Title: Forty Winks
Author: elise2
Email: mciac@livejournal.com
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Syd, Sark, and a shot of tequila. Liberties are taken, lines are
crossed. Syd POV, spoilers through 4x09.
Character Pairing: Syd/Sark
Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me.
Author’s Note: Written for daera23. Thanks to nova88 and monanotlisa
for all of their feedback and suggestions!
Posted: 2/23/2005
Still, looking around the club, she realized her imagination had failed to capture the details: a disco ball that cast shimmers over an empty dance floor; hazy clouds that languished over each booth, awaiting a new cigarette and a fresh plume of smoke. Here she sat—Sark on her arm, a shot of tequila on the table, and her thighs sticking to the vinyl of the booth.
She opened her compact, checked her make-up—one security camera at the door, eight in the main room, and two in the back hall—and took comfort in the license that the scenario afforded her. The kiss would be enough, she wagered, to distract their target, and probably enough to get under Vaughn's skin, too. She snapped the compact closed.
Of course, this wasn't about Vaughn. This was business, and tonight Sark was her puppet. He'd exploit his connection with the target while she played his tart. Grinning at the man across the table, she ran her forefinger around the rim of the shot glass.
The man followed her movements intently before looking up at Sark. "Perhaps this one, she needs to slow down."
Slooooow down.
She'd wanted to do that with Vaughn. Her words had echoed in her head when she first let him back into her bedroom, but they were muted by her own physical needs. She'd slept with him because she could, and because she'd wanted to—wanted to feel a warm body next to hers during the night. It wasn't a crime.
Vaughn had agreed that things had changed. He'd sounded so earnest when he said it, but she knew what he really meant—she had changed. She wasn't the double agent for whom he'd broken every rule, but he failed to see that he was no longer the one person in this world whom she could trust. From the cereal he ate to the words he moaned in her ear, the evidence was plain—Lauren had changed him.
And Sydney hadn't sworn to love him through sickness and health, through the missionary position and the awkward silence that followed. For all her years as a double agent, she wasn't her mother—she couldn't fake everything.
The glass slid across the table, bringing her back to present. Sark had pulled the glass toward her, in defiance of what the man had said. Perfect move, perfectly timed. Show him who's in charge, who's calling the shots.
"She'll go as fast or as slow as I tell I her to," Sark said, his eyes never once leaving the man.
Ever obedient, she licked the salt from her hand and wavered as the tequila met her tongue. Holding the liquor in her mouth, she grabbed Sark by the tie and reeled him in, pressing her lips against his. He tensed at first, and then relaxed. By the time she felt his thumbs brush her cheekbones, her body had begun to hum like it had in Seville when Simon's fervent hands had skimmed her arms.
The music wailed like a siren. She was treading a dangerous line, but it was one beyond which she found herself inexplicably drawn.
* * *
Culpability. She'd won a grade school spelling bee with it before she'd learned that it was just a fancy word for guilt. She tried her best to avoid the moral questions—she didn't want to think about whether planning this kiss was any worse than getting swept away in the moment.
She'd known that he would drink the shot from her lips since the briefing. A scenario had clipped her imagination like a low-flying plane, the kind of near miss that had left her shaken yet intrigued: A shot quickly consumed while she sat on a stool, her legs spread. Him standing—scratch that—leaning into her, his hand wandering beneath her loosely tied shirt, her fingers working their way up his tie.
She'd tried to focus—on the screen, on her father, on Arvin Sloane—on anything but Sark. He was the last person she wanted to fantasize about. She didn't want to fuck him; she wanted to prosecute him. Still, her mind had meandered back to a club she'd never been to and a blond rogue who'd never leaned into her quite like this. Vaughn's fault, anyway, she'd thought at the time. If he hadn't betrayed her with Lauren, they wouldn't be strangers now.
* * *
Chalk it up to experience.
That's what Danny would have said, but she didn't have the luxury of learning from her mistakes tonight. For all the fantasizing she'd put into the kiss, that's where her mission prep had ended. She hadn't thought about how Sark would taste, or how he would respond.
At first, she only tasted the salt and lime as they mingled in her mouth, but that didn't last long. His tongue soon teased her lips while his hands tickled the outer curves of her breasts. She hadn't anticipated his hunger, or hers, for that matter. As her body rose in response to his touch, she found herself placing both hands on his neck, her fingers relishing the velvet feel of his hair. Sliding one hand along his chest, she tried to measure the beat of his heart through his cotton shirt.
She'd meant to control the moment, to count her way through (one one-thousand, two one-thousand, three—), but he pulled away first, and she was the one left agape. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she caught the drops headed for her chin.
"I told you she was special," he said to their contact, his accent lost in the noise of the club. Then he turned and laid eyes on her. The corner of his mouth twitched, as if they were on the playground and his rock had just smashed her scissors. His lips pressed against her ear, he issued a challenge. "Shall we have a rematch?"
* * *
"How long?"
She hadn't said 'yes' to anything, but with her wrists pinned to the wall, his leg poised to spread her thighs, and, hell, the fact that she hadn't thrown him to the ground already, they both knew she was a definite 'maybe.'
They'd pulled off the exchange according to plan and exited through the backdoor into a dark alley, rendezvous in twenty minutes. She should have pushed him out the door with a gun planted in his back, but she was still riding the high of the tequila-soaked kiss. Fingers entwined, they'd left side-by-side, his other hand sliding along the bar. As soon as the door had swung shut, he'd cornered her for a second kiss—this one sans surveillance.
Her mind raced at first, but one hesitation led to another. In the meantime, her body had started answering for her. Soon, his mouth hovered all about her, kissing the line of her jaw and teasing her wet lips, as if he were determined only to graze them.
"How long?" he muttered. Now he was nibbling at her ear, his leg patiently working its way between her thighs.
Distracted, she marveled at how he seemed to affect every inch of her skin. "How long until what?"
"Extraction," he said, pulling back. "Care to share your exit strategy?"
His eyes wandered to the clutch that hung by a thin strap from her arm. She knew he wasn't dumb. There were only so many places a girl could hide a weapon. He didn't need x-ray vision, not with a little friendly petting and process of elimination. She softened her expression, and then wet her lips ever so slowly.
"If I wanted to get away from you, we'd already be in the van," she said, fingering the silver of his buckle. Then she checked her watch, noting with satisfaction that his eyes were nowhere near her clutch. "Seventeen minutes."
A smile broadened across his face, and his thumbs looped the elastic of her thong. "How odd," he observed, "I never took you for a method actress."
* * *
Sex was like a game of dominoes, a chain reaction of pleasure if it was done right. Once she'd knocked down her inhibitions, she could stop worrying about irony of the situation. Sark had fucked Lauren, too, but he hadn't betrayed anyone to do it—least of all, her. If tonight in this alley was all there was, she had nothing to fear. He wouldn't break her heart, he wouldn't marry someone else, and he was already too late to kill her mother.
Letting him remove her panties was easy enough. He pulled them from her hips; all she had to do was shimmy while he watched them slide off her. Unbuckling his belt, feeling his trousers brush her legs as they fell to the ground, and sliding his boxers off his hips was a bit more deliberate. She could see him watching her—or maybe she was watching him, she didn't know anymore.
Cupping her ass, he lifted her, and then entered her slowly. His eyes were still on her, wanting more of a reaction, but she was only willing to give so much. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pressed back against the wall, and began to move to the rhythm he had set. Bracing herself against his shoulder with one hand, she used the other to rub slow circles around her clit. Whenever her finger brushed against the base of cock, she'd feel his knees buckle a little.
"You don't have to do that," he whispered, almost insulted. He grabbed her hand and pressed her wet fingers against his mouth. "I take pride in a job well done."
Unable to look at him, she started kissing his neck, slowly moving her way to the soft flesh behind his ear, and then to the ear itself. He responded in kind, pacing his movements and adjusting his grind until she moaned with each thrust. Even through her shirt, she could feel the rough brick as she ground against it. She closed her eyes, but the texture of the wall reminded her of where they were.
He grabbed her hips tighter and drove deeper into her. It was a game of control for him as well, but one that he was destined to lose—he came, but he didn't stop there. He worked her body until she trembled, the pleasure coming forth in shocks so intense that she didn't know what she wanted anymore. She pleaded for more, and then for less, and eventually for everything in between. When she was finished, she rested her head against his shoulder.
He pulled out of her and set her down, and then he grabbed his pants from around his feet. Backing away, he managed his buckle.
That was probably her cue to straighten her own clothing—she understood body language as well as he did. As she began smoothing her dress with her hands, he leaned toward her and moved in for another kiss. Surprised, she closed her eyes.
"You look so much like Irina," he whispered, and thrust a knife into her gut.
The thin chill of a blade sliced through her almost unnoticed until the pain blossomed like a dark flower. She wanted resist him as he lowered her to the ground, to find her gun and pistol-whip his ass, but all she felt was the cold creeping into her limbs. As she slumped to one side, she grew aware of how sticky and warm the fabric of her dress had become.
He crouched down and pulled the knife out of her, wiping its blade clean on her dress. He then stood up and glanced at his watch. "Three minutes left—not for you, though."
She watched as he receded into the shadows, his figure mingling with tendrils of the dark, silky film that blurred the edges of her vision. As her cheek molded to the pavement, she thought again of her mother—not turning into Irina was supposed to be a good thing.
"I palmed this off the bar," he said, his presence reduced to a disembodied voice. "I was positive you'd noticed. Irina certainly would have."
A good thing, she thought, as she succumbed to a dreamless forty winks.
-fin-
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