Sex and spies seem to go together like hands and leather gloves. From the fictional secret agent and womanizer, James Bond, to the countless provocative depictions of real-life accused spy and exotic dancer, Mata Hari, eroticism and espionage are a natural fit in the public consciousness. It might be blatant romanticism of a thankless, dangerous job, those of us who will never lead a double life are welcome to fantasize how seduction and sex could be used by master spies. Like Slipping Undercover features ten new, previously unpublished stories of erotic “spy-fi” from authors A.C. Wise, Chris Amies, T.C. Mills, A.J. Viggen, Shawn Erin, Eric Del Carlo, Kaysee Renee Robichaud, Reina Delacroix, Julian Oliver-Fenn, and Max Erica Scott.
Each story explores varied uses for sex in the field of espionage: as distraction or weapon, as recruitment or rapport between handler and asset, and in some of these futuristic tales, sex is even used as a means of transferring information and sharing secrets. Ultimately, whether the spies in this anthology are uncovering vast conspiracies by corrupt governments and organizations, exploiting an enemy’s sole weakness, or growing disenchanted with their own cause or methods, each sensual and action-packed story features the struggle to maintain the tenuous balance between intimacy and intrigue—a balance that is necessary in lives wrought with secrets.
Look under the cut for a hot excerpt!
from Spook by A.C. Wise
I am in London, Cairo, Paris, Milan. Some city, any city, lies strung out below, jewel-glittering against the dark. The suite is every suite, in every hotel; the girl–gathered from the noise-and-light of the casino floor–any girl. But she has what I need.
I slip diamonds and sapphires around her neck–the promised payment. A family heirloom, she claimed, long lost, and she, a minor duchess from a mountain region with an unpronounceable name. I claim to be an international jewel-thief, the best there is. Only one of us has perfected the art of the lie.
My fingers are steady on the clasp. Hers seek the heavy, blue stone resting against the hollow of her throat. The way she touches it–tracing the facet lines, hungry, but still afraid–I know she’s never worn anything quite so rich or beautiful before.
As she looks out over the city, the window ghosts her, leaving her half vanished amidst the reflection. Behind her, I’m even less seen. I watch her in the glass, tracing lips across the curve of her shoulder, up to the press of her spine against her skin, just at the nape of neck. My lips part, tasting her–smoke from the casino layered over the acrid tang of expensive perfume, layered over fear.
She has what I need.
Her name is Tanya, Lily, Karen, Sophia; it blurs like the cities, unimportant.
I trace the line of jewels around her throat, stopping my tongue at the pulse-point below the curve of her jaw. I count each beat, knowing which signify desire, and which fear.
There. Under the thin layer of her smoke-and-perfume skin lies the imprint of other lips. For just a moment, my pulse speeds to match hers. I know the taste–pale-amber whiskey and slightly sweet, spicy-crackling cigarettes from India.
And for just a moment, I stand where Tanya, Lily, Karen, Sophia stands, and the ghost in the glass behind me, face unseen, laughs. My reflection hangs naked and vulnerable against the foreign night, over a city I can’t name. Hot breath raises tiny hairs on my skin, lips brush close to my ear. The voice–does it belong to a woman with dark hair, hanging over a perfect shoulder? Or a man, stubble rough against my neck as he speaks?
I can’t remember who I was then. I can’t remember who he, or she, was either. But he or she taught me everything I know.
This is who we are. The words slide inside me as hands trace the curve of my spine, grasp my hips and pull me close. We are ghosts, spooks. We don’t exist. Each body you touch, you will become. Every taste, every sensation, every smell will define you. You will drink memory, until you drown. This is how we survive.
Another beat–my pulse, hers, and I am myself again. I am nothing.
A fine shiver of hairs at the nape of Tanya, Karen, Lily, Sophia’s neck teases my skin. A thin sheen of sweat rises to meet my tongue. It tastes of desire–the desire to fly, to fall, to press fingers to the window glass and have it disappear.
Silk pools at her feet; she steps free of the dress and stands naked, pressing fingertips to the window and leaving whorls of condensation behind. Touching her, I know what it is to want to fly. I follow the curve of her spine, tongue gathering sweat until I am on my knees.
I turn her gently, hands on the jut of her hip bones. She doesn’t resist, even though she is in love with the view beyond the glass–the glittering night and the long tumble into the dark. She is in love with the thought of scattering herself across the pavement, shattered and nameless, but always remembered as the woman who fell.
The ghost of her fingerprints linger on the glass, tiny halos, catching and breaking the light. She rests one hand on my shoulder, the other returning to finger the jewel at her throat, the hard nub of it, warming beneath her caress. My hands circle from her hips to cup her from behind, pulling her close. Minute tremors run across the muscles just beneath her skin–the quick-rabbit pulse of fear and longing, soaking into my palms.
I slide my tongue between her legs, adding to the wetness there before delving deeper. A faint sound of breath caught, and her fingers tighten against my shoulder, nails leaving crescent moons on my skin. Her shivering turns deep and primal. I hold her, and keep her from falling for a moment longer.
(To read the rest, buy the book today!)
Like Slipping Undercover includes 10 original stories of erotic spy-fi from authors A.C. Wise, Chris Amies, T.C. Mills, A.J. Viggen, Shawn Erin, Eric Del Carlo, Kaysee Renee Robichaud, Reina Delacroix, Julian Oliver-Fenn & Max Erica Scott. Each sexy, action-packed story features the struggle to keep the balance between intimacy and intrigue--a balance that is necessary in the lives of all spies.