Last Kiss (Hitman #3) by Jen Frederick, Jessica Clare Page A

humble servant,” I say, rising and giving her a short bow. She pushes to her feet. Her oddities are notable. I wonder if she was born idiosyncratic or made this way by some trauma. But we all have our flaws, and mine are so great it would be hypocritical to be critical because she requires things to be done in a certain way or has an attachment to an old, worn cap. There is a medical diagnosis for some and perhaps she is one of those. I am no doctor. What I do know is that parts of me that I believed were buried are throbbing with life.
    The jet’s bathroom is small despite its luxurious appointments, and it is not made for two people. We are pressed close and when the door falls shut, it is stifling. There is no room for us to maneuver, and my larger frame is dwarfing her. Even if she feels no conscious fear, her hindbrain is encouraging her to shrink away, make herself a smaller target. And my instincts are getting excited by this. My blood is pumping at her subservient stance, and the enclosed space is magnifying every sense. The warm smell of her body wraps around me. She shifts and her hip brushes my thigh, which causes every muscle to tense in anticipation. This will not do.
    “One moment, Naomi,” I say. Using the bag, I prop open the door to the bathroom, giving us slightly more air. In my absence, Naomi has opened the box and is reading the instructions.
    There is a paintbrush, a plastic bowl, and gloves.
    “We need a towel,” Naomi announces. In a compartment outside the bathroom, I find towels and washrags.
    “Put this around your neck,” I order. Outside the bathroom I peruse the instructions and then toss them aside. Color and wash.Easy enough. I pour the ingredients together and the color in the bowl becomes a dark, almost black mix. I hear gagging from inside.
    “That’s so gross. It’s going to feel like mud. I’m not putting it on.”
    “Then you’ll sit in an enclosed space for a very long time as customs officials in Madrid question you repeatedly about your activities. You would like that more, perhaps?” I raise an eyebrow in inquiry.
    With pursed lips she shakes her head.
    “Then sit on commode and we will begin.”
    She places a towel on the seat and settles gingerly on the terry cloth. With a deep breath, I enter the room . . . and immediately realize how I’ve worsened the situation. With Naomi seated, her mouth—her sweet breath—is positioned directly at groin level. My animal response cannot be contained. My cock swells and with each breath grows harder and larger.
    “You’re supposed to use the gloves.” She points to the counter. For a minute I think she’s referring to protection. That she wants me to unzip my pants and unwind my cramped organ so that it can be soothed by her tongue and engulfed in her wet mouth. It takes a moment before I register the small opaque rubber coverings are for my hands. Or rather for someone’s hands.
    “Those are much too small to fit,” I say, and then wince at the unintended sexual innuendo. She does not respond to it.
    “I suppose they are made for women. There are special products made for men, I believe, which is completely unnecessary. Studies have shown that male and female grooming products are made with essentially the same set of ingredients with scent being the main differential. Men experience baldness at a higher rate because of enzymes in the male body that convert testosteroneinto dihydrotestosterone. Women have less testosterone so they don’t produce as much dihydrotestosterone.”
    She glances up at me with an expectant look.
    “Very interesting.” I give her a wry smile. Her comments have allowed me to gain some small measure of control over my unruly body. At least I am not in danger of stabbing her eye out with an unwanted erection. “Shall I?” I point to the bowl and with a nod, I proceed.
    She continues to talk about male-pattern baldness, the words becoming a hum of background noise, blending in with the