Assassin's Haiku

Assassin’s Haiku

Cynthia Sax

www.loose-id.com

Assassin’s Haiku

Copyright © June 2011 by Cynthia Sax

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eISBN 978-1-61118-427-3

Editor: Ann M. Curtis

Cover Artist: Anne Cain

Printed in the United States of America

Published by

Loose Id LLC

PO Box 425960

San Francisco CA 94142-5960

www.loose-id.com

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Warning

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Chapter One

Diego crouched, setting the last sensor on the wet pavement. The high-tech gadget was small, black, and undetectable in the dirty alleyway. When he straightened, his movement was communicated through the sensor to his earpiece. With the perimeter now adequately monitored, he’d be notified if Agency men approached. He’d be safe.
Haiku will be safe.

He hurried back to the club. He ran so quickly, so quietly, that he caught the brute at the door by surprise. Startled, the big man raised his laser rifle. Diego curled his leather-covered fingers around the end of the barrel and shook his head, signaling that he was no enemy. If he were an enemy, the man would already be dead. Recognizing Diego, the doorman relaxed and nodded him through.

Heads turned as Diego entered the underground poetry-sex bar. Men frowned at what they viewed as more competition, and women smiled in a wary welcome. But no one was stupid enough to approach him. His dark shades and long black leather jacket communicated his profession.

Assassin.

Diego scanned the dimly lit room and located his target immediately, Haiku’s white spiked hair drawing his gaze like a beacon. She sat at a table nearest the stage. The chair beside her was empty. She waited for him. The gloom of Diego’s death-filled day lifted. Haiku was his sanctuary. She was his light.

He would keep her safe. Diego perused the room, identifying faces, locating weapons, and pinpointing exits. Although all patrons were screened by the justifiably paranoid management, Diego trusted no one, as he’d seen the Agency turn even the fiercest rebels into informants. He knew better than most people what that organization was capable of.

Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. The crowded space heaved with the usual sweaty, naked bodies. A tattooed man sucked the cock of a blond pretty boy. His skinhead bobbed, his cheeks indented with pressure, and the boy moaned his pleasure. Soldiers lined up politely between the open legs of a brunette, waiting for one last fuck before risking their lives in tomorrow’s battle. A big black man had his eyes closed as he fucked another soldier up the ass. He could be gay, or he could be desperate. Women in the resistance were scarce, and men did what they could to appease their sexual needs.

A man beckoned to Haiku, his gesture obscene, and Diego scowled. They would not appease their sexual needs with
his
woman. He weaved soundlessly through the groupings, making his way to her table. Patrons scattered before him like scavengers in the presence of a predator, fear on their completely human faces. Diego flicked aside his coat and flashed his weapons as he sat down beside Haiku. His rival, correctly reading the subtle threat, beat a hasty retreat.

Haiku cast her blue-eyed gaze in his direction, and Diego sharply sucked in his breath. She was beautiful beyond words, her countenance as poetic as her name. Her skin was luminescent and flawless, her pointed chin hinted at her stubbornness, and her plush lips were permanently curled in a serene smile. If anyone asked what he fought for, killed for, Diego would say that angelic face.

No one asked him, though, including Haiku. They didn’t talk. They hadn’t said more than a dozen words to each other over the past three months. They sat in silence, not speaking or touching. Diego wanted her, and he hungered for more, yet he knew he didn’t deserve Haiku. He wouldn’t touch her with his blood-soaked fingers. He’d be content with what little he had.

Diego tugged off his black leather gloves, and tossed them on the wooden table. Haiku had ordered for him, attending to a killer’s needs as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Diego wasn’t accustomed to being cared for, and her concern made him uncomfortable.

He clenched the glass, savoring the feel of the condensation against his bare skin. Pleasure was fleeting, and the water, crisp and pure, was an indulgence. Diego took neither for granted.

Haiku's friend, Beth, knelt on the table before them. Three muscular men stripped off the shapely blonde’s skimpy clothes, exposing her naturally tanned curves. The first man was ebony, the second man was ivory, and the third man was golden. They were different men than she had fucked three days ago, and she’d end the night with different men as well.

When Diego first met Beth, the blonde had babbled on about how she was doing the resistance a favor by fucking as many men as possible. She claimed having sex with her boosted the men’s morale. Although there was truth in that explanation, Diego had a more cynical view of human nature. He knew most people—his Haiku being the possible exception—were selfish. Beth did what she did because she liked variety, liked feeding off the sexual energy. She’d be fucked silly and leave the club bubbling over with excitement.

Diego watched Beth’s escapades with little interest. He didn’t get off on observing others. Haiku was his main focus, and his poetry-loving woman sat primly, her knees pressed together, her back straight. She wore a black frilly blouse and a clean pair of cargo pants, her conservative outfit doing more for him sexually than the naked skin around them.

He longed to peel back the black cloth, wanted to reveal expanses of her pale skin. He’d lick the softness and suck on the ivory skin until it turned red. He’d cup those small breasts, pluck her nipples into pink peaks before easing her knees apart and settling between them. She’d feel like heaven, he knew. Small and supple, she’d grip his cock snugly as he rocked into her. He wouldn’t last long during their first fucking; he wanted her too badly.

Diego gritted his teeth and shifted in his seat, the leather of his pants stretching uncomfortably tight across his aching erection. As though taunting his sexual frustration, Haiku pushed his gloves closer to the edge of the table, her fingertips lingering over the black leather, stroking and caressing it. In Diego’s mind, it was his cock she was touching. He pictured her fingers encircling his cockhead, probing the slit, skimming underneath the rim.

Diego cussed under his breath. He was seconds away from coming in public, and that would be a disaster, since an assassin without control was a dead assassin. He looked away, concentrating on his security routines, perusing their surroundings once more. Threats were everywhere, and he could not forget that danger.

On the stage, a Gothlike cross-dressing creature combined both of the club’s themes, pumping his cock while reciting poetry, his pale face tilted upward, his cheeks tightened with euphoria. To Haiku’s left, two men had their knives drawn, ready to fight over the right to fuck a woman waving her ass in the air. Their inept maneuvering amused Diego; he could disarm them blindfolded.

The passing chaps-wearing waiter sidestepped the posturing men, his tray of drinks undisturbed. The males in the club were all resistance soldiers, battle-worn and shell-shocked, and many of the females liked drama. Fights were a regular occurrence.

Beth’s ebony man turned his head. “Too many cocks, not enough holes.”

Diego heard the black man’s lament as he watched the ivory man ride Beth’s ass with a noisy
smack, smack, smack
, his balls bouncing with the impact. Beth had the golden man’s cock in her mouth and was slurping noisily, leaving the third man out of the action.

“Maybe your friend is interested,” the ebony man said, nodding toward Haiku as he stroked himself.

Haiku stiffened beside Diego and grabbed his thigh. Her fingers trembled, the vibrations sending pleasurable sensations along his skin. His cock throbbed in time with her trembling fingers.

“She is not,” Diego answered for Haiku, putting his arm around the back of her chair. She squeezed his leather-clad flesh in a silent thank-you, and the impact went straight to his tortured groin. His balls were drawn up so tight, they were on the verge of detonation.

Diego sucked in a mouthful of her scent. In a room reeking of sex, pussy juices, and cum, she smelled fresh and clean, like those orphan babies she cared for. That aromatic reminder of their differences helped him find his center. With his fragile control returning, he relaxed.