Page 5

"You're dangerous," he says, and there's something almost like admiration in his voice.

I smile, slow and wicked. "So I've been told."

This time when he kisses me, it's different—less domineering, more exploratory.

His hands roam my body with appreciation rather than ownership.

The shift is subtle but significant—he's stopped seeing me as just a conquest and started seeing me as something more intriguing, more worth his genuine attention.

Perfect.

I straddle him, taking control without seeming to.

He's already hard—impressive recovery time for a man his age. Must be all those vitamins and personal trainers (or maybe the little blue pill, who knows). I lean over and grab a fresh condom, only this time, I do the honors, rolling the thin sheath onto his cock with familiar ease. This is something I didn’t need Killion’s training for —I could do this in my sleep.

"My turn," I whisper against his lips, “my pace,” as I guide his length into my dripping pussy.

He laughs, hands settling on my hips. "By all means."

I rise and fall on his cock like a piston in an oil rig—mechanical, ruthless.

His eyes lock on mine, greedy and needy, drinking in the porn show I'm giving him. I bite my lip, flutter my lashes, gasp at all the right moments. It's all bullshit—a performance calculated to his ego. I’m bouncing on his dick like it’s a fleshy pogo stick and he’s eating it up.

His rough hands maul my tits, clumsy and grasping. His thumbs drag across my nipples, sending actual sparks of pleasure shooting down to my clit. Fuck me for responding to this asshole.

"So responsive," he grunts, staring at me like I'm some kind of science experiment. "So real."

I almost laugh in his face. Real? Nothing about this is real except the mission. But I swallow the laugh, twist it into a moan that would make a porn star proud, and arch my back to give him a better view of his cock disappearing inside me.

"Touch yourself," he barks, trying to sound commanding but coming off desperate. "Let me watch you cum.”

I comply, fingers circling my clit as I continue to ride him, pace quickening. His breathing roughens, hips thrusting upward to meet mine. We're building toward something together now—a shared crescendo, a mutual destruction.

"Tell me your real name," he says suddenly, the words startling me. "Not the one you gave at the bar. Your real name."

My rhythm falters, but I recover quickly. "Why? So you can find me after this?" I lean down, breasts brushing his chest, lips ghosting across his. "Wouldn't you rather keep the mystery?"

His hands grip my hips harder, taking back some control. "I like to know who I'm fucking," he growls. "Who's making me feel this good."

It's a test. A trap. If I give him Landry, he could trace me—back to Isaac, back to my old life, back to complications I can't afford. If I insist on Lydia, I confirm his suspicions that I'm hiding something.

So I take a third option.

"Nova," I breathe against his lips, the name Killion gave me, the identity that's becoming more real with every mission. "My name is Nova."

For a jarring second, recognition arcs through my body like a red-hot flare but it’s gone in an instant. It’s nearly enough to throw me off my game but I recover before my mark notices.

Hell, I probably could’ve sprouted horns and a pointed tongue right in front of Victor’s lust-glazed eyes and he wouldn’t give a shit as long as he’s buried hilt-deep inside my body.

Satisfaction flashes in his eyes. He believes me—or at least, believes I've given him something true. His pace quickens, driving deeper, harder.

"Nova," he repeats, testing the name on his tongue. "Beautiful. Dangerous. A star that explodes."

"Ready to explode for you," I gasp, fingers working faster, body genuinely responding to the friction, the fullness, the danger of the game.

His thumb joins mine, adding pressure to my clit, and the dual sensation pushes me over the edge. I come with a cry that might be his name, might be gibberish, might be nothing at all. He follows seconds later, hips jerking, a groan torn from his throat as he empties himself inside me.

I collapse against his chest, feeling his heartbeat thunder against mine, our sweat mingling, breath synced. For a moment—I forget who I am, why I'm here, what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm just a body floating on endorphins, adrift in the aftermath of pleasure.

But reality floods back too quickly. The mission. The code. The reason for all of this.

I roll off him, stretching like a satisfied cat, giving him a smile that's all smoke and mirrors. "That was worth the knife at the bar," I say, voice honeyed with fake affection.

He laughs, the sound more genuine than before. "You're something else, Nova." He reaches for his phone again—checking the time, I think. "It's late. You should stay."

“What about your engagement?” I ask, feigning concern. “I’d hate to keep you from your plans.”

“Fuck my plans. I’d rather be here with you.” He reaches for me, pulling me closer, so he can slowly turn me around. His finger drags down the sweaty crack of my twin halves. “What if I want to fuck you in the ass next. You good with that?”

“Sounds like a party,” I respond with a wicked grin. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind backdoor action but I know for a fact, that ain’t happening tonight.

Perfect. Exactly what I need.

"I should clean up first," I say, pulling away from his grasp with deliberate grace. "Mind if I use your shower?"

"Go ahead," he says, settling back against the pillows, satiated and relaxed. "Take your time."

I swagger to the bathroom, his gaze burning into my ass with each step. That’s it, gorge yourself on the view, buddy , ‘cuz that’s all you’re gonna get.

The bathroom's all rich-people excess—marble for days, glass shower big enough for an orgy, golden fixtures probably worth more than Isaac's car. I lock the door, flip on the fan, and get to work.

First things first. I reach up to my hairline, fingers finding the edge of the small flesh-colored patch Sienna had applied during my transformation.

Designed to look like nothing more than a beauty mark near my temple, the synthetic skin conceals Killion's chemical masterpiece—a neuropharmaceutical cocktail developed by ex-Mossad scientists.

I peel it carefully from my skin, revealing a crystalline film no thicker than a contact lens.

"For after he's spent," Sienna had instructed during prep, eyes clinical as she applied it. "Put it in his drink. Bypasses the blood-brain barrier in seconds. He'll be suggestible as a hypnotized teenager, especially with post-orgasm neurochemicals already flooding his system."

I twist on the shower, cranking it hot enough to fog the mirrors. Through the steam, I check my reflection—lips swollen, bite marks on my neck, mascara smudged. I look fucked. I look like someone else.

I carefully place half the film on my own tongue—the antidote component that'll protect me if there’s any cross contamination while Victor turns into a confession booth with a dick.

It dissolves instantly, tasting like metal and burnt oranges.

The rest I fold between my fingers, invisible but potent.

Clean and ready, I saunter back into the bedroom, still dripping. Victor's propped against his headboard like the king of his domain, scrolling through his phone with that rich-asshole intensity. He glances up, cock already twitching back to life.

"Come here," he orders, dropping his phone face-down on the nightstand. "I'm not done with you yet."

I flash a smile designed to make his balls ache. "Good."

His whiskey sits half-empty beside the bed. As I crawl toward him, I let my hand brush the glass, dropping the nearly invisible film into the amber liquid. It disappears on contact—odorless, tasteless, undetectable even to the most paranoid of marks.

"Thirsty work," I purr, nodding at his drink. "Finish that. You'll need the stamina for what I'm about to do to you."

Victor smirks, downs the rest in one swallow.

I slide off the bed and onto my knees between his legs, the perfect picture of submission.

But this is strategy, not servitude. The drug's clock is ticking.

Three minutes until his frontal lobe goes offline.

Five until he'll tell me whatever I want just to feel my mouth on him again.

"Let me thank you properly," I purr, taking his half-hard cock in my hand. His eyes are already starting to glaze as I wrap my lips around him, tongue swirling over the sensitive head. He groans, fingers threading through my hair—not pushing, not yet. The control freak is slipping.

I watch his face as I work him, tracking the drug's progress through his system.

His pupils dilate to black pools. His breathing shallows.

His grip on my hair loosens as his coordination fails.

Halfway through a particularly deep stroke, his eyes suddenly unfocus, staring at something a thousand yards beyond the bedroom walls.

Bingo. I release him with a wet pop, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

"Victor," I whisper, rising to straddle his thighs without taking him inside me. "I need something from you."

"Anything," he slurs, hands pawing clumsily at my breasts.

"The access code to your private server," I say, rocking against him, keeping him just stimulated enough to stay hard but not enough to cum. "The one with the Nexus Holdings information."

His brow furrows momentarily—some last remnant of resistance—then smooths as the chemicals overtake his higher functions.

"Eight-four-seven-three-one-nine-zero-six," he recites, voice flat and mechanical.

I commit it to memory, repeating it silently. "And how do I access the server remotely?"

He tells me everything—IP addresses, secondary passwords, encryption keys. Information worth millions on the black market, spilling from his lips as easily as bad pickup lines. I grind against him harder as a reward, watching his eyes roll back.

"Good boy," I purr, increasing my pace. "You're so helpful, Victor. So open with me."

"Only you," he mumbles, hands gripping my hips. "Only Nova."

I should stop now. I have what I came for. Mission accomplished. But there's that twisted part of me—the part Killion recognized, the part that craves chaos—that can't resist one final flourish.

"Victor," I whisper against his ear, "I want to know your deepest desire. The thing you've never told anyone."

He shudders beneath me. "My mother," he confesses, voice cracking. "I always wanted her to see me succeed. To be proud."

I tsked lightly. “Poor little mama’s boy always seeking her love.”

Oh, this is too perfect . Practically gift-wrapped. The emerald pendant between my breasts—the one chosen to match his mother's—catches the light as I move.

His breath hitches, ending on something that sounds suspiciously like a sob. “M-mama,” he groans.

Oh, good grief. I hold back my laughter. "When you wake up tomorrow," I murmur, voice hypnotic, "you'll realize something about yourself. Something you've been hiding."

"What?" he asks, completely in my power now.

"You're intensely, unavoidably attracted to your mother," I whisper. "You'll think about her when you touch yourself. You'll see her face when you're with other women. You'll dream about her every night. You’re a shamefully dirty boy, Victor. You can’t get hard without thinking about fucking her.”

His face contorts—confusion, horror, arousal all mingling together as the suggestion takes root in his drugged brain.

"But my mother," he mumbles, his brow furrowed with drug-addled confusion, "she died... three years ago."

I trace one finger down his chest, a smile spreading across my face like an oil slick.

"Perfect," I whisper against his throat. "That means she can't contradict your new confession about wanting to fuck her corpse. Imagine explaining that to your board members."

I kiss his slack mouth once, tasting victory and expensive whiskey.

"Sweet dreams, Victor. Hope you've got a good therapist."

His eyes roll up into his skull and within minutes he’s out like a light, the drug pulling him under into dreamless sleep where my suggestion will burrow deeper into his psyche.

I roll off him, mission complete. I slide from the bed, gathering my things with silent efficiency.

The information is secure, the mark compromised in more ways than one.

By the time he wakes, I'll be gone, and he'll be left with nothing but a hangover, a security breach he doesn't know about yet, and a deeply disturbing new sexual fixation that will haunt him for years.

Killion would disapprove of that last part—unnecessary risk, unprofessional behavior.

But as I let myself out of the suite, I can't bring myself to care.

Some small part of Landry James—the chaos-loving, boundary-pushing thrill-seeker—is still alive in there, refusing to be completely subsumed by Nova.

And honestly? That's the only part that still feels real.