Games Girls Play

BA
Tortuga

Hands-on assassin Rose has the best job in the world and no
issue at all with taking out the bad guys. In fact, the only problem Rose has
in her life is the game of sexy one-upmanship she’s playing with her biggest
competition, Jane. Jane is a sniper who likes to do her job from a distance,
but no matter who manages to do the job first, the ladies get together
afterward to argue over who gets the fee, and have hot make-up sex at the same
time.

When Rose is burned by the family of one of her marks,
though, the game changes. When Jane’s handler tells her she gets the honor of
taking Rose out, Jane knows she can’t just kill her best girl. Jane must rescue
Rose in time to keep both of them alive, or their lust-filled contest will end
with a very final bang.

A
Romantica®
female/female erotic romance
from Ellora’s Cave

Rose checked her bustier in the mirror, adjusted a few pins
in her carefully coiffed updo, freshened her Oh Fuck Me Now lipstick, and
grabbed her flogger.

Show time.

“
Señor
Marquez? I am ready for you.” She headed into
the playroom, the huge bank of windows staring out over the lights of Houston.
She got a smile from the handsome man, kneeling for her on a pile of silken
pillows, body bared and bound with a dozen leather straps.

She smiled at him and sashayed over to the bodyguard who
waited, arms crossed, staring her down. “So grumpy. You cannot play,
señor
?”

He shook his head, eyes on her breasts, the nipples barely
staying contained.

Rose took a deep breath. Then another, leading his eyes in
an up-and-down dance. She needed him distracted.

“Shame.” She turned her back on him, shaking her tail
feathers. Okay, the main door was closed, locked from the inside, and there
wasn’t much surveillance, if any, if big, tall and nasty was allowed to watch.

Rose slapped the flogger against her thigh, the sharp snap
making Marquez jump, the heavy club of a cock filling. “Mmm. Someone is eager,
si
?”

She kept her face calm, the urge to wrinkle her nose strong.
Hairy pig of a man. Still, she had a part to play.

A part to play and a job to do.

She swatted one of the man’s nipples with the flogger,
keeping it light, keeping it easy, and Marquez groaned softly.

Perfect.

“¿
La musica, si
?” She walked over to the Bose,
looking at it, then over her shoulder at the bodyguard. “¿
Ayudame
?”

He came over without a word, turned on the iPod, the music
loud and driving, sudden, filling the air. Rose smiled at him in thanks, pulled
a hairpin from her hair and tagged him, right through the trachea, then sent a
second alongside, slicing the jugular with as little spray as possible. He
blinked at her, blood bubbling on his lips, making not a sound as she eased him
to the floor.

Now for the rest of her job.

She turned back to Marquez, staring at him, savoring things
a moment. This setup had taken some serious work on her part, and she was damn
proud of it. She started toward him, specialty hairpin at the ready.

“Get your ass over here,
chica
. I’m waiting.”

“Bossy, bossy.” She slowed her steps. “Thought I was in charge.”

The violent son of a bitch was in the business of selling
little girls. His specialty was the six to eight range. Anything older than
twelve was out altogether and it was time for this shit to stop, no matter how
much money and power his Columbian daddy had.

“Get over here and do your fucking job,
puta
.”

“That would be my pleasure,
señor
.” She was less than
a foot away when the bullet sent his head back with a snap, the satin cushions
flying as he fell.

“Oh, son of a bitch.” Her eyes hit the big window, the tiny
hole. Motherfucker.

Rose never even hesitated. She hit the bathroom, stripping
off her wig and leather gloves, bustier and heels, dressed in a turtleneck and
sneakers before the bodyguard in the front room had finished bleeding out. She
headed up into the maintenance tunnel, making tracks for the room she had
rented as Cathy Martin, the music from the suite behind her getting softer and
softer.

There were four people on earth who could make that shot.
Maybe five, depending on how many meds they’d given Crow. Four people and one
was in Gitmo, one was working a job in Afghanistan. Out of the other two, only
one got off on fucking up Rose’s life.

Fucking bitch. It had been two years since that hard-assed,
self-righteous twat waffle had walked out on her, bitching about how she was on
the edge, living dangerously. Two years.

In her room, she showered, the makeup changing her from
Hispanic to milky white in seconds. Her hair was dry, the huge mass of copper-red
curls encouraged to fly wildly. She went for a prairie skirt and a lacy peasant
blouse, no makeup. Glasses… Glasses. Right.

She took out the dark-brown contacts too.

Better.

Now instead of a statuesque Mexican Domme, she was a tiny
Irish hippie, granny square bag and all.

She slipped her piece in the foil lined hidden pocket and
grabbed her room key.

It was time to find Jane and find out why the fuck the bitch
had taken her mark.

* * * * *

Jane sat in the corner booth, on the right side, which was
easiest to get out of and slip into the back room, should she need to make an
escape. It was entirely possible Miss Rose would decide she was tired of
playing and take Jane’s happy ass out this time. Unlikely, but possible. She’d
ordered a plate of Irish nachos, and she had a Guinness and an appletini on the
table in front of her.

She was waiting for Rose, pretty sure the stacked little
redhead would show up. The last time they’d played this game had been less than
successful, but Jane missed Rose, missed the quick wit, the sweet curves, the
sound of needy moans.

Jane smiled to herself, thighs rubbing together as the
thought of her favorite on-again, off-again made her ache. Rose had been pissed
off enough that Jane imagined you could smell the smoke coming out of her ears.
She’d timed that shot perfectly, damn it, and she’d managed it from a hell of a
distance. Honestly, you’d think after working as long as they had that Rose
would have learned not to get so emotionally involved in her marks.

Sometimes Jane had to just keep things from getting too
personal.

“What the fuck are you about?” The rainbow-colored purse hit
the table first, then Rose’s fine, fine ass hit the seat across from her, right
on the edge.

“Is that an existential question?” Jane chuckled, sliding
the appletini across the table. “Drink?”

Nice long fuck?

“That job was mine.” The palest blue eyes on earth snapped
and crackled, and Jane could smell Rose’s soap—sandalwood and roses.

Yum. She wanted to wallow in the scent, get it all over the
hotel sheets. “You were taking too long.” Jane shrugged, casual as all get out.

“Taking too long? I was trying to make sure the thirty
assholes in the other room didn’t crash in.”

“Uh-huh. Have I mentioned that you make a shitty Mexican?”
Jane asked. “Your skin is all wrong.”

“I’m going to hurt you.”

Oh, Rose might try, but there were things they did better
together. Like fuck. “Have a drink with me first.”

Rose picked up the martini glass and sipped, smiling around
the rim. Miss Rose did love a tart drink, the girlier, the better. They were a
study in contrasts, she and Rose. Jane liked the earthy sourness of stout, the
mouth-feel of a good steak. Rose liked vegetarian pasta. She was a hard-assed
dyke, through and through, pure military, from her short hair to her ripped
abs. Rose, though, she was all passion, all girl. They said opposites
attracted, after all.

They didn’t chat. What did they have to say, really? Jane’s
bank account was happier by a half-million dollars; Rose was going to make her
pay for that in flesh. She shivered, her nipples going hard. God, she’d missed
her girl.

Rose stared at her, pale-blue eyes blazing. “I should put an
ice pick in your ear.”

“You have an ice pick? Here?” Fucking A. How cool was that?
“You know I always pay my debts, honey. Get over it.” Jane pushed it.

“Fuck off, you bat.” Rose stuck her tongue out, and the
sudden playfulness was incredibly, oddly erotic.

Jane wanted to suck on that tongue and taste the apple.

This was absolutely not the time or place for that, so she
went for needling. “Why are you dressed like a hippie?”

“Because I make a shitty Mexican.” Rose reached for the bar
menu. “Did you order food?”

“Irish nachos for my Fair Isle girl.”

“Yours?”

“Always.” Eternally. No matter how they fought it.

The menu was placed on the table, and for a heart-stopping
second she thought Rose might actually get up and walk away, then Rose started
laughing, honest, deep, belly laughs.

Jane grinned. Yeah, that was more like it. She watched Rose’s
breasts bounce with the laughter. There was a beauty mark on her rib cage,
right under the swell of her left breast. A scar marked a line right next to
Rose’s bellybutton, and a puckered burn rounded out the curve of Rose’s left
buttock. Jane knew that body all too well, every inch.

Their eyes locked, and Jane had to fight the urge to pounce,
to meet that fiery passion head-on.

The nachos came, which broke the intensity a little. That
was fine; they had to build through the night.

Rose picked the peppers off, lapped the sour cream off her
fingers, and Jane just watched, her focus laser sharp, just like when she was
setting up a shoot. She wanted. No, she needed. More than that, she hoped Rose
needed too. A touch slid up along her leg, surprising her, making her jump.
Rose was usually hands off in public.

Damn, that was a fine woman.

“Nervous?” Oh, little tease. You’d never know, looking at
the tiny girl, that she could take down a four hundred pound man in maybe ten
seconds. Rose was a hand-to-hand expert, Israeli trained.

“Nope. Just thought there was a bug.”

The touch came again, bolder this time. “You have a room?”

“I do. At the old Collins Hotel. The haunted one?”

“How daring.” Rose licked sour cream off her bottom lip, the
motion as erotic as it was painfully familiar. “Have you seen any ghosts?”

“Nope. Hoping to see my favorite one there soon.”

“Spooky.” Rose finished her appletini, stood, eyebrow arched.

“You know it.” She munched one more nacho, making her lover
wait before slipping Rose a room key on the way to pay her tab at the bar.

When she turned around, Rose was gone, the table empty
except for a martini glass.

Time to go. Jane grinned. Oh yeah. She could blow off some
steam.

She could explore that tight little body and make Rose
forget about however many thousands of dollars Jane owed her, make them both
forget about the harsh words they’d shared well over a year ago. Jane hummed,
checking her danger areas automatically before heading out the door.

She slipped into the doors of the sister hotel to the one
she’d rented a room. She went to the third floor, crossed to the skywalk, went
up to the twenty-third floor and then down to fourteen.

When she slid quietly into the room, she heard a round slide
into a chamber. “Gonna shoot me, babe?” she asked.

Fuck, Jane loved the scent of Rose’s soap mixed with gun oil.
“Not today. Lock the door.”

Jane locked the door, then checked the closet, bathroom and
windows. Habit, not suspicion.

Rose pulled the comforter off the bed, dumping it in a pile
in the corner of the room, exposing the bed’s platform base. They checked the
room quickly and quietly together. No bugs, no booby traps.

Time for the fun.

The peasant blouse landed on the floor, then the skirt,
leaving Rose standing there wearing pink lingerie that hugged every curve, red
hair like a halo.

Jane reached for that tiny waist, loving how dark and strong
her hands looked against Rose’s sweet skin. Rose wiggled slowly, rubbing
against her fingers, sliding on her trigger callouses.

“God, you’re pretty.” Jane smiled, moving close enough that
her shirt snagged on Rose’s bra.

“And you’re a fucking stud.” Pretty words. Pretty slutty
mouth.

“I am. A stud with boobs.” She rubbed said boobs against
Rose’s, loving the little spark of friction.

“Mmhmm.” Rose’s fingers slipped up her ribs, hard enough not
to tickle.

The laughter tasted good on their kisses, her lips sealing
over Rose’s. Rose moaned for her, tongue touching hers, flicking like a tiny
flame that slid down her spine, heading directly to her clit. Her girl. They
clinched, and she pushed, toppling them to the bed.

There was something incredibly erotic about being dressed
while Rose was mostly bared, something delicious about it, and she pushed her
knee between Rose’s thighs, giving that sweet, delectable cunt something to rub
on.

Rose gasped, legs spreading a little, humping against her,
proving that Jane hadn’t been the only one to need.

She leaned onto one arm, giving herself a little room to
touch, to play. She wanted to pull away the scraps of lace covering Rose’s
breasts. Rose followed her thought, fingers baring the freckled milky flesh,
hard pale-pink nipples right there, ripe and sweet and ready for her lips.

Perfect. She bent, lifting one in her fingers, the pretty
round flesh fitting her hand just right. Jane wrapped her lips around Rose’s nipple,
flicking it with her tongue to make it ache. The scent of sandalwood mingled
with the salt on Rose’s skin, and she licked again, hungry for more.

“Jane. Jane, lady. Don’t tease.”

Teasing was what she loved. Rose knew that. Jane chuckled,
blowing a puff of air against her girl’s skin. Goose pimples popped up,
covering Rose’s torso. Her sensitive girl.

Jane sucked that nipple in, giving Rose good, strong lovin’,
drawing the hard bit of flesh against her teeth, letting it press. As soon as
she started pulling, Rose’s fingers tangled in her short hair, holding her
close. Her lovely did like a good hard tug. Sliding her hand down, Jane tugged
at Rose’s damp panties, wanting them gone, but Rose was riding her leg, rubbing
up on her, and the little scrap of lace was caught.

A sound of frustration pushed out of her throat, and Jane
snapped the side seam. She wanted naked Rose now. If Rose didn’t want her
lingerie ruined, she shouldn’t wear it when they hadn’t fucking touched in
months.

Too long, in fact. Jane slid her fingers down Rose’s belly,
down to the curls she loved.