Dew of Heaven

By Kit Gordon

Molly Shaman is the CIA's most exotic assassin.  She insists on first dining with her victim, then sleeping with him, before rubbing him out. Molly's current target is Aaron Lamb, an Al-Qaeda operative buying black market arms in Germany and shipping them to Afghanistan.  The CIA wants him reliably and expediently slabbed.  Molly has decided to bring him down with "the Dew of Heaven," a concoction of poisons designed to thwart any antidote he may have on hand, or may have taken in advance. The precaution is necessary, since Lamb has been alerted a hit man is on his trail.  Fortunately for Molly, he thinks all hit men are male. Unfortunately for Molly, he's tipped off in time to insist that Molly drink the poison herself. The CIA codenamed Molly "Praying Mantis" with good reason.  First she's going to wine and dine you, then she's going to have her way with you.  Afterwards she's going to send you to your maker.  And all three experiences will be the most exquisite of your abruptly truncated life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lascaux Books
• Release date: Jun 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223507963

Book preview

Dew of Heaven

Kit Gordon

Copyright © 2012 by Kit Gordon. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or part, in any form.

Cover design by Wendy Russ.

ASIN: B00A5TSJG8

This is a work of fiction. Character names, locations, 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, locales, or events is coincidental.

One

Molly could still taste the Madeira Sauce. And the wine. It had been a deep, purply Châteauneuf-du-Pape with just a hint of pepper spice to complement its robust fruit. Now the combined tastes lingered in her mouth as she sucked the man’s nipples, sucked them as she would want her own sucked, aggressively, pulling his skin taut and flicking her tongue.

He might have returned the favor, but his hands and feet were tied to the bedposts. It was more stimulating that way, she’d told him. It heightened the anticipation.

He’d been nervous about the arrangement at first, his eyes darting at Molly in suspicion; men accustomed to being in control were loath to surrender it. But then she took his cock in her mouth, took it back out, and asked, Wanna go on, or not?

He wanted to go on.

She worked her way down his chest and stomach with agonizing slowness, brushing her lips lightly over his bare flesh, tasting its saltiness with gentle caresses of her tongue. All the while allowing her breasts to rub his cock, to cradle and stroke it.

He strained at the ropes. She knew what he’d do if his arms were free: push her head lower, push it down far enough for her soft wet lips to reach that one place on a man’s body where nerve endings are most dense, where a mere lap of tongue will turn his evolutionary clock back, shut down his cerebral cortex, transform him into a brute.

Molly … Molly…

They fall in love so easily. The quickest way to a man’s heart is not, in fact, through his stomach.

Nevertheless that’s how the evening had begun. Bernard’s, a restaurant in Chelsea. Beef tenderloin with Madeira Sauce. The sauce was one Molly classified as a moaner: you closed your eyes, you smiled, you said Hmm. The wine that went into it was liquid sunshine, the product of grapes all too eager to sacrifice themselves for culinary ecstasy. The beef tasted like it had marinated in the sauce, had bathed in it; like the cow itself had drunk it gluttonously. Tender, savory meat. It almost didn’t need chewing.

Carrot ginger soup. Saffron potatoes with almonds. Lemon roasted asparagus with wild mushrooms. Peach parfait. Hmm. Molly was so content afterwards that she wanted to visit the chef, yank down his checkered pants, and give him the blow job of his life.

Precisely what her present bedfellow was about to receive.

A swarthy type. Dark curls, coarse stubble, dense chest hairs. He twisted his wrists around and tugged at the ropes, trying to free himself, to bring those muscular arms down and take control. She held his cock in her hand, her fingers barely reaching around its circumference. She leaned over it, breathed on it. He stiffened and strained at the ropes. She wet her lips, tightened her grip, and planted her mouth over its head.

Oh shit … oh God.

She moved her grip down to the base of his shaft and squeezed. She sucked him, making deliberate slurping noises. The more Molly wanted a cock planted inside her, the better it tasted in her mouth. She wanted this cock. She loved the mushroom shape of its head, the rigid massiveness of its shaft, the way the skin of the shaft glided up and down as she stroked it.

She sucked until he jerked in vain to free himself from the restraints. Here it comes, he said.

She pulled up. His cock wobbled free, glistening with saliva. She allowed it to rest. Waited until his breathing slowed. Watched as his eyes scanned the ceiling as though seeking divine intervention. She took him in her mouth again and sucked. And stroked. She fondled his balls.

I’m gonna cream!

She let go again. No, she thought, you’re not. Not until I say so.

He writhed and squirmed. Anyone watching him from the torso up would think Molly was torturing him. In a way, she was. She kissed his legs until he calmed down, running her lips and tongue up and down those wonderful inner thighs, where the hair was sparse and the muscles rippled. Every spot on his body tasted differently. His chest tasted of salt and manliness. His thighs tasted of power and unrestrained desire. His cock tasted of heat, of primordial lust.

She worked her way up until his balls brushed against her cheek, then turned to kiss them, holding his cock up and out of the way, pulling at the loose skin of his scrotum with her teeth. His balls tasted of the sexual energy inside, the seed that sought to explode from them.

Fuck!

She slipped her mouth over the head of his cock.

He cried out. She stopped.