I rasped.
"Why don't I ride him?" Maris said.
"No," Isabel replied, standing up -- exposing my cock to the cold, sterile air like a punishment.
I wanted their mouths again. Craved it. But they just stood there, naked and still, staring down at me like I was prey. And suddenly... I felt like it.
Isabel's decoy. Maris's spy project. Both of them used me. Now they were in charge -- total control, full power, standing above me and deciding what I was worth.
"I know how to make him come," Isabel said, her lips curling into something wicked.
She took Maris by the hand and led her back to the bed. They sat facing me like goddesses. Cool, collected, and untouchable.
I drank them in -- every detail, every curve, every wicked thought on their faces.
I told myself: store this in long-term memory. Don't fuck this up. Don't forget. This wasn't just sex. It was like meeting God.
They stared me down with eyes that said fuck me louder than words ever could.
Isabel leaned in and whispered something in Maris' ear. Whatever it was, it made her blush -- but she nodded, said okay, and smiled like she was about to commit a felony.
Next thing I knew, they were both up on their knees, turning away from me.
Two asses now faced me -- close enough to feel the heat, the scent of them thick in the air. They pressed together and began swaying, slow and hypnotic, like synchronized sin.
"Why don't you sample us both, Liam?" Isabel purred.
She was in her element -- and I was under it.
I didn't know how I stood. My legs felt like rubber bands soaked in whiskey. But I got up, trembling, and stepped behind them.
Didn't choose. Just nestled my cock between them -- one pale ass cheek, one brown. My hands wrapped around both sets of hips as they moved, back and forth, back and forth.
"Dear God," I muttered.
"Don't come in us," Maris said suddenly.
It hit like a record scratch. She didn't turn, just spoke -- eyes forward, ass in the air.
Isabel and I both paused, waiting.
Maris' voice dropped -- almost ashamed -- as she stared at the sheets. "I want to swallow it."
She blushed hard. Isabel didn't laugh, but something deep in her smiled. She kissed Maris softly. Lovingly. And I knew who I was starting with.
I spat and rubbed between Maris' cheeks, but she was already soaked. I slid in and she gasped -- loud, primal, involuntary. Then I started pumping. Fast. Hard.
Maris didn't moan. She growled. Rough, husky breath between filthy little barks:
"Shit!"
"Yeah!"
"Fuck me, Carmichael! Fuck me!"
I didn't know where to look. Should I stare at the bland wallpaper to hold myself back? Or just give in and feast on the sight -- two perfect asses, side by side, one bouncing on my cock, the other waiting, twitching, ready.
Isabel leaned into Maris, sucking her big, swinging tits like she owned them.
I had one hand gripping Maris' hip, setting the rhythm. The other hand slipped between Isabel's thighs, three fingers teasing her wet heat.
"Shiiit," Maris hissed, biting a wad of bedsheet like it was the only thing keeping her from screaming the whole city awake.
It was too much. I pulled out and sidestepped into Isabel.
Just as warm -- maybe not as tight, but she clenched around my cock like she'd done this a thousand times.
Both hands on her ass, I pushed in deep. She dropped into full face-down, ass-up -- petite, flexible, filthy.
I bottomed out inside her and felt it -- tight again. My cockhead hit something deep, something unknown. Felt like I'd crossed a border.
"Ooohhh," Isabel moaned. Deep. Primal. Like a sound from a cave.
Then Maris grabbed my face and kissed me. Soft. Slowing. Still slick with spit and sweat, but intimate. Like a thank-you. Like she was passing the torch.
She broke the kiss gently, eyes soft and green.
"You're all red," she said.
"I really wanna come," I breathed.
"Then fuck her," she whispered, dropping to her stomach without looking away from me.
She rolled onto her back, right beside Isabel's contorted form. Her body spread like an offering.
Tits rising and falling with each breath -- big, flushed, jiggling like soft water balloons. Nipples dark and wide, like lily pads on a rippling pond.
"I'll be right here for your cum," she smiled.
"Oh god," I muttered.
Feet planted, I shifted my grip from Isabel's ass to her narrow hips and rocked her into me. She was so petite, it didn't take much -- just the right rhythm. My body took over.
"Ooh..." Isabel moaned, long and low.
Each thrust pulled me toward the edge. My face tingled. My back tightened. Groin lit up like an electric fence.
"Ooooh..." louder now.
"Fuck her, Carmichael!" Maris yelled.
My chest locked up. My cock turned to a live wire. I jackhammered into Isabel -- too fast to control. Too fast to think. The fire started at the base and raced up.
I pulled out.
Cum launched in thick globs -- Maris's throat, her face, her tits.
Before I could breathe, Maris lunged and took me in her mouth -- wet, deep, all the way.
I moaned and dropped to my knees, cock pulsing. My balls rested on her nose. She sucked out the rest like she was draining a fuel tank.
I grabbed her tits -- one still streaked with cum -- and pushed them together.
I stood, finally spent. My cock softening, a wet string of semen trailing from the tip to her mouth.
Maris stood, wiped her lips, and flopped back onto the bed next to Isabel.
I collapsed into the chair, breathing hard. The girls lay tangled in the sheets, legs open, glistening, glowing.
The room stank of sex and sweat. It was beautiful.
"How soon until your backup gets here?" I asked.
"Forget it, Carmichael," Maris said without looking up. "You don't have enough juice in you."
ix
I don't remember falling asleep.
I just remember waking up to Maris nudging me -- fully dressed.
So was I.
Weird. No memory of redressing. No shame either.
Her voice was soft. "Come on, Romeo. Time to go."
Her team had arrived.
In the lobby, a silver-haired man in a suit handed me a bag.
It looked exactly like my old one.
I opened it.
New camera. Same model.
Powered it on. It worked.
But it felt... wrong. Lighter. Newer. Less mine.
Inside were all the shots I took for my assignment -- and more. A replacement passport, fresh clothes, and my wallet.
Plus a wad of cash I definitely hadn't been carrying.
"I was just trying to burn through the last of my pesos," I mumbled, mostly to myself.
The old guy didn't react. Just rattled off NDA clauses and intel-speak.
I signed something promising silence forever.
"I was just trying to spend a little," I said again. "That's why I was at the bar. Purple Dress... Isabel--"
"Hey," the old man snapped. "What'd I just say?"
"A different Isabel," I muttered.
"I got it, Edwards," a voice said.
I turned.
Maris.
Hair brushed. Face fresh. Dressed in a crisp navy pantsuit.
No tank top. No gun. No sass.
All business.
"You look... professional," I said.
Edwards walked off.
She rolled her eyes. "Big meeting. Brass wants answers."
Then, after a beat: "Thanks, though. For not getting yourself killed."
We stared at each other.
Beat too long.
"Alright," she said. "Give me a hug, Carmichael. Don't make it awkward."
I did.
Her voice slid into my ear -- low, precise.
"Remember," she whispered. "You don't talk about this. Not to anyone. Ever."
"I know," I said.
We pulled apart.
"No one would believe me anyway."
I walked out the main doors, flagged a cab, and headed for the airport.
Flight home was two hours out. I tried to nap in the terminal -- but that kind of sleep doesn't come easy when your dick's raw and your brain's on fire.
Then the news caught my ear.
"Murdered FBI agent found in Manila..."
Neither of the girls said they were FBI -- and I sure as hell wasn't asking.
Still, something about it scratched the back of my skull. I opened one eye, then both. Sat up straighter.
The story looped back around a few minutes later. I stood and moved closer. Didn't need to hear it, though. The screen told me everything.
Photo of the agent: Anderson.
Photo of the suspect: Isabel.
Found murdered at the Maynard Inn Hotel--Room 301.
I blinked. Took a sip of airport coffee and tried to look casual.
They plastered her picture across the feed -- full name, file photo, red dress, sunglasses, stepping out of some high-end car.
She looked expensive. Deadly. Fuckable.
They said she was a "high-end escort with ties to organized crime." Suspected in the agent's death. Last seen with him two days ago.
I smiled. Sat back down. Let the seat cradle me. Never happier to be at an airport terminal.
Home, sweet fucking home.
I pulled out my phone and googled, "Can the Philippines extradite Americans?"
Then I remembered the NDA I signed.
I shrugged. Forget it, I thought.
Well... maybe don't forget all of it.
x
A few weeks later, I got assigned to shoot in Europe. That meant packing the overseas camera--the one I hadn't touched since Manila.
Except that wasn't true.
The one in my bag was a replacement. A dummy. The pictures I sent my boss? How'd they get those back on the camera?
Maybe MI6 hacked my boss's drive. Maybe they snatched them from the cloud and beamed them back into this camera just to cover their tracks.
I didn't know. But I knew this wasn't my camera.
I sat on the bed of the rental. My first night in Europe. Suitcase half-unpacked, clothes draped across every surface. I flipped through the memory card out of habit--staring into the tiny viewfinder at a string of dull assignment shots.
But even the dullest photos hit me different now. Each frame had that weird tension before the chaos. Before Purple Dress. Before the keycard.
Before Maris.
"You're hard again," said a voice from across the room.
I flinched--but didn't move. I knew that voice.
She stood in the doorway like she owned the lease.
Strapless black gown. Diamond clutch. High heels like she was headed to a gala or a funeral for someone rich.
Her hair was short now, chopped in a sleek, even line that made her green eyes pop under the room's soft light.
Agent Maris.
She smiled, slow and controlled.
Her heels clicked as she crossed the room and stopped in front of me, close enough that her perfume kicked in.
She bent forward just a little. The dress opened slightly at her chest and gave me a view I couldn't ignore.
"I need your camera," she said, hand outstretched.
I handed it over without thinking. Her fingers grazed mine--cool and deliberate.
She sat beside me, our thighs brushing. Turned off the camera. Popped the card. Held it between two fingers like a coin.
"Do you need this?" she asked. "For your assignment or anything?"
I swallowed. "No. I've got more cards."
"I'm sure you do," she said, dry. Then slid the card between her breasts and let it disappear into the soft divide of her chest.
My grin flickered. I was still wired from seeing her, but something didn't sit right. The erection faded. Curiosity took over.
"Did Isabel kill that FBI agent?" I asked.
Her smile fell, but not from anger. She just sighed. Rolled her eyes and turned to the window.
Third floor of an apartment in a shittier part of Florence. A view into the neighbors. Nothing pretty.
I watched her silhouette as she stared into the streetlights like they held answers.
"She was set up," Maris said, finally. "Just like you."
She turned around and looked at me--expression unreadable, eyes bright.
Then she reached out both hands.
"Come with me," she said, blinking hard on the first word.
I stood and followed her out to the living room. Open-concept. Kitchen to the left, couch to the right. My laptop hummed silently on the island counter between the two.
Maris walked to it like she owned the place, heels clicking across the hardwood. She bent at the waist--just enough to wake the laptop and open a browser.
The fabric of her gown stretched tight across her hips, the cut curving inward just enough to show her shape.
I watched her.
"Remembering?" she asked, not turning.
Agent Maris. Mind-reading assassin in a black cocktail dress.
She turned and smiled at me, one brow slightly raised.
"I targeted you from the start, Liam. But you weren't Plan B. Or C. Or D." She stepped closer.
"You were Plan Z. Everything went sideways. Isabel had to drop the keycard with you. I had to intercept it, move the data to your gear. It was the only way to move it across international borders unnoticed."
She tapped between her cleavage.
"This card will save lives."
I looked her over again, pausing at her chest. "Maybe I should call the CIA."
She shrugged. "Go ahead. They'll laugh. And even if they didn't--what would you tell them?"
I glanced past her at the laptop screen.
"What did you want to show me?"
"You clearly don't read the news," she said.
"I'm a photojournalist for travel blogs. Not exactly the real thing."
She rolled her eyes. "Doesn't mean you can't watch the news."
She turned back to the laptop. I stepped up behind her.
"See these stories?" she said. "Isabel went to trial. Acquitted. The government wiped its hands. Anderson died by suicide."
"You believe that?"
"Doesn't matter what I believe," Maris said, closing the laptop with a soft click. "The world believes it."
She looked up at me. Those green eyes--bright and unreadable.
"Do you believe it, Carmichael?"
"I mean... maybe I would. If someone didn't just shut the laptop on me."
"Did I?" she said, smiling. Teasing.
"So who was Anderson?"
She slid her arms around my neck.
I grabbed her waist--firm, narrow, perfect.
We were close. Her perfume was soft and fresh, with something sharp underneath. Like crushed mint and static electricity. It made me want her. Again.
She held my gaze, then leaned in.
"Don't worry about it," she whispered. Her breath was hot against my ear.
"Anderson's name was on the metadata," I said. "That wasn't the first time I looked at that card."
Her smile twisted.
"Was it?" She backed up slightly but kept her arms draped over my shoulders, like we were dancing in place. "Maybe you're not as disposable as I thought."
I leaned in closer. "So is that what you're here to do? Dispose of me?"
Her mouth was near mine now. "There's more than one way," she said softly, "to keep a man quiet."
She didn't kiss me.
Just as the heat between us hit critical mass--atoms about to collide--she shoved me. Hard.
I stumbled back, caught myself with one foot, then lost it with the next. Crashed onto the couch.
A soft landing--pillows and cushions taking the hit. I barely had time to register the finesse of her push before Maris was on me.
She hiked up her gown to reveal smooth thighs and no panties--just a faint, well-kept blonde patch that told me she'd waxed a couple weeks ago.
She straddled me, grinding against the bulge in my slacks. A wet spot was already forming.
"Let's get those pants off," she said.
In one practiced motion, she yanked them down--boxers too--leaving them tangled at my ankles.
Then she climbed back into place, her dress still hitched up, one heel jammed between the cushions for leverage.
She lowered herself onto me--slow, deliberate--until I was fully inside.
"Mmmm," she sighed. "God, yes."
I grabbed at her tits through the dress. She reached down, pulled out the memory card from between them, and dropped it on the coffee table like she was cashing a chip.
"There's footage," she said. "Of a deal Anderson was never supposed to touch."
Then, with a devilish grin, she pulled the top of the dress down.
Two pale, perfect tits spilled out. Anderson was the furthest thing from my mind.
She leaned in, chest swaying inches from my face. I grabbed them greedily, sucking, licking, groping like a man who'd been lost at sea and just found land.
"Fuck," she gasped as I bit down a little too hard. "You like these tits, huh?"
I looked up at her. "If this is how you want to smother me to death, I'm game. Or you could just sit on my face. Dealer's choice."
She laughed--threw her head back, tongue out--then came down for a kiss.
Her hips never stopped moving. We rocked together, both still half-dressed. I sat up more to match her rhythm, hands on her hips, her arms around my neck.
We kissed through heavy breath--then I moved to her throat. She tore open my shirt, tits pressing against my chest, hot and slick with sweat. I squeezed one, pulled it up so our nipples brushed. She shivered.
"Oh god," she laughed. "That tickles--but it's so good."
I broke away, sucked one into my mouth, soaking it, then went back to gripping her waist as she started riding harder.
Faster.
She bounced now--slamming into me with each thrust. My abs were burning from holding position, but I wasn't about to stop her.
Her tits swung wild in my face, hypnotic. I watched them through half-blurred vision as heat crawled up my spine.
Then she slowed--grinding now, not riding--circling her hips with slow, deliberate pressure. Her hands tangled in my hair. She pulled my face into her chest.
"Fuck, Carmichael," she moaned. "Right there--don't stop."
I couldn't have if I tried.
I was smothered--lost in soft heat, sweat, perfume, the weight of her chest on my face and the tight wet clutch of her body below.
Then she gasped. Froze. Shuddered.
Her legs locked around me as she came--grinding harder, tighter, riding it out with full-body spasms that made her tits bounce against my cheek like aftershocks.
And that did it.
I broke.
My body tensed, vision gone white, mouth latched to her left breast like I could drink the moment dry. The orgasm tore through me--hot, brutal, total.
I emptied inside her like a fucking detonation.
Maris stayed on top for a moment, catching her breath. Then she stood up too fast for my liking--nude from the waist down, the memory card already back in her hand.
"I'll freshen up," she said.
She disappeared into the bathroom with her diamond clutch.
My cock throbbed, half-hard and cold in the apartment air. I wanted more. My body did, anyway.
When she came back five minutes later, she looked untouched. Reassembled. The Maris I'd first seen at the Maynard Inn in Manila--dangerous, elegant, and entirely in control.
"I have to go," she said, walking over to me. I was still naked from the waist down, slouched on the couch like a drunk teenager.
She leaned in. Kissed me on the lips. Slow. No tongue. Intimate, but distant.
"Goodbye, Liam Carmichael," she said. "And remember--no one will believe you."
"What if I made a copy of the memory card?"
She smiled, still bent over, inches from my face. "Wouldn't matter," she whispered. "You wouldn't know what to do with it."
Then she turned and walked out of my apartment.
Out of my life.
I watched her strut in that black gown, heels tapping a final rhythm. She didn't look back.
I lay back on the couch, dick out, heart racing.
Then I laughed.
I had made a copy of the memory card.
And I didn't have a fucking clue what do with it.
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