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elementof_riskIt makes him feel like a whore, the first time, using his body, his eyes, the curve of a crooked smile, the tug of teeth on a lip, all to get what he wants. The mark isn't paying him; she thinks she's found herself a pretty toy to play with for the evening, but she's not one to ever pay. He should feel privileged her eyes suggest over her champagne glass. But the client? Oh, the client is paying him very well for this, for bruises on her neck, for her death throes, her screams. He never said how to do it, but Irina...
"Seduce her."
The suggestion came casually, and now, as the mark's lips cling to his with wanton eagerness, her nails clawing at his clothes to pull them off of him, to rip at his skin, he wonders if this is how she felt the first time she let Jack Bristow touch her. She'd been young, just a year or two older than he was now, and it wasn't a night, a hit, a one time job. It was for as long as they needed her. She didn't have to just get the man in bed, she had to make him fall in love with her, to marry her, to live with him day in and day out for the secrets he knew. No surprise, then, that it was the work of a moment for her to urge him down this path.
When it is done and he has cleaned himself up, he stands looking down at the mark's body, dispassionate eyes hiding the way his heart races at his first close kill, so intimate, so perfectly executed. The bruises grow dark on her skin, blood pooling where he crushed her, fingers as unrelenting as his pursuit had been, but already his mind flits away to the payment, not just the money, but another's smile, another's approval, the beginning of a reputation he hopes to build upon. His body thrums with a different sort of excitement, still sated from the other, but it doesn't stop the fact that when he picks his tie up off the floor and slings it around his neck, when he sees her nail marks on his back...he still feels like a whore.
The next time, he promises himself, he won't.
And the feeling goes away.
"Seduce her."
The suggestion came casually, and now, as the mark's lips cling to his with wanton eagerness, her nails clawing at his clothes to pull them off of him, to rip at his skin, he wonders if this is how she felt the first time she let Jack Bristow touch her. She'd been young, just a year or two older than he was now, and it wasn't a night, a hit, a one time job. It was for as long as they needed her. She didn't have to just get the man in bed, she had to make him fall in love with her, to marry her, to live with him day in and day out for the secrets he knew. No surprise, then, that it was the work of a moment for her to urge him down this path.
When it is done and he has cleaned himself up, he stands looking down at the mark's body, dispassionate eyes hiding the way his heart races at his first close kill, so intimate, so perfectly executed. The bruises grow dark on her skin, blood pooling where he crushed her, fingers as unrelenting as his pursuit had been, but already his mind flits away to the payment, not just the money, but another's smile, another's approval, the beginning of a reputation he hopes to build upon. His body thrums with a different sort of excitement, still sated from the other, but it doesn't stop the fact that when he picks his tie up off the floor and slings it around his neck, when he sees her nail marks on his back...he still feels like a whore.
The next time, he promises himself, he won't.
And the feeling goes away.
