Today, a sneak preview of Lana’s hardboiled femdom novella PACKING STEEL, which will be appearing in Wanderlust (ed. Kojo Black at Sweetmeats Press) later this month. The full collection also features Annabeth Leong, Stella Harris, Lily Harlem, and Fulani. Want a free review copy of either Lana’s PACKING STEEL or all the novellas in the collection? We have a handful up for grabs, so let us know in the comments section if you’d like one or email us. If you do get a review copy, you’ll have the book in your hot little hands before it’s even been released!
Here’s how the novella opens:
From the moment I’d seen Michaela’s photo, I’d been on fire for her. Yeah, that’s right — a jaded hitter like me, who’d been killing professionally for seven years. I, who couldn’t climax any more, let alone have a crush, was obsessed with a girl in a polka-dot dress. And when I say “obsessed,” make no mistake, elle m’enflammait — we’re talking serious fire.
My boss, Odette, had first shown me that photo when she’d called me in to her underground office, two weeks before. When I turned up, it was raining hard, making the streets of Paris flood. That made me feel better about the slate walls, the low lighting, and wall-hung pictures of filmstars with guns. Odette had a thing about being armed and had once advised me, woman-to-woman, de femme à femme, to always pack steel. In fact, it was this love of guns that had launched her into the business. According to Odette, her Papa hadn’t wanted her to walk in his footsteps. But every time she’d seen a gun, her face had lit up, and by the time she reached eighteen, he relented and trained her himself.
Odette had become notorious.
Then again, so had I.
She offered me a whisky, which I refused; and a cigarette, which I took. As I lit up, I thought about screwing her. Not that I thought my clit could get hard any more, but hell, a woman can dream. So what if Odette killed her own people and was twenty years older than me? With the gentle lines on her unpowdered face, and the soft lips and fierce green eyes, not to mention those curves beneath her pleather dress, Odette must have been one hell of a lay.
She invited me to sit in the typist’s chair near her desk—the chair reserved for guests. I swiveled the seat, so the back was facing her, before sitting astride it in my leather jeans, with my arms draped over the seat-back, smoking in her direction. She laughed dryly, lit her own cigarette. You had to play it cool with Odette, and sitting in that cheap little chair made you feel lower than she was. But I’d found ways to fuck with that. What you don’t fear can’t hurt you.
In fact, just a week before that, I’d stood in this office and told Odette that I wanted out. I’d half-expected her to shoot me on the spot, which didn’t bother me, frankly. So I was surprised when she’d told me she’d been expecting me to quit. My heart wasn’t in the job any more, she’d said. “But your last contract will earn your freedom. Do it well, and I’ll let you go—if that’s what you want. Screw up and I’ll put a hole in your head. A nice, tight little hole.”
[bctt tweet=”‘Screw up and I’ll put a hole in your head. A nice, tight little hole.'”]
Bien sûr, Odette would be a hot little screw. The sort that would send you flying. The sort that would end in an unmarked grave.
So here I was, seven days later, for the promised details of this final gig. Behind her desk, in the low glow of the angle-poise lamp, Odette leaned back in her swivel chair. “You look gloomy, ma chère,” she said, exhaling a plume of smoke, but I didn’t trust her niceties. Odette was a woman who could call you “dear” then slit your throat, pas de problème.
“So,” I said. “The job.”
She raised an eyebrow and slid a photo across the desk, before falling back into her seat, red lips glistening in the half-light. “Pretty little thing, she is. Husband wants her head.”
And because irony’s my fuck-buddy, I said, “What a gent.”
Then everything changed, because even when my fingers first touched that photo, hitting the tacky surface as I pulled it into view — even as I smelled Odette’s perfume beneath the tinge of tobacco — I knew something big was happening. I could feel it in my pulse, in the lightness of my head. I felt it in my groin, where I usually felt so little.
And then, I saw her. My final kill. She wore a red and white polka-dot dress that fell into a low V around her gorgeous cleavage, and a sash-like belt at her middle gathered in the material and gripped her full waist. She was turning to the camera, surprised peut-être, no smile on her face, just the beginnings of a startle. Her eyes were wide and brown, her mouth was gloriously wide, her lips plump and biteable. Brown curls fell loosely down her back, her skin as translucent as crystallized candy just begging to be licked. She had the look of a ’fifties beauty. I imagined her arranged on a pile of summer hay, her nipples hard and pink, her breasts full and luxurious, her pussy trimmed and ready, her slim fingers stroking over her belly, her hips. Her eyes — I knew already — would be innocent but tempting. I’d fuck her with a strap-on, or maybe with my fingers — Christ, I’d fuck her in every way possible. I’d moan like an animal, and she’d cry out. She wouldn’t stop coming. Not ever. Jamais.
[bctt tweet=”This woman made me want to be right inside her, all the way in, fucking her with addiction.”]
I was so turned on just looking at her, that my body felt different. My nipples were hard beneath my tank-top, I could even feel the tattooed skin on my arm — the black snake coiling around my bicep — prickling as if the needle were still on it. Everything felt immediate and present, as if someone had lifted a veil from my body. This woman made me want to be right inside her, all the way in, fucking her with addiction. I’d come — I was sure of it — just to push my fingers into her. I’d come, just to feel her pussy clench me, to be tight inside with my hand on one of her breasts. Mon Dieu, I was wet. And it felt good. Why the fuck had I forgotten this burn, this need for flesh on flesh? This long-lost longing for perfumed skin?
Seven years and I’d felt nothing. Seven years of killing and no heat.
When I looked up at Odette, I could hear her talking in that smoky voice. She was saying something about my British passport and the fact that the client had paid in full. But all I could focus on were Odette’s breasts, pressed up inside that pleather dress. I could just see the outline of her nipples, and I could imagine how hot it would be to take her, thrusting her against the wall so that the filmstar pictures clattered to the floor, pawing her breasts, my groin against her thigh, biting those red lips until she groaned with pleasure.
Suddenly, I was desperate for a screw. And all because of an English bitch whose husband had paid in full to have me kill her. But apart from it being the key to my freedom, I hadn’t yet guessed at the importance of this kill. Sure, it was a man murdering a wife. But the man wasn’t just anyone.
He was Algernon Cross, the romance novelist. England’s rising star. The graphic sex in his novels had earned him death threats, yet he faced them with unphased suavity. Algernon filled the gossip columns, with his gentlemanly looks and wealthy lifestyle.
When he fed the tabloid press his cock, they swallowed.
For more rebel erotica by Lana Fox and Jacob Louder, check out our books on Amazon.