Hell In High Heels --- A Jane Delacroix erotic novel: Sex, Sin, and Slaughter in Southern California Read Free Page A

the sudden sense of loss.
                  Faces pressed tight, cheek to cheek, Jane felt herself smiling. Sen slumped, clearly spent. Slowly, his penis slipped out of her and she felt some of his sperm leak onto her thigh. Her grin of triumphant made a hard mask of her beautiful face.
                  Now came the betrayal.
                 
     
     
     
                   The back door opened and the thick set bodyguard and driver stood to one side. He was built like a brick shithouse, square and low to the ground with a neck so thick and squat it seemed to set squarely on his shoulders. He had the dull black eyes of a Mako shark, and Jane was afraid of him.
                   Her information said he'd been trained by U.S. Army Special Forces, working as advisers for the CIA in the Southeast Asian country. Taking out the general would be one thing; taking out his chief torturer and primary hit man would be another matter entirely.
                   As she slid out of the limo Hun Sen let his hand slide off the curve of her behind and down between her legs. She forced herself to accept the invasion as she found her balance in high heels on the driveway. She pretended to laugh and could feel the bodyguard's cold disdain as she pretended to stumble.
                   She was drunk. There was no way to fake it under the general's watchful eye. An hour ago, when he'd finally excused himself to the bathroom of the China Town restaurant, she'd taken a Benzedrine to keep her sharp and slipped a dose of powdered Nembutal into the warlord's glass.
                   If Mother's Little Helper was good enough for the Rolling Stones it was good enough for General Hun Sen, CIA asset against the communist forces in Cambodia, and opium kingpin. She was just praying that the glass marble gleam in his beady black eyes was a signal that he was close to Never Never Land.
                   He came out of the car right behind her. She started stepping forward and climb the wide stone steps leading up to the rented mansion's doors. His arm, wiry thin and surprisingly strong, slipped around her waist like a Sheppard’s hook. He pulled her close until the hard shaft of his erection was pushed hard against the globe of her butt cheek.
                  Jesus, that was fast, she thought. He’s ready to go quicker than a teenager.
                   His face brushed her shoulder and he whispered hoarsely into her back, his spittle blotting the green silk of her dress.
                   "I think I'll take you like I do the village boys," he drooled and she took heart in how vicious his slur was. "I like a snug fit and your American ass just begs for it."
                   Adrenaline flushed through her amphetamine jacked system and she almost fed him the sharp point of her elbow right then, but she fought the urge and forced the energy out in a tight, high pitched giggle. She was close to the end, she could make it.
                   Taking a few quick steps forward, she rolled her hips in the skin tight dress, staying just out of Hun Sen's reach. The sick son of a bitch had Fu Manchu beat hands down for quote, “Yellow Peril,” unquote, and the naked lust on his face made him look like a hyena drooling over a lion kill.
                   The sneer on the bodyguard's face was so scornful it practically bled disdain. It didn't matter, her heart was pounding hard in her chest as she let the warlord chase her up the stairs. Her eyes went to the walls running around the compound. She knew her backup was out there, but realized that if things went really wrong in the next ten minutes that Detective David Sten would never reach her in time.
                   She opened the door and stopped cold. Snarling dogs greeted her. The Doberman Pinchers barked, showing wicked teeth. For