Under Cover - Part 2 of 3
Title: Under Cover (Part 2 of 3)
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: Eastern Promises, sequel to Deep Cover..
Pairings: Nikolai/OFC(Lydia), Nikolai/Kirill mentioned
Rating: NC-17 overall, for explicit het sex, problematic power issues and seething resentment, and generally nasty people.
Warning: Eroticization of body modification. Back away if you have a tattoo squick.
Other Warning: Will make no sense at all if you have not seen Eastern Promises (which I highly recommend, although be warned that it contains violence, gore, brutality and very nasty people with some very offensive ideas and habits) and Deep Cover.
Disclaimer: Not meant to infringe on any copyright, only to expand a story I invented that was a continuation of a story I enjoyed. I own nothing. Only the writing that follows is mine.
Summary: On her own, taking a little break from life, Agent Lydia Constant has been minding her own business, thinking back on the encounter with Nikolai Luzhin that put her back in the syping game, on to discover that Nikolai has found her. At last.

Part One was here.



Under Cover Part 2

Okay, so maybe it is unfair that I approach right in her blind spot, in dark bar from her right side, but did she not exploit my blind spot all those months ago? Years ago. It has been years, by now.

Superfluous of me to use stealth. She would not have run if she'd seen me first; she is no coward. But the stiffening of her back when she hears my voice is like a reward to me.

Unfortunately, it makes me stiffen too.

I don't think it is a bad thing to be a little stiff. I think it is helpful, in some situations, to heighten senses. Of course, too stiff is not good - it becomes a distraction, weakens the body, slows reflexes - but to be alert, aware, interested, these are all good things. If necessary, one can always turn that part of self off and use the hormones for something more useful, like survival. It has always been a response I can control to some degree.

The problem is this woman. She is not first woman to make me stiff when I do not plan to be stiff, but she is only woman I get stiff for without even warning. Even when she is a continent away, let alone right in front of me. And for her, I cannot get unstiff. Not with my mind alone, anyway. I have tried many tricks to overcome her, but she does this to me every time I think certain things about her.

She does not have to know that. Good thing it threatens to rain this evening. Trench coats are so useful for hiding certain weaknesses.

I move to her left just as she turns the to right. She swivels her head back and her eye meets mine.

She is pissed off.

No one else could tell. Her face does not change its expression, which is one of tired interest, like you would expect from female traveller in hotel bar so close to airport you can feel air move when the planes take off. Maybe she might be interested, if you buy her drink and approach her right way, but not eager enough to have no standards at all.

Obviously, that is an act. If she were really innocent traveller and I were really propositioning her, she would react. She would scowl, or she would smile. Or, more likely, she would call for help.

I am still a scary man, after all.

She just looks at me without speaking.

"Two more of what she is drinking," I say to the bartender, who is deciding if he should rescue the damsel in distress from the big bad wolf.

#

The bartender put the two Canadian Clubs with ice on the counter. The woman was in her thirties, maybe forties, pretty except for the bandage over her eye. She'd combed her hair over that side of her face and it wasn't all that noticeable, but it was his job to notice things. She had nice dark hair, kind of wavy. She'd sat down, looked around the place, looked interested but her prospects had not been great. It was a slow night and even though she wasn't dressed provocatively or aggressively, there was something intimidating about her. When she walked in the door, he bet none of the guys in the room would have the guts to approach her.

Of course, this guy had not been in the room at that time.

The man was stark, with hard eyes and a harder mouth, and a scar on his cheek that could not have happened by accident. It was impossible to miss the tats on the backs of his hands. Almost blond hair falling forward over his eyes, just messy enough. Takes time to get it like that. That, and the trench coat, screamed "on the make", but the eyes were too hard for that. Too cruel. Tough to figure him out.

Two American bills lay on the counter, folded lengthwise several times over. The bartender had seen bills folded like that before. This guy was too old and too scarred to be working the stage at ladies night down at the Lion's Den, but he'd seen this type before; the bills must have been kickbacks from the girls at some club where he worked security. Lots of lonely guys tip in American currency this close to the airport. A lot of clubs hire tough looking guys like him to keep the dancers safe.

The woman didn't look disturbed at all. She didn't look particularly interested, either, but some of them don't. They want to get laid, just like the men, and they aren't too particular. But a guy like this was the sort who would get more of a response from most women. She just looked at him.

The bartender recited the exchange rate.

The man flicked another bill on the counter. "Two more after these," he said. He leaned over the bar. "And I like privacy."

The edge of the woman's mouth curved up enough for the bartender to back away. The tinge of cruelty in her smile convinced him that she could more than take care of herself, and the tip was big enough to keep him at the other end of the bar for the rest of the night, if that was what they wanted.

#

Lydia tilted her head back and let her second drink burn its way into the pit of her stomach. There was no need to rush, but the sudden warmth would help her slow down and take things easy. Easier. Maybe.

Crap.

How the hell had he found her?

He had not have walked in there by accident. Theoretically, it could be a complete coincidence, but the odds against it were astronomical. She could have laughed, but it would have sounded too much like crying.

The beads dug into her thigh, hot and sharp.

"Well," she said. She honestly could not think of anything else she could say that would not sound like some cliché from a movie. 'Of all the fucking gin joints.' Something like that.

Nikolai sat on the stool next to her. His sleeve brushed her sleeve. He sniffed the drink suspiciously, made a face as if it smelled like it was drugged, as if she had a habit of drugging her men, then he laughed. "Joke," he said quietly, before taking a large swallow. Then he made another face. "My god, Lydia, you are trying to poison me. What is this crap?"

"People remember when you order Glenfidditch. Always drink what the natives drink," she explained, pleased that she sounded so nonchalant. "Blend into the crowd."

Nikolai shrugged took a second sip. "Well, is better than American beer, I can tell you that for free."

#

That gets response. Eye narrows. Little line across forehead.

That is right, Agent Lydia Constant. You think about that. You think about how I've been in America, and I just told you I've been in America, and you are up here in Canada, and here I am sitting beside you in hotel bar, and you never fucking saw me coming.

"Was it difficult to find me?" she asks. Voice bland. Line across forehead gone. Thinks fast, reacts faster. She is good. So very good.

"Not really," I lie.

This is fun, to play this game. I keep my hands steady, keep my voice low, I beat down that thing inside me, that thing that is angry, that hates how good she is, that wants to punish her. I also ignore that other thing inside me, the one that is pushing its way out of me, the one that is making me breathe through my nose in hopes that she still smells the same, but no, she does not. No lemon on her hair. That was all part of the disguise. She is not delicate woman who needs protection and uses lemon cologne. She will not put anything on that will give her a scent a man like me can track.

She shifts on the barstool and I imagine, I want to believe, that her scent, the scent of her, not of something she put on herself to make herself seem more dainty and harmless, but the scent of the real her rises, but all I can smell is the rain on my coat and the whiskey.

I will not tell her how hard it was to find her, the kind of favours it took to track her down. The kind of favours that required me to do some very nasty things, but I do not regret it because she has something I want, and when I want something I get it.

"You use same identification every time you go off the books," I say.

"Not every time," she corrects me.

I suspected. I only know about three of these little vacations of hers. Of course, there have been more. One after every assignment, I would guess.

She looks good. Healthy and strong. Freedom will do that for a person.

"You have been active," I compliment her.

She nods.

"I am pleased they finally understand your worth." I do not lie. She is worth a lot, more than a dozen ordinary agents. Ah, the things she and I could have done together… could do if we were to work together. There would not be a secret on the planet that would be safe from us.

"How do you know about my missions?" she asks calmly.

Like I would tell her. As if she needs to know about my friend in IT for Heathrow Airport, who likes to bet on horses that he cannot afford. As if I would tell her about my 'friend' in United States Customs office, about whom the less said the better. As if she needs to know about my contact in London who is still very grateful for certain matters being cleared up with Scotland Yard who will never, ever reveal that he even met me because then it would be revealed where he met me, and that would involve too much scandal for his family, especially his daughter, who is a little wild but not evil, and really should be left alone to live her life free from the past. Or the nice lady, a little older, so upright and proper, who works for the hotel chain, and who has kept her eye open for a number of names on a list that I add to whenever I gain knowledge of another alias, and who asks very little payment for her services, at least not payment that is difficult for me to give, because as I have said, that is a part of me I have always had control over.

Getting unstiff, getting stiff, it is all part of the game. If this nice lady likes it good and hard from a bad bad man, and is willing to pay with information that is trifling to her and very valuable for me, so be it.

"That is inconsequential. What only matters is that one woman shows up somewhere near the end of every mission you are on, and she goes somewhere for a few days or a few weeks, and very soon after that Lydia Constant, who is agent but pretends to be librarian in government archive, returns to London, England."

She grabs the unfinished drink from my hand and gulps it down.

That is what? Her third?

#

The fucker. If he's got it figured, then it won't be long before someone else does. I'm no longer in the undiscovered country. I'm back in the badlands.

"They don't know where you are," he reassures me. "Only I know."

That is possible. It's possible they don't know, and Nikolai is a step of everyone else. But how could he find me, unaffiliated, and in the States as an illegal? How could he possibly find me in the undiscovered country without help?

"Oh, crap, Nikolai - who did you kill?"

He puts his hands up. The international gesture of surrender. He likes to do that with me. "I kill no one. I pull in favours."

I know what kind of favours men like him pull in. They do unspeakable things, or make other people do unspeakable things and then hold those things over them like a sword.

But then, I do that too, sometimes. When it's necessary.

"Now what?" I ask.

He gives me one of those predatory grins.

I take stock of my situation. There is a wallet in my pocket with an ID - not the one I used to buy my ticket home, but I can get another ticket. I have no weapon on me, but he won't use a weapon out here, out in the open. Besides, Nikolai does not need a weapon to overpower me. He has me at the disadvantage. I was not expecting him. I have to level the field. Make him remember that he owes me.

"Keep in mind," I say as lightly as I can, "I gave you your life back."

"Thank you so much for that. I do love to be on run," he says with a trace of bitterness.

On the run. Yeah, right. I saw those bills. He probably owns his own strip club by now, has a couple dozen women working for him, is busy blackmailing half the elected officials of whatever state he's living in. How difficult is that? Would he honestly prefer to be back playing sycophant to Kirill in return for piddling drabs of information about lowlife gangsters? Would he really prefer to be locked in a prison somewhere in Russia?

Or would he prefer to be in a Russian prison somewhere taking care of Kirill?

"Miss your old friend Kirill, do you, Kolya?" I ask. It's unnecessarily cruel, but some men need to be handled that way, if only so that I can gain the upper hand.

#

Nikolai drank another rye, distasteful as he found the task, but it was necessary to appear unruffled. He rubbed his lips together to get some feeling back into them. He'd wasted a lot of energy hating this bitch, and even more missing her. He'd gone to a lot of trouble to find her, and now she was doing everything she could to make him go back to hating her.

Did he miss Kirill? No, he did not miss him. He'd thought about him. Wondered about him. Prayed for forgiveness for betraying him. But miss him?

Maybe. Maybe a few times late at night, after the club was shut down and he'd seen all the girls off safely, after he'd reported on the night's earnings to the boss. Maybe when he sat at the empty bar and stared into the clear liquid in his glass, maybe once or twice he thought about a rough hand on him and a hard thigh pressed between his legs.

But more often, he thought about her softness.

"How do you know this is not my job?" he asked, and that made her pay attention even more. That put the fear into her. A man like him, with his information and contacts, was worth a lot of money on the open market. He could be working for almost anyone. And she, a woman with her knowledge and experience, would be worth a lot of ransom.

Her mouth pulled to one side, an involuntary tic. Her eye shot to one exit, then the other. It felt good to scare her like that, but on the other hand, if she ran he might not catch her. He might not ever find her again. He thought better of his tactics.

"I am not on job," he admitted. "I have spent past three months providing security for strip club in Chicago. Before that was Vegas. And New York. Before that was somewhere else, it does not matter. I am free agent, thanks to you. And you are back in field doing some very naughty things I am sure, Agent Constant, thanks to me. But I have no idea what because I am not interested in what you do for work, only in what you do for vacation."

It was a toss up as to who was more surprised by this speech - her, because he'd never given her so much information at one time before, or him, because he was telling the truth.

"Was it difficult for you?" he asked, honestly wanting to know. "Your debriefing…"

"No more difficult than yours," she shrugged.

"They did not lock you in a cell," he pointed out.

"No, not a cell, but I couldn’t breathe for six months without fogging up someone's surveillance lens. You were wise to wait to contact me."

Her honesty was contagious. "To be truthful, it was not so easy to find you. It took some time to, what do they call it? Marshal my resources." He gave her a broad smile, one that made her smile too.

"Your Inspector visits me every month, to see if you've contacted me."

"I know."

"I keep telling him no. I wouldn’t tell him if you did."

"I know that, too. He wants be back very badly."

"So, why take this risk?"

Nikolai looked around the room, dim lights on the small tables, bar top spotted with watermarks, bartender eyeing the two of them from a safe distance. "You are finally somewhere close enough for me to meet, and safe enough for us not to be seen. Is like…" he gropes for the words, some way to describe this delicious anonymity. "Is like undiscovered country," he said finally.

She planted her hands on the bar abruptly. "I see," she said. She pushed herself up to standing, getting off the stool on the other side, so her sleeve did not brush against his again. Her thigh did not bump against his. There had not been any direct contact between them at all. "I appreciate the effort," she said, "and I would suggest you keep your head down. Go out the back door, cross the parking lot and go to the corner store. Buy a pack of cigarettes, look around, make sure no one is watching you."

He bristled. He knew how to go unnoticed. It was disrespectful of her to lecture him on basic tradecraft.

She leaned forward, not close enough to touch, but close enough to hurt. "There is nowhere safe, not even in the undiscovered country," she said.

She walked across the bar, one hand waving him off, the classic brush off.

The bartender smirked from the far end of the counter.

Nikolai looked down at her palm print on the smooth bartop, the number 103 etched into it, misty and fading fast.

At the centre of it, the keycard to a hotel room.

#

The keycard works. Caution is called for. I should turn around, run, never should have come. There is no telling what is behind that door. But I slide the card down and the light flashes green. I push the door open a crack. Could be trap.

The air has the feel of steam about it, and I can hear a shower running. She might be in shower. She might not be in shower. It could be trap. Trap, my mind shouts at me. Run!

Beside the door there is pair of boots, black leather, lace-up boots, nine holes, with substantial soles. They look too small for that kind of boot, like someone took boots of big, burly man and shrank them down. She is not wearing them so wherever she is, she is barefoot. I glide inside the door and reach down. The leather is still warm.

I close the door. I am in for it now.

The door to loo is ajar, and someone is moving in the shower. I choose to assume it is her. I want it to be her. Not sure if I'm believing what I want to believe, or am assessing the situation correctly. Part of me needs it to be her.

#

There was a green bag on the closest bed. Nikolai sidled over to it and held the top open. Clothing. He took a chance and plunged his hand inside. More clothing. Smooth t-shirt. A bra. Denim. Something silky.

He pulled out a pair of panties. Not cotton. Not white. His fingers slipped across the fabric, cool and sleek. He tried to picture her in them, black silk stretched across her ass. He remembered the shape of her ass in scrupulous detail, the bottom curve, the firmness, the softness, the warmth. He remembered her gasping when he dug his fingers in and shifted her up so the front of her pressed against his belly. His fingers started to heat up the thin panties. He shoved them back in the bag.

The side pocket contained a bottle of headache pills, and a pack of bandages, skin-toned, big enough to cover an eye, or where an eye used to be. There was a standard black eye patch. Sunglasses lay on the desk across from the bed, reflecting the bedside light. Disguises for all occasions. Her leather jacket hung off the back of the chair. The wallet in it held her real ID. He opened the end pocket of the green bag. There was her travelling ID.

He wondered why she had trusted him. It made him suspicious.

He realized he had not checked the room. He looked under the beds, behind the drawn curtains, the underside of the telephone, the closet. The bathroom. Jeans and sweater pooled on the floor, beside a pair of functional looking work socks. Very practical for this damp weather. A white undershirt on the counter, almost within reach of the door. He could, if he wanted to, reach out, grab the shirt, hold it to his face, breathe in her scent, find out if anything he remembered was real, if he'd ever really had this woman, because sometimes he thought it might have been a dream, the kind of dream where you wake up smelling whatever had been in the dream. They'd given him lots of drugs during his debriefing. Drugs will do that to memories. Drugs and time.

On the counter, next to the undershirt, lay a bandage, curling at the edges.

Nikolai backed away and sat in the chair next to the bed closest to the exit. There was an ashtray, on the a table bolted to the wall between the beds, but it would not be polite to smoke without asking permission. He tamped down his resentment at having to ask for permission to do anything. He had to keep his emotions out of this, keep his mind clear, or he would never be able to figure out what game she was playing.

#

It's a dangerous game I play, but then, all games must carry some risk, otherwise they'd be no fun at all.

He's here. He did not make any noise when he came in, but the air cooled when he opened the door. He's keeping very quiet, but then he's probably got loads of experience searching rooms without making a sound. By now he's seen the IDs, knows I'm trusting him. If that's enough to get him to trust me, then we can move on, past this frustrating cat and mouse stage, and get to the real deal.

I don’t normally take showers this long. My skin is going to prune in another minute or so. I should get out, but some part of me, in the pit of my stomach, is nervous. Scared to go out there. Scared of this going too far, or of it not going far enough. What if it goes nowhere? That would be worse. That would be… awkward.

Fuck it. Someone has to move things forward. And, hell, he made the first move; he's here. It's only fair that I make the next. Thing is, I'm not quite sure if it's still my move.

#

She is naked but for a towel around her waist. Most women would wrap it around chest, but this is not expensive hotel. The towel would be big enough to cover her, but not big enough to stay reliably fastened. Around her waist, the end tucks in enough to allow her to move freely without danger of it slipping.

I admire that she values security over modesty. And there is nothing to be modest about. Nothing I have not seen before. Her breasts are as I remembered, full and pale, quite beautiful with dark nipples I can still feel between my fingers and under my tongue and between my lips. Is funny that the feel of a person can linger so long after such a brief acquaintance. I look without hiding it. Her nipples are stiff. I did not realize they were so dark. The lights were not on before.

Wet hair falls over the right side of her face but it does not really hide anything. She has to turn to look at me. Must be a bitch to have no vision on one side. She probably gets stiff neck from it all the time. And then, on top of the functional issue, to look like that.

"You have me at a disadvantage," she says.

"You want me to turn out lights?" It is reasonable offer. It would even things up.

"No. I want you to take off your clothes."

#

Shock. No, not shock. Surprise. Surprise that I am so bold. Surprise that I am so forward.

No, not surprise…

Excitement.

#

She did not have to ask twice. Nikolai made his decision quickly and according to the principles of self-interest. If this was a trap, it was a trap. It was too late to get away now. If the building were be surrounded by an assault team, there was nothing he could do about it. They would take him wherever they wanted to take him, and he still controlled enough information to keep himself alive and out of Russia. He might try to run, but if there were enough of them, they would catch him. Too late to do anything about it.

Besides, to pass up such an opportunity would be foolish.

Because now he could smell it on her. The hot water of the shower may have washed away the last few days of the badlands, but it could not wash away her desire. Desire for him.

So, yes, a dozen armed men could burst through the door at any moment, but she would not give them the signal to do so until after she got what she wanted.

He was not about to give that up.

#

She will be seeing me clearer than before. The light is on and her eye is not obstructed by contact lens. But there must be pictures of me, and my distinguishing marks. She would have looked at them. Studied them, studied my tattoos. Maybe kept copy for herself. She does not look surprised. She looks like she is looking at something familiar.

She is looking hungrily, avidly, as I put my coat on the back of the chair, take off my jacket, loosen my tie.

I curse that she felt need for such disguise before. How I would love to have seen that green eye looking at me like that before I knew who she was. It is worth all the effort to find her just to have her watch me so closely. I would have found a way to approach her earlier if I'd known she would look at me like that.

Maybe she is remembering something else, not me. Maybe, in her mind, I look different. Almost three years has not made much difference in how I look, but it could make a lot of difference in how she remembers me.

"Did you get those cigarettes?" she asks, and sits on the edge of bed, beside the green bag.

I pull the packet out of my shirt pocket and toss it to her. "You are confiscating them?" I ask, and tug the knot of my tie until the silk falls loose.

No, she puts one between her lips.

I pull the lighter out of my trouser pocket and lean over to light it for her. She closes her eye when she inhales. She is not used to smoking, but she is hardly novice either. She knows what she is doing.

She opens her lips and blows smoke between us. "Take it off, Nikki."

There is something wrong with buttons on my shirt. I cannot get them to open fast enough. When my chest is bare, she opens her eye again and sighs critically. Have I disappointed her?

She licks her lips. "Different brand," she says.

Yes. The cigarettes are not what I used to smoke in London. "When in America…" I say.

Does she really want me to take off all my clothes in front of her like this?

She has towel on, so I drop trousers but leave shorts on. That seems to satisfy her. She is leaning on her elbow across the bottom of the bed, staring at me. I sit and light cigarette too. If she can have one, there is not need for me to be deprived. It is my first since before I went into the bar, but that is no excuse for the way it makes my head spin. Did she plant doctored cigarettes at the store?

Would not put it past her. Would not put anything past her. I reach across the bed and get the ashtray to put in front of her and she jabs her cigarette into it, and gets up. Her hand goes to her waist, and the towel falls to floor as she walks to the other bed, the bed with nothing on it.

I find I do not need cigarette after all.

#

He was at her side in an instant, still not touching. He was leaning, though. Leaning close and his hands were hovering around her hips. He stared down at her lower back. "What is it?" he asked.

She arched her back, displaying the tattoo. It had not been there before.

He slid down to his knees and looked closely at the fine black lines crisscrossing the base of her spine. A geometric pattern, a spiral that spiralled back on itself, like something you would see in a modern art book or a psych test. Maybe if he thought it was beautiful it meant he was a sociopath. Or maybe it just meant that he thought she was beautiful.

He pressed his lips to it, brought one hand up to cup her ass, the other nudged her legs apart. She faltered, turned around, told him to wait, but it was too late. He nuzzled between her legs and licked the top of her thigh. She fell back on the bed. "Nikki, wait!"

He didn't want to. But he respected her wishes. He licked only once more, flattening his tongue against her hard clit. She grabbed his hair and tugged him up the bed. He wished he'd taken his shorts off. She pulled him up. He caught her nipple on the way up, held it between his lips and flicked the tip with his tongue.

"Jesus!" she hissed.

He hauled himself up on his elbows, "If you want to change mind, if you want to call for reinforcements, now would be time," he said. Taunting. Licking up the side of her neck.

Lydia slid her calf up the back of his leg. The heat between her thighs penetrated his shorts immediately. She tightened her fingers in his hair. "There's no trap," she said. "No one knows I'm here. I had no idea you would be here."

"Good. I can take my time," he suggested.

"If that's what you like," she said calmly. Almost detached. "But I'm not opposed to the first time being hard and fast."

Nikolai dropped his head down and buried it in her damp hair. "Fuck," he said. "Fuck fuck fuck."

She twisted under him, pressed her hips up into him.

"Fucking games," Nikolai swore.

"No, no games." She tugged his hair hard so he was forced to raise his head. Her voice wasn't calm any more. "No games, but I need you to look at me."

He opened his eyes.

#

That's the real test, isn't it? He looks. He doesn't seem any more perturbed by my unsightly marks than I am by his. He looks at my face and into my eye and leans in to kiss me. His hand slides under the small of my back and down, spreading fingers across the tattoo. It heats up.

He must know. He can tell just from touching. He's probably picturing me sitting backwards, straddling the chair at the tattoo parlour. It was a hot summer day, so I was sweating. The tattooist had to wipe my back with alcohol to keep the sweat from dripping down, distorting her view. The sting of the gun, the vibrations deep inside. A spiral within a spiral, my life. Take the diagram of the danger zones and twist it inside out. The utmost danger and the greatest comfort exist side by side, closer than any other two zones. Intermingled. Her hands were remarkably steady as she manoeuvred the gun, injected the ink below the surface. Black, I'd told her. Isn't that the only colour for tattoos?

"Did you get that for me, Lydia?" he asks me, lips brushing against mine, fingers pressing up into my spine.

I arch up into him. Yes, it must have been for you, I think. It had to have been for you because you have everything to do with the part of me that let the pain soak in and sink down, past my spine, to where my clit was pressed against the warm vinyl chair, the part that let the heat build up and throb throughout me, that let it spread and pulse and radiate until the tattooist got to the very bottom part of the design, when I let go. I shuddered and she pulled her hand back and stretched her neck so her words flowed across my shoulder blade. "Don't worry," she whispered beneath the harmless electric buzz of the tattoo gun in the air. "Let it pass. Let it go. That happens sometimes." And then she asked, in a low, low voice, "Did you know you could come from pain?"

But it wasn’t the pain that did it to me. It was the ink being pushed under my skin, into me, forever a part of me. It was the slide of my tongue over the black lines of his body that made my clit swell. It was the thought of his eyes, lids half open, absorbing the same pain into his body as the ink flowed into his back and chest and arms and legs. It was the thought of his eyes closing when he sank into me for the first time. He'd seemed almost pained, it happened so quickly for him. I'd been opening up under his tongue for so long it felt like a proper completion when he finally slid into me. But for him, untouched, barely even caressed, to be plunged inside like that had been a shock. He'd hissed at it, like a hiss of pain, like the hiss I made when the needle struck, or when his tongue buzzed against my erect nipple, or swiped across my clit and made me wet from the inside out.

"Was that for me?" he asks again, rocking his hips and pushing his cock against me.

#

Her wetness soaks through my shorts to my cock. She wants me to look at her. She wants me to make her talk. She wants me to fill her up and give her something to scream about.

For me, for me, she marked herself. She does not want to say it out loud, but I can tell. I feel the hotness around my forehead that comes from the rush of adrenaline the tattoo needle brings. I feel that pain that you have to relax into so you don't move when the ink is flowing, so you don't ruin the design. I wish I could have been there, seen her face, seen her skin go red from the invasion, seen her eyelid drop, her lips open, the sweat break out across her face, between her breasts. I would have licked it up. I would have watched her legs spread as she sat backward on the chair. That's the only way to sit still when you are getting tattoo put on back. I know.

I would have taken her home right after and had her sit like that on my lap. Soothed that pain from the inside out.

I cannot wait.

"Lydia, please, I need."

She nods and reaches above her head to open drawer of the table between the beds. Three condom packets atop the Gideon Bible. The plastic crackles between her fingers. She bites the corner to open it, and I can taste the lubricant on her lips when I kiss her. She opens her mouth to me and spreads her legs at the same time. I push shorts down and condom on in one move. I am impressed by my dexterity, but not as impressed as I am by the way she curls her hips up and gets the tip of my cock inside her with so much grace.

And then I'm no longer impressed because impressed is too mild a word. Then I'm inside and she has her legs up around me.

Hard and fast for the first time. I can do that.

Not like I have a choice.


Part 3 (final part) coming soon.