I was pulled down a long hallway with French doors to the left and right. Marcos willed me into a private library which was filled with ancient novels, antique textbooks, and tomes on architectural finds. Floor to ceiling shelves were covered in fiction and nonfiction. Masks from Africa and South America decorated the tops of locked doorways and library passageways. A marble floor the color of Marcos’s Peruvian skin welcomed us. The room was decorated with mahogany tables and high-backed chairs. French lanterns hung from the sky-reaching ceiling and illuminated the confines in a brushed-bronze hue. The smell that lingered about the library was of dust and Marcos’s sexy perspiration.

Hastily, he locked the library’s door behind us. Concealed from the other guests of the masquerade, Marcos removed my lion-like Capac-similar mask and set it on a nearby table where great written works of the world were read. Then he removed his own mask and placed it next to mine. I took note of this action in hopes of collecting the third piece of mask by the end of our evening and ...

He drew me towards him, sealing our lips together. His breath and motion were both intense. The man was on sexual fire in front of me, perhaps unable to withhold his hunger for me. His tongue delved within my mouth and attempted to leave me breathless. Busily, his hands were wrapped around my sides and he embraced me against his torso. Our swollen cocks touched together for the first time, which caused a ripple of essential bliss to surface against my tuxedo-covered skin.

The shared kiss was titillating and eager. Fire burned between us as our mouths stayed locked together. Heat from our bodies could have easily set the library aflame and caused destruction to the many leather tomes and the room’s tasteful furniture. A whirlwind of lust caught between us, held there for the longest time, and created a vortex of man-yielding-to-man action.

Within seconds I knew what I had to accomplish. The time had come when I had to face reality, my future, and the relationship I had with Zeninen Brow. A man had to do what a man had to do, I knew, even if my hands would show blood. Murder was in order. I was a professional spy, killer, sniper, something, and I had a duty to do away with Marcos Tanzi. My goal was simple: to kiss and to kill the man, before he did the same to me.

A slender dagger with a steel emerald-embossed handle was pulled out of a hidden sheath at my spine, underneath my tuxedo’s jacket. The blade was immediately thrust at Marcos’s neck and held at a perpendicular position to its muscular veins. With severity, I pushed the dagger’s blade against his flesh and whispered, “Murder by my hand is never tranquil, my friend. I am very sorry for your demise.”

“Kill me,” he whispered. “Slice my throat open. Let me bleed for you.”