Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(23)

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 to 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.

With each line, her tension tightened. She shook so violently, he was sure she would fall, or at least knock over the table. But she held together, stayed on her feet. On the final line, the wave crested. She threw her head back, shrieking as the climax wrenched through her.

Zoe swayed, staying upright by some miracle. She was flushed, damp with sweat. She sobbed silently. “I can’t help it,” she quavered.

He withdrew his hand from her body and wiped it with the snow white linen dinner napkin. “You’ll learn,” he assured her.

He considered what to do with her next, stroking his penis. He was erect, but it had been a long day. Intercourse was so strenuous.

Fellatio was a pleasant alternative. He tugged her until she sank to her knees. Buried his hands in her hair as she worked on the opening of his trousers. He’d just settled back into the experience and was admiring the inspiring spectacle of Zoe’s full lips fastened around his penis when a knock sounded on the door. They froze, astonished.

Zoe’s eyes went wide at this unheard-of presumption.

“Who is it?” he snarled.

“Sir, it’s Julian.” The boy’s voice was tight with apology. “Please excuse me, sir, but Michael Ranieri is here to see you.”

Oh, for God’s sake. A hiss of annoyance escaped from between his teeth. He gestured for Zoe to get up, and tucked himself back into his trousers with a peevish glance at the clock. One twentyseven A.M., what an ungodly time to show up. But Michael Ranieri was the one person on earth who could demand to be seen by King. Let alone at this hour.

Dealing with this thick-headed goon grew ever more intolerable. It bothered him that Michael Ranieri fancied himself King’s equal.

Their fortunes had been linked since they’d met in college. Neil King’s brilliance at cooking up recreational drugs and Michael Ranieri’s huge appetite for them had guaranteed a long and profitable association. King bankrolled his graduate studies with the business that Michael provided, and with King’s help, Michael Ranieri had slowly transformed his family’s traditional mafioso prostitution and extortion rackets, and evolved the family business into something new. Michael was now acting head of the Ranieri family, marketing much-sought-after, limited-edition designer drugs that King created exclusively for him.

The net of avid users was ever expanding. As were the profits.

Even so, King always knew that he was destined for more than fueling the ego fantasies of the very rich. His dream was not merely to synthesize drugs that make people feel perfect. No, that fell far short.

He wanted to synthesize true perfection. In a human being. To actually improve on the normal human blueprint, with all its inherent flaws. A human was a haphazard rough draft. It needed molding. Careful, mindful sculpting, with an eye toward towering profit.

His project had grown and flowered into something extraordinary over the years. Zoe was a shining example. Arousal made her literally glow in the dark. His body hummed with frustrated sexual desire.

His operatives now made more money out in the field than Michael Ranieri ever dreamed of, discreetly shaping the history of the world while earning billions in fees. And every last cent belonged to King.

But this was none of Michael’s business. The man knew of King’s private creative project, in a vague way, but wasn’t bright enough to grasp the true scope of King’s work. So why burden him with it?

Zoe was pulling her dress back on. He held up his hand. “No, my dear. Stay exactly as you are.”