MadetoBeBroken

Lyra
Byrnes

Two shattered lives, one secluded
cottage, a thousand sinful secrets.

As an agent of a shadowy US
government organization, Coco learned the hard way that rules mean the
difference between peace and instability, life and death. Getting vicious rebel
leader Alexi into a safe house for questioning should be as easy as snapping a
man’s neck or applying a fresh coat of lipstick.

But the mesmerizing Alexi has his
own set of rules, and when he turns the tables on Coco, she’s the one who must
give answers…to some very intimate questions. She’s never let a man take her
body, let alone strip her defenses, but Alexi’s demands are too tantalizing to
refuse.

The strong-minded redhead strives
to appease this powerful warlord long enough to learn his devastating secret.
But eventually she discovers that she must surrender both her rules and her
inhibitions.

Inside Scoop:
Some light
BDSM erupts between this feisty secret agent and her dominating brute.

A
Romantica®
erotic romantic suspense
from Ellora’s Cave

If the government was paying for it, Coco Fiori was sure as
hell going to eat every last macadamia nut in the minibar. She pulled out the
jar and a bottle of cold white wine and settled on the
hotel
bed, trying not to wince even though there was no one around
to see, and flipped open the dossier of her target.

Alexsandr “Alexi” Maksimov, leader of the most powerful and
violent rebel faction in his native Chechnya, called “General” by the legion of
thugs he commanded, thought to be behind a series of church bombings, an attack
on a train full of civilians and the assassination of a French diplomat. Nasty
piece of work, and he’d paid for it, she noted, flipping back to the picture
clipped onto the first page. He had a mane of wild hair like a primitive hunter,
but what caught her attention was the scar that bisected one eye from his cheek
to his forehead. He wore a grim expression that spoke of raw power and damage
done.

And here he was, striding around London like an ordinary
man—why? Why didn’t the Brits take him out while he was on their turf? Surely
their local equivalent of her own organization, the US Overseas Security
Operations, could do the work the “official” government wouldn’t bloody its
hands with.

Can be found at the Three Cocks pub in Knightsbridge,
spotted on Bond Street, residence unknown
. So he drank and liked a well-cut
suit, that was information she could use. She jotted some notes on her Mission
Directives chart, the one she made for herself with each assignment. The OSO
might have its own rules, but hers had always worked just fine.

Rule One, maintain the informational upper hand.

The more she knew about her target, the more hold she would
have over him, especially once she probed for weaknesses. So what were
Maksimov’s weaknesses? Drink, clothes
¼
women?

She shivered at the thought of smiling with feigned sexual
interest at that cruel face, touching the scar on his eye. No. Better to skip
the pub and start with the Bond Street couturiers.

It might be nice to pick up some new clothes anyway. She had
always been curvy and never fond of the softness in her arms—however hard she
trained, they never lost a slight roundness—but after a diet of hospital food
and IV drips, she emerged thinner. After the incident, the department plunged
her back into training and the tautness in her muscles returned, although she
had lost some of her former strength. Then again, she mused, relishing the cool
acidity of the wine as it cut the nuts’ fatty crunch, that would be the last
thing she’d tell that asshole Rod Templeton or anyone in the Western Ops boys’
club.

Coco felt her face grow hot as she recalled Templeton
peering at her from under his thick head of hair, with a condescending
half-smile she longed to punch right off his kisser. His hands were folded
together on his desktop, pristine half-inch cuffs held together with gold
anchor cufflinks, in a gesture she had come to recognize as “conveying
sincerity”. A set of keys lay on the table between them. She refused to touch
them.

“Eastern Europe is not my specialty,” she had explained
again. “Kidnapping is not my specialty, and taking orders from you is
definitely not my specialty.”

At this, Rod chuckled. “I’m well aware that Western Ops
isn’t your bailiwick, Coco.”

“We broke up, Rob. You can call me Agent Fiori.”

“Well, then, ‘Agent Fiori’, if you think I’m sending you
back to Indonesia after what happened
¼
”

Who was he to decide where she went? She had trained for
Southeast Asia. The culture, the languages and the political landscape were all
she had known in her four years at OSO. Getting caught on the business end of
one little bombing was a small price to pay.

As always when reminded of the blast, the numb grafted skin
on her right side burned and itched, as if it were prodding her mind to return
to the beachside hotel, the one safe place in a dangerous country, she had been
told. Half a cold beer in after a long day of negotiating with rebel leaders,
the building exploded in a rage of red and orange, sending the sand-weighted
tables flying. A gaily striped umbrella caught fire and tipped onto her back as
she scrambled, screams and the roar of flames shattering her eardrums
¼

Out of commission due to flying leisure accessory, she
thought ruefully. Behold the heroic operative.

“It’s not your job to protect me.”

Rod smiled at her in that condescending way she used to
mistake for tenderness. “Look, OSO knows you’re a great agent, one of the best
we have. We wouldn’t send you on a Mickey Mouse job. We’re talking about the
head of the Chechen Rebel Faction. Alexsandr Maksimov is a very dangerous man.”

That was patented Templeton bullshit. What would a Chechen
rebel general be doing swanning around London, buying suits? Didn’t his thugs
have widows and orphans to intimidate in their own disputed lands? Rod was
trying to coddle her—again. Throughout their ill-advised six months together,
the man had her personal and professional styles completely upside-down. He
turned into a weakling in bed, wanting her to take charge, make every decision,
when that was the last thing she wanted after a day of kicking ass surrounded
by scarred, cruel and heavily weaponed-up bad guys. Out on the field, Rod
lobbied to give her the cushiest assignments in an attempt to spare her
precious white skin. Her side twitched again.
Yeah,
she thought,
look
how that turned out.

“This Maksimov may be a dangerous man, but he’s being one
far from my theater of operation. Since when are you setting field assignments
for Europe, anyway?”

“Coco, sweetie
¼
”

She gritted her teeth.

“You were in the hospital. Why do you think I got these
swanky new digs?” He swept an arm ironically at the colorless office. “While
you were eating through a straw, I was made head of Western Ops.”

She reached for the file on the desk and rifled through it
with a cursory glance at her departure date—that very night, good. Rod could
give her all the lame assignments he liked, if it meant getting away from him
and Washington DC as soon as possible.

And there was another payoff—the sight of his smug smile
crumbling as she left him with some last words.

“Funny. I heard they were an elite unit.”

So here she was, raiding the minibar in a fairly luxurious
hotel suite, wondering where to begin. One street and one pub weren’t much to
go on. She could find her way to any specific market stall in the back alleys
of Jakarta blindfolded, but had never been to London. Where had she put the
map, and why was she having a hard time concentrating? Absently she gathered
her long red hair into a messy bun and sliced a pen through it. It took her
several seconds to identify the source of her distraction—sounds coming through
the hotel walls, a muffled moan, a giggle.

She stilled. Her hearing had mostly come back, but some
sounds had to swim against the tide from her ears to her brain before they
acquired meaning. Obviously the subliminal sex noises had made her think of
setting a honey trap for the glowering Maksimov. Gross.

“Beg for it, slut,” growled a man’s voice.

“Fuck you!” the woman squealed.

It sounded as if he already was—the headboard behind her
shook rhythmically. Coco felt her nipples harden at each shudder.

“That’s it. On all fours, slut!”

A scuffle from behind the wall and the woman began to groan.

“Ow, god, that feels so good, you bastard. Ah, fuck me
hard!”

Coco’s mouth went dry and her pussy flooded. Screw the file
for tonight. She’d been bedridden and weak for so long, maybe a little
self-indulgence would help clear her head and make her feel strong again. She
switched on the television and searched through the adult movies. Rod would
blanch when he got the bill. With any luck, the title would be prominently
displayed and he’d have to pay up for her pleasuring herself during—let’s see,
The
Maid and the Master
.

She took a long swallow of wine and stripped off her
sweatshorts, lying back against the cool sheets. Her hair had come undone and
fell in a flaming curtain on the pillow. She enjoyed the sight of her pale,
long legs, feeling nasty and sexy lying there bottomless, with her nipples
pushing against the tight T-shirt, the cool air caressing her naked pussy.
Also, the shirt covered her scars and she didn’t want to think about them, not
when a more urgent need prevailed.

Onscreen, a pretty, dark-haired girl in an abbreviated
French maid’s costume was being yanked by one arm into a gleaming shower the size
of a walk-in closet. The master was tall and well-built, his cock like a
burnished baton, pointing straight at his dimpled chin.

“Let’s see how well you clean,” he said, offering her a bar
of soap. The trembling maid was soaked through, her tiny black-and-white
costume plastered to her lush curves. She rubbed her hand over the soap and
grasped his erection, pumping it slowly while he tipped his head back and
groaned.

“With your mouth, tart,” he barked.

“No, Sir, please.”

He gave a violent twist to her nipple and she gasped, water
running into her open mouth.

“That’s for talking back. Do something useful with that
pretty mouth.”

Obediently she sank to her knees.

As the master’s huge cock slid between his victim’s lips,
Coco trailed a hand down to her sopping pussy and lightly stroked the bud. It
was rigid and ready, but she wanted to draw out her pleasure. The other hand
ran traces across her aching nipples, sneaking in a hard pinch that made her
back arch. She nearly lost control when the master bucked his lean hips, his
balls almost disappearing into the maid’s mouth. From the room next door, hard
panting issued, heightening her arousal. The action onscreen seemed to mirror
the action behind her and she slowed her caresses.

The scene dissolved to one in another room, where the maid,
now naked but for heels, stood trembling on an Oriental carpet, tied by her
wrists to a bedpost. The actress had a lovely round ass that, from the
deep-pink marks on it, had already been thoroughly abused. She did an effective
job of feigning fear and excitement, wide-eyed and pouting, trying to see the
master over her shoulder.

He had unbuttoned the fly of his dark suit and held a thick
and well-proportioned erection in his hand, aiming at her lush, bare buttocks.

“You’re such a good little slut,” came the voice from the
room next door. “You deserve to be fucked in the ass.”

“Owwww!” the woman next door wailed. “Don’t come in my ass!
That’s so dirty.”

Saliva glistened around the maid’s pink starburst. The
master pulled her back by the hips and thrust his cock inside to the hilt. Coco
felt her juices running out of her pussy and lubricating her ass. She wondered
what it felt like, to do what they were doing. To be on all fours, legs spread,
being taken roughly in that most secret place. She rubbed her clit and it
exploded, sending her body into a frenzy of writhing on the hotel bed. Her
T-shirt rode up and tangled around her, her scalp was damp, her clit shooting
ripples of pleasure that reached every part of her body.

She blinked and forced her breathing to slow. Primal
grunting came from behind the wall and the couple onscreen was still going at
it, but neither scene held any further allure for her. She clicked off the TV.

It’s like everyone in the world is having an orgy,
she thought.
Except me.