I Spy a Naughty Game by Jo Davis Page A

knees servicing Blaze’s hot Dom friend while the other sub did the same to Emma’s man. Both of them deep-throating the hard, silken rods, faces buried in their groins. Being owned.
    Emma’s desire spiked, and she arched her hips to plunge a finger into her channel—just as the lock scraped in the door. She barely had time to jerk her hand from her pants as it opened and a guard, a different one, stepped inside, closing it behind him and arching a dark brow.
    Busted. Her face flamed and she scrambled for something to say, but her mind blanked as she studied the newcomer. This man was older, maybe a couple of years younger than Blaze, thirty or so. His rich chocolate brown hair matched his eyes and was pulled back into a ponytail. His shoulders were broad and muscular, his black T-shirt clinging to his chest and washboard abs. The shirt was tucked into his fatigues, which hugged his long thighs and cupped his sex invitingly. For a long moment, she stared at him, wishing this man wasn’t her enemy. What a waste.
    “I’ve brought your clothes for tonight,” he said in a smooth whiskey voice, placing a shopping sack on the dresser. His sexy lips curved upward. “I was going to ask whether you needed anything, but it looks like you found it.”
    She pushed up to a sitting position and yanked her shirt down to cover her open pants. Jesus, how embarrassing. “I’m good, thanks. Unless you’ve got a cell phone I could use to call my boss so he can rush right over and ram his boot up your collective asses.”
    “Ouch, that doesn’t sound like fun. I’ll have to pass.” He gave her a heart-stopping smile that warmed his eyes. And made him appear to be something more than a disgusting antigovernment militant freak. In fact, he looked downright charming.
    People had said that about Ted Bundy, too.
    She waved a hand at the sack. “What kind of party is this? Your boss wasn’t very forthcoming about the particulars, and I don’t like surprises.”
    Moving a few steps closer, he crossed his arms over his chest and stood with his boots braced apart. “Well, Miss Foster, your day seems to be full of them with more on the way. I’m not supposed to tell you anything, but if you take a peek in the sack I believe that will answer your question.”
    “Why are you being so nice?”
    “Why shouldn’t I be?”
    “You work for Dietz, and he’s a traitorous, murdering bastard. Apples and trees, as they say.”
    “If you want your curiosity satisfied, look in the sack. It’s not complicated.”
    Suspicious, she rose and walked over to the dresser. With a glance at him to make sure he hadn’t moved, she pulled apart the handles of the sack and saw a bundle of black clothing. On top rested a pair of slip-on high-heeled shoes. Really high. Grimacing, she lifted them out and held them up. “I’ll never be able to walk in these without getting a nosebleed. Couldn’t he have sent a nice pair of flats?”
    “He likes for the women who attend his parties to dress in a certain style. High heels are his thing.” The man shrugged.
    “Great,” she muttered, setting the shoes on the dresser. Next, she fished out a pair of black pants. They were loose, palazzo-style, very elegant—something she’d be thrilled to have occasion to wear if circumstances were different. She laid them out on the bed and returned to the sack, lifted out the long-sleeved blouse . . . and gaped in astonishment. “Where’s the rest of this?”
    “That’s all there is, sorry.”
    “You can’t be serious!” She shook the offending garment at him, incensed. “This is completely see-through! I need a top to wear under this or my bra’s going to show.”
    The sympathy in his eyes seemed real as he replied. “You won’t be wearing a bra. Or panties, either.”
    She blinked at him as though he’d spoken another language. “What?”
    “Dietz’s orders. All of his women—”
    “I am not one of his women! Not in his wildest fantasies! That arrogant