Sake Bomb

Fresh Whet INK Publishing

SAKE BOMB
copyright July 2013 by Sable
Jordan

ISBN:
978-0-9838946-3-6

All rights reserved under the International
and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic
or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any
information storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places,
characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any
actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is
entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work
are 18 years of age or older.

This book is intended for Adult Audiences. It
features graphic language, sexual encounters and situational
violence that may be considered offensive. Please keep your files
in a location inaccessible to minors.

Fresh Whet Ink Publishing

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Cover design copyright 2013 Sable Jordan

First Edition July 2013

A SMASHWORDS EDITION

Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or
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By SABLE JORDAN

“
I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to
become.”

~ Carl Jung

“
Now, I am become Death, the
destroyer of worlds.”

~ J. Robert Oppenheimer

July 22
^nd

Shimoda, Japan

T
echnically, this
was a ménage à trois. Three bodies—one male, two female—one of them
warm and sitting upright in a dining chair, a pair of bamboo
chopsticks in hand; the other two locked in a libidinous embrace
atop the dining room table…cooling.

Perhaps, then—since she was being
technical—this was more voyeuristic in nature.

Her, a voyeur? She blinked, cocked her head
to one side as though some truth had just been revealed. The
greatest pleasure came from being in a scene—and
god
did she
miss that—but she had to admit a thrill arced through her watching
the man slide between the warrior’s legs an hour before.

Plastic wrap still clinging to the woman’s
slim body….
hamachi
and
unagi
and
futomaki
undisturbed…guests barely gone…his pants just clear of his knees.
Not a romantic coming together. Just sex, raw and rough. His hand
had tightened around the warrior’s throat, squeezed and held as he
thrust mercilessly into her hot cunt; relaxed just before she
passed out, his hips still bucking.

The smack of his palm against her face;
grunts and moans. The warrior’s silence.

Chills skated over the voyeur’s skin at the
memory, and she knew her panties were soaked. The hottest scene
she’d seen in a while—dominance and pain.

She would give anything to have been
included. She focused on the bodies. Well, maybe not
anything…

Reaching over dirty plates and glasses, she
pushed the tips of the chopsticks into his pale neck and then drew
back quickly. It felt… She didn’t expect it to feel like that.
Stiff and elastic at the same time.

He stared back with sightless brown eyes,
unfazed by her prodding. Wasabi paste stained the shoulder of his
white dress shirt green, and flecks of rice dotted his
silver-threaded black hair. Saliva had stopped its slow drip from
his open mouth, accumulating in a small, tranquil pool right over
one of the table’s many cherry blossom inlays.

The entire house was an homage to the
sakura: the table, the dishes, the chairs. A mural of the tree
covered an entire wall, the thin brown branches infested with tiny
puffs of white and pale pink. Pretty little flowers. So very
delicate and useless…

Gloved hands braced on the table’s edge, the
voyeur pushed to her feet, scraping the chair legs on the hardwood
floor. She touched the tapered ends of the chopsticks to the
tabletop and then dragged the utensils along the surface, marring
the slab of wood with a chalky white line that trailed between the
many dishes holding the remnants of the feast; around the glasses
rimmed red with lipstick from guests who laughed a bit too hard at
their host’s jokes; around the stray slices of ginger that went
flying when everyone banged a fist against the table, plunging shot
glasses on shaky platforms into the tumblers below.

A good night.

Coming to the other side of the table, she
stopped.

The warrior lay there, still as earth. The
small body was naked save the man atop it and the occasional
sashimi or nori roll now smashed against the once-peach skin.
Beneath blunt cut bangs, the eyes were wide, panic-frozen orbs.

A smile curled the voyeur’s lips, and she
glanced out the wall of windows across the room. Night painted the
treetops black, the darkness melding seamlessly into the ocean half
a mile beyond. The view would be wonderful in the light of day. She
should stay a few nights. Hot baths. Warm bed. Food. Her gaze
shifted to the back of the silver head. How long before someone
came looking for him?

More importantly, how long before the stench
became too much?

The voyeur pulled a length of yarn from her
pocket and winced. She’d have to touch the body to place it.
Knowing it must be done didn’t mean she was ready for it.

“
What is the meaning of rope…?”

A distant memory, quickly tucked away.
Squaring her shoulders, she drew the scents of ginger and seaweed
deep into her lungs and then plunged the cord into the space
between the table and the neck. The skin against her hand was cool,
the texture not much different than a freshly gutted fish, and that
thought helped her get through securing the yarn around the
warrior’s slim neck. Knot tied, she centered it at the hollow in
the throat and then cocked her head. That knot should have been
enough, but the warrior’s empty eyes demanded more.

Something significant to honor the death of
a
shinsei
.

Using the chopsticks, the voyeur forced the
warrior’s stiffening lids down as best she could. With the
mindfulness and exactitude of performing the tea ceremony, she took
up the pitcher of beer and poured until a nearby glass was half
full.

“Ichi.” The chopsticks went parallel over
the tumbler’s mouth. One rolled off and she recovered it, placed it
again. “Ni.”

Finding the carafe, she brimmed a shot glass
with
saké
; carefully settled the drink atop the wooden
utensils. It wobbled—she sucked in a quick breath—but held. Sure it
was steady, she pulled away and chirped, “San.”

She raised her fist, thought better of it,
and then withdrew a bit from the table to observe the scene: The
disarray of dishes; the half-drawn outline of the two bodies; the
red yarn at the warrior’s neck; the drink.

A glance down gave her a bird’s-eye view of
the composed beverage: two concentric circles, one inside of the
other. Ever so carefully, she nudged the shot glass along the
chopsticks until, looking from the top, the inner circle and outer
circle shared a tangent. Another precarious wobble from the smaller
glass, but it once again stayed put.

Better.

One tiny move would send it toppling but
like this it was perfect. Balanced.

And that was it, a fitting tribute to a
great warrior and a promise fulfilled. The first of them was
restored.

Soon, they would all be.

She pressed a gentle kiss to the warrior’s
cold lips and then quietly left the scene.

Hours later, the voyeur gone and the bodies
frozen on the table, the sake fell.

ICHI…

July 24
^th

Belém do Pará
,
Brazil

K
izzie’s back hit
the wall with a thud that knocked the wind from her lungs. Her head
followed, the jolt splashing light behind her eyes. She tilted her
chin up to gulp down air but he was on her in a heartbeat, lifting
her until his solid chest crushed her breasts. Large hands squeezed
her ass beneath the short skirt, groping and kneading frantically.
Her arms snaked over his shoulders, legs wrapped tightly at his
waist, leaving his stiff bulge snug against her center. He’d gone
commando beneath the slacks, a detail she picked up on while
dancing with him earlier. Right now, all that separated her kitty
from his cock were three thin layers of material: one cotton, one
baby pink lace, and his graphite-colored polyester.

He licked a path up her neck with broad
sweeps of his tongue. Lids at half mast, Kizzie swept her gaze
around the dark apartment. Couldn’t make out a thing. Sweat and
cologne flooded her senses, the smell so strong she tasted the
cheap fragrance in her mouth. There had to be a light switch
somewhere nearby…

She reached out to feel along the wall but
he captured her hand and brought it back around his head.

“I’m gonna,” he sucked on her neck, released
it, “fuck you,” took another mouthful of skin a little higher up,
“so hard,
gostosa
.”

Lips crushed to hers, he shoved his tongue
into her mouth fast and wild, corking her snarky response and
making it sound like a moan. The last thing Kizzie needed was
promises. Or plans. She had one of those, and it didn’t involve
speaking. Talking was for people who were going to see each other
again.

That wasn’t this.

This was just sex.

Having no barometer for anything else, it
was
always
just sex. Even with men she knew a tad longer
than the one now licking the roof of her mouth like a snow cone. No
commitments, no feelings, which meant no thinking about it. She
didn’t want to. Kizzie had exhaustive training in detachment long
before becoming a CIA agent—knew how to shut off her brain and go
to a hollow place, a safe place, where the body kept moving but
thought gave way to emptiness. It’d gotten her through tougher
situations than this.

Without warning, a pair of intense chocolate
eyes took center stage in her head, the nuisance occurring
frequently since leaving Oman. She never quite got used to it, or
the buzz it brought, hovering just beneath her skin… The echo of
his voice in her head….

You afraid of me, Princess?

That “feeling” crap she so detested seeped
in too fast to contain it, and for the first time in Kizzie’s life
having this random guy pawing all over her felt…wrong. Her heart
stuttered.

Shit.

Why the hell had she gone to Helsinki?

Why the hell had she come
back
to
Belém?

Yes, Kizzie Baldwin had set foot on this
stretch of land long ago. Highly trained, beautiful and
impatient—time added nothing but age and experience. But the
difference in years couldn’t erase what had happened here.

The last visit flashed through her mind and
her breathing hitched. A different man then—tall, dark hair, fair
skin nodding at a Latin ancestry somewhere closer to the trunk of
the family tree. He’d made her laugh and laugh the first time since
leaving The Point. And he was one of many memories she wished her
lucky knife was sharp enough to whittle away. Combined, West Point
and The Farm had stripped out 99% of Kizzie’s trust in humanity.
He—and Belém—handily eradicated the rest.

Forget it. None of that mattered right
now.

Damndest thing about forgetting: the more
Kizzie tried to, the more she couldn’t. All she could do was make
better memories this go-round.

Belém owed her, and she’d come to
collect.

A quick head from ass extraction, Kizzie
focused on the man in front of her, tried to settle into the pace
of the kiss. The task was harder than his cock between her legs.
Thick, slick flesh went round her mouth, rough and messy. Stroking
her tongue. Lapping the inside of her cheek. All over the place and
way off beat. Nothing like the slow, sensual way he moved at the
club.

He’d coaxed her into dancing, dripping
Portuguese in her ear like liquid fire, saying all manner of freaky
things he wanted to do to her. Instead of laughing outright, she’d
made a face to indicate she couldn’t hurdle the language barrier.
He took her hand and, in a very no-nonsense way, guided her through
the disco; spent the previous three hours rolling his hips against
hers in a rhythm so hot Kizzie simply
had
to write her name
and number in his palm when he’d asked for it.