His fist closes on my veil. “My littlemegera,” he mutters, and I breathe in the stink of onions.
I clutch the polymer grip in my lap and fire the Taser, lodging the leads squarely into his chest. Pyotr Tarasov yelps. I hit the trigger again, and one more time, to be sure.
He jerks as he collapses onto me, and the sharp smell of piss fills the air. Settling him onto the heavy metal merry-go-round, I fold my arms around him in an embrace that—from the treeline—might resemble love.
The squeaking finally stops.
36
COLE
If I didn’t despise Pyotr Tarasov before he arrived at the playground, I would hate his miserable bratva ass after I heard him boasting to his bodyguard.
“Stay here,” Tarasov said, nearly invisible in the trees. “And don’t worry if you hear the little cunt beg for mercy.”
The bodyguard muttered something I couldn’t make out, making a pumping motion with his fist. He watched diligently as Tarasov crossed to the merry-go-round. We both did.
I glanced at Kate, barely recognizable in that teen-girl-fantasy of a wedding dress. I knew she was armed with a Taser; I spent the better part of the afternoon coaching her on how to use it. I was ready, even if she failed to land the leads; I had my own stun gun, plus my Glock in a shoulder harness.
Mostly, I worried Kate would move too soon. She’d show her face and Tarasov would attack her. She’d let him see the neonyellow grip of the Taser, and he’d run. She’d miss with her first shot, and he’d have time to call for help.
But Kate is perfect, like she’s practiced every day for years, plotting and planning to take down a Russian killer. There is just enough of a breeze to rattle the leaves above me, covering the electric sizzle of the Taser cables landing. Kate pulls the incapacitated Tarasov down on top of her, doing her best to lull the watching bodyguard, to make him easy prey for me.
As Tarasov’s short-circuiting body collapses, the bodyguard’s teeth gleam in the dark. I barely hear the slide of his zipper, but the face of his watch catches a sliver of moonlight as he starts to work his cock.
His soft grunts hide the sound of my gliding up behind him. I aim my Taser at the back of his neck, but he turns at the last moment, catching the electric wire at the soft spot under his jaw. Taking care to avoid contact with his thrashing body, I hold the connection for a full count of five.
His knees buckle when I release the trigger, and he crashes to the ground, landing face-first in the dirt. I bend down to check the pulse point in his throat.
Nothing.
Shit.
I shift my grip a few times, but I can’t find any sign of a heartbeat. I don’t trust my sense of touch, though, not with the possibility of criminal prosecution hanging in the balance. I jam a ball gag past the moron’s lips and yank the buckle tight across the back of his head.
After that, it’s short work hogtying his unmoving body. I bind his wrists together, lashing the nylon rope tighter than I’d do for any consenting sub. I wrap his ankles in the same manner. Keeping him on his belly, I lash his hands to his feet, pulling hard enough to stretch his back into a painful-looking bow. Oncehe’s secured, I kick his body over to one side. His cock, still hard, is caught in the teeth of his zipper.
Only then do I cross the grass to the merry-go-round.
“Jaysus,” Kate greets me, a little breathless beneath Tarasov’s body. “Took ya long enough.” She writhes beneath the Russian, working to push him off her voluminous white skirts.
“Let’s get him to the trees,” I say.
Adrenaline carried me through tying up the bodyguard. Now, with my heartbeat back to normal, I’m feeling every one of my own aches and bruises. My abs protest loudly as I shove my hands into Tarasov’s armpits. My jaw throbs as his head flops against my collar bone.
Kate does her best to collect his feet, but she’s hampered by the bodice of her dress. “Forget it,” I finally say. “I’ll drag him.”
She goes on ahead, which means she’s waiting with a second gag once I finally reach the relative safety of the trees. She’s rougher with her device than I was with mine, or maybe it’s just that her victim is still alive. She jams the ball past Tarasov’s lips hard enough to provoke a gag response.
“Don’t let him choke,” I say.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
But she turns him to the side, letting puke dribble from the side of his mouth. I pass her the first length of rope for his wrists, but she shakes her head. “I don’t know how. You do it. Make it hurt.”
I may be her Dom, but I know how to follow orders when necessary. Tarasov moans as I link his wrists to his ankles, but he never regains full consciousness.
“This one’s a charm,” Kate says, eyeing the bodyguard’s persistent hard-on as she digs her toe into his side.