[Kizzie Baldwin Erotic Thriller 02] • Wallbanger

A relic from the Cold War that shouldn’t even exist…

After failing on her previous mission, secret agent Kizzie Baldwin is ticked off that she’s lost her chance at Formula 3-19. But when a black market explosives dealer goes missing, along with all traces of a salted bomb the Agency has never heard of, redemption is at hand. There’s just one problem: she must make a deal with nefarious Dom Xander Duquesne to get it.

Throwing caution off a cliff, Kizzie once again jumps headfirst into the BDSM lifestyle. It’s a world she knows nothing about, and she’s learning on the fly from a teacher she can’t trust. With Xander holding her collar, Kizzie must crawl into the dark labyrinth of The Puppet Master—a drugged out Dom known for cruelty to his subs and a huge chip on his shoulder. If Kizzie makes it out alive with Intel on the weapon Xander’s paid for, he’ll give her 3-19, free and clear.

Submission isn’t even in Kizzie’s vocabulary, and Xander’s still not her Master.

But will she learn to call him ‘Sir’?

WARNING: 18+ only. This title contains all the stuff you don’t want your kids reading, you know, graphic language, adult themes, explicit sex, BDSM, drugs and violence. Oh, and snark, can’t forget the snark.

Excerpt:

On the airport perimeter road, Xander Duquesne studied the neon blur boarding the cargo hold of the Copa. He checked his watch—a touch behind schedule, but nothing they couldn’t make up for. In the passenger seat of the rental, Phillip Marchande reclined, eyes closed. The previous night was a long one for all parties involved, and sleep was not on the agenda. Phil being integral to the next phase of the operation, Xander didn’t begrudge the man this short reprieve.

Still early morning, the dark sky and poor outdoor lighting concealed the black car well enough should anyone look in their direction. All was quiet in the area. A good sign. Lifting the binoculars to his eyes, Xander returned his attention to the aircraft.

“Think it’ll hurt?”

He should have known Phil was awake. “What’s that?” he asked, not bothering to shift his gaze.

“The bullet she puts in your brain when you tell her what she’s in for.”

Xander let out a thoughtful sigh. “Y’know, you’re very preoccupied with my demise of late, Phil. It’s kinda disturbing.”

“No sense running from a fate that’ll catch you anyway. Just want to prepare you, because she’s going to kill you.”

“There insurance money you get in the event of my death?” But Xander knew Phil was right. Kizzie was going to be the death of him—either by her own hand or through her stubbornness.

“No, sadly,” Phil said. “An oversight on my part. I’d be rich by the end of the day.”

All told, Xander and Kizzie had been acquainted less than ten hours—two of which were spent on a yacht in the middle of the Indian Ocean fourteen days before. They’d been on different teams at the time—hell, they weren’t exactly on the same team now—but the dividing line was a lot clearer then. Kizzie was the face of good; Xander the face of evil. She’d pulled a gun on him; he’d spanked her thoroughly for it. He smiled at the memory. Nonetheless, they’d parted ways with their roles intact.

It was the disappearance of Nikolay Sokoviev that prompted Xander to track Kizzie to Panama. At least that’s what he told himself. Nikolay was his only access to Harvey, but with the old Russian gone, Xander was forced to work with the next in line. He ground his teeth at the alternative and forced away the chill that inched down his spine with what he planned on having Kizzie do.

“Ten grand says she kills you, X,” Phil said, lifting the seat back and cracking his neck.

If he did die, he wouldn’t have to pay, Xander reasoned. Either way he was a winner. “Double it.”

“Pretty confident for a dead man. Would you prefer a Christian burial?”

Xander shook his head and grinned. “Save the pine box, Phil. The devil won’t care either way.”