I GAPE AT my outfit in the gilded full-length mirrorâif a fishnet chemise, red leather G-string and matching choker with the word slave bedazzled across the front in black crystals could be described as an outfit.
âOh no. No. No. No. Not a chance in hell.â My vigorous head shake doesnât budge a single strand of thick hair from my lacquered topknot. âI canât step out of this room. Look at me! Iâm practically naked.â
Itâs not as if Iâm a prude, either. On the rare occasion that Iâm granted R & R, Iâm more than happy to rock a skimpy bikini. But the French Riviera isnât waiting outside these walls. Feather and I are in downtown London, and I canât appear in public without proper knickers. I might be undercover...but I deserve proper underwear.
âBut, love, thatâs the whole idea, innit?â Feather, an avant-garde designer on the payroll of the British Intelligence Agency, smooths her asymmetric skirt while fluttering an impressive set of false eyelashes. âItâs the perfect cover. One look at your jubblies and no one in the Lionâs Den will imagine youâre a kick-ass secret agent. Theyâll be too busy wanting to reach for a paddle. You look well fit.â
âOh, joy.â My gaze connects with hers in the mirror and my whiskey-brown eyes narrow in mock ferocity. Featherâs bright blue lipstick matches her eyes as she winks.
I donât return her saucy smile because lighthearted tone or not, Feather isnât joking. And while ridiculous, this situation isnât remotely funny. The Lionâs Den is Londonâs most notorious kink club, and in less than an hour Iâll be walking through its depraved black doors, all my goods on full display.
This is what Iâve wanted. Plotted for. Dreamed of.
But in these dreams, I was always fully dressed.
âCome on.â Feather clicks her tongue like a scolding schoolteacher. âDonât be a brat.â
I exhale a frustrated breath, but damn it, she is right. I have to suck up my reservations for the good of the missionâand in this case that means going undercover to help British Intelligence as a BDSM aficionado. Itâs a far cry from last week, when I sported a chic Chanel suit and nude Louboutin heels while running the Hong Kong office for the Order, a top-secret international agency whose mission is simple: protect the world from itself. Order agents are carefully curated and come from all nations and walks of life to prevent wars, dispose despots and foil terrorist attacks. Sometimes we help out partners such as the CIA, Mossad or, in this case, my home country of jolly old England.