I suck at drabbles, by the way. At over 2,000 words I had to remind myself this was only a drabble and STOP WRITING. Because I have four more to write, damn it.
There were missions where everything went smooth as silk, like clockwork, exactly like the mission briefing had outlined from point A to X. Sydney could count them on one hand, but they happened. Missions where she never had to fire a shot, or get her dress dirty, or even so much as run her stockings.
And then, she thought grimly, there were missions like this one. A complete cluster fuck, almost from the second her plane landed in Rio. Having all her luggage end up on an entirely separate continent was never a good sign. It wasn’t the first time, though, so she’d done a little light shopping before hooking up with her contact, seriously depleting her petty cash. A girl couldn’t walk into a nightclub in Rio without suitable attire; she sent a message back to Langley, and hoped her contact could be reached in time to bring along the additional tech and weapons she’d need to complete her assignment. Thank God she still had her carry on, or she’d’ve really been in trouble.
She bought a slinky little black number that fit like a second skin, matching fishnets and killer heels. Deprived of her high quality wig, she’d used an over-the-counter rinse on her hair, lightening it to a strawberry blond that she proceeded to style in a mass of sultry curls around her face. She used cheap make-up to smudge charcoal lines around her eyes, giving them a smoky look, and outlined her lips with the ironically appropriate color, salsa nights. She covered her nails with fake press-ons painted a matching red.
The dress showed enough cleavage to draw attention away from her face, she hoped. It wasn’t the best disguise she’d ever worn, but it would have to do.
Of course, losing her luggage was just the beginning. The club’s name should have been an omen of things to come; what idiot doesn’t walk into a place called Bedlam not expecting the absolute worst case scenario? Apparently, Sydney Bristow.
She liked to think of herself as prepared for anything. After all, she was a seasoned agent, and after the last decade, not much caught her off guard anymore. Except, no one had warned her who her contact was going to be.
Music and patrons overflowed out the door and into the street, a wash of sound and color slicked up and glittering under the street lights. The bouncer gave her ID a cursory glance before waving her past. She wove effortlessly through the crowd, scanning, scanning, hoping her contact was bright enough to pick her out despite the change in her planned appearance. She’d gotten as close as possible to the wig, but…
She gasped and froze, rocking back on four inch heels as she fought the urge to either duck and cover, or go for the weapon she didn’t have, thanks to the luggage snafu. It was too late, anyway; he was looking right at her, a smirk on his expressive lips. She closed her eyes for a second, hoping, praying she was wrong and the heat in the club had gotten to her, made her hallucinate. But when she opened them again, there he was, walking toward her, his blue eyes alight with amusement. At her expense, of course. The bastard.
Sydney grit her teeth and vowed to chew someone’s ass for not telling her Sark was going to be her contact in Brazil. “You’ll know him when you see him,” was not amusing. Someone was definitely going to pay. It wasn’t the first time the CIA had hired him, but still, Sydney had put the notation in her file herself, under the list of freelance agents she refused to work with. Someone had a perverse sense of humor, all right.
He wasn’t wearing his customary suit, in concession to the heat, no doubt. Instead, a white linen shirt hung loose over the waist of his slacks, unbuttoned at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves. She couldn’t move as he walked toward her, had to work to unclench her fists. When he crowded her, she forced herself not to step away, and when he leaned down and spoke in her ear, she managed a tight smile instead of a flinch.
“Sydney,” he said, laughter coloring his voice, “how lovely to see you again.”
“I’ll just bet,” she said. He touched her, fingers skimming up her back.
“Now, now,” he said, taking one of her hands in his. “Play nice, Sydney. We have an audience, over at the tables, eight o’clock.”
She flicked a glance in that direction without actually turning her head, and saw what he meant. Her target, Javier Vincotti was sitting at a table, flanked by a pair of bodyguards and two slinky blonds. He wasn’t actually watching her at the moment, but that could change in a heartbeat if she called attention to herself by acting out of character.
“I hate you,” she said with real venom, but Sark just laughed and lifted her hand to his shoulder.
“Dance with me,” he said, and she didn’t have a choice.
He pulled her close, and she let him, moving with the music, trailing red tipped nails across his shoulders.
“Did you bring the equipment I need?” she asked.
His smile widened, his hand splayed across her back. “Of course. Now, do be a good girl, Sydney, and don’t make a scene.”
She opened her mouth to ask him what he meant, only to close it abruptly when he leaned down and pressed his lips to her collar bone. The hand on her back increased pressure to keep her from pulling away, and it took every ounce of control she had not to hurt him in that moment.
“You’d better have a damn good reason for this, Sark,” she said through clenched teeth.
His lips trailed up her neck to her jaw, then back to her ear. “Relax,” he told her, his tone all business for the first time, “or you’ll give us away.”
Right. Like he wasn’t enjoying this, the smug son of a bitch.
“Fine,” she said, and made a concerted effort to relax tense muscles, to go soft and compliant in his arms.
“That’s better,” he said, drawing back to smile into her eyes. “Now, I have a Kahr PM tucked into my waistband. I’m going to strap it to your thigh, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bleed me for my trouble.”
Several replies occurred to Sydney, but only one was really relevant, unfortunately.
“9mm or .40 cal?” she asked.
A low laugh was her only answer as Sark pulled her against him, hard. He bent her back over his arm, and kissed her throat where her pulse beat a sharp, staccato rhythm. Flushed, hot, she drew breath into her lungs like a drowning man gulped water, and hated him for it. His hand stroked down her body, a trail of fire on her skin, and she knew she was in trouble.
She had, over the years, ignored, denied, or flat out fought against a ridiculous and grossly inappropriate physical attraction to Sark. She viewed it as a dark legacy from her mother, that draw she felt for things dark and forbidden. Or perhaps, given her father’s feelings for Irina, that weakness came from him. Either way, it wasn’t something Sydney particularly liked about herself. So she pretended it didn’t exist, most of the time. Maybe Vaughn complained occasionally about the bruises she left him with, when the sex got a little too rough for his liking, but that was the most she was willing to indulge that dark side, ever.
But right now, Sark was making it very difficult to ignore. His fingers were warm and dexterous against her thigh, and she felt the rasp of nylon, the cool touch of the gun as he deftly strapped it around her leg, underneath the sexy black dress she’d bought. She could only imagine what it looked like he was doing to the casual observer, and let a low moan past her lips to keep up the charade. For a second his fingers fumbled, but he recovered quickly, and a moment later yanked her back up against him, the gun transfer a success.
He kissed her, hard and bruising, rougher in that one contact than Vaughn had ever been in all their times together. She responded without thinking, her hands tightening on his arm, his shoulder, as she sucked his bottom lip into her mouth and bit down. He jerked, cursed, and she tasted blood.
“Fuck, Sydney,” he said, and gripped her hair, pulled her head back with a yank that made her gasp. He arched an eyebrow. “Or maybe that’s the whole point?” His tongue flicked out, ran over the lip she’d bitten; his eyes darkening as he watched her face, watched the way her gaze followed his tongue. She couldn’t help it. It should have killed the mood, broken the tension, that bite, but instead it had heightened things another, dangerous notch.
He kept his hand in her hair, held her head immobile while he leaned down and kissed her again, roughly, teeth scraping her lip just enough to have her breath hitching, her body arching against him. She could feel his cock against her thigh, as hard as the gun he’d just strapped there.
“Damn it, Sark,” she cursed him while his teeth went from her mouth, to her neck, to her ear. “You’re taking this too far.”
“Really?” he said, covering her breast with his hand, his thumb flicking over a hardened nipple. “And here I was thinking it wasn’t far enough.”
It was too damn hot in here to think clearly. She fisted a hand in his shirt, resisted the urge to rub against the length of his erection.
“Just get me the rest of the equipment, Sark,” she told him harshly, “so we can be done with this.”
“Oh, I can think of a very easy way to plant the transmitter on you, Sydney.”
He spun her through the crowd, shoved her against the wall, kissed her until her head was spinning, her mouth bruised, her body aching. She wanted to hurt him, was terrified to realize she didn’t know where the desire came from – her loathing of him, or her arousal and need.
She’d tried to tell Vaughn once, of her need for something just a little darker, edgier, in bed. He’d been so uncomfortable she’d never brought it up again, and their sexual relationship had never been quite intense enough, quite satisfying enough, as a result. She knew, suddenly, that sex with Sark would be more than satisfying. It would be explosive, unforgettable, just this side of frightening in its intensity.
As if he could read her thoughts, he leaned down, nipped her throat, his hand inside her dress now, cupping her breast.
“Come on, Sydney,” he insisted, “hurt me. Fuck me.”
She closed her eyes, bit her lip, tried to ignore the erotic image his words called up.
“There are days,” she said, “when it’s really hard not to kill you, Sark.”
“Sydney, Sydney,” he tsked, pressing himself between her legs, the dress riding up until she had to wrap her leg around him to keep the gun from being seen. “Don’t tease me.”
Who was teasing whom, exactly? She wasn’t sure anymore, almost didn’t care. His hips rolled forward, rubbing his length against her, and it was almost too much. Her fake nails dug into his shoulder, as she swallowed the low cry that tried to escape her throat.
“Fine,” she managed a moment later. “But not here, not in public.” She rattled off her hotel and room number before she could change her mind, met his knowing blue eyes without flinching. “I have a mission to complete, Sark. The transmitter, if you don’t mind?”
He smiled, that smug smirk she hated so.
“Tucked into the underside of that lovely lace bra you’re wearing, Sydney,” he said, his voice like silk. He leaned down. “You see, I, too, can keep my mind focused on work.”
She flushed, all too aware that she hadn’t felt him plant the transmitter amidst…other things. Sanity returning, she wondered if there was anything at her hotel that she couldn’t just ditch and leave behind. As if he could read her thoughts, his grip tightened.
“Don’t even think of running, Sydney,” he said, leaning close. “Unless you want me to give chase. There is only one way this is going to end for us tonight, I guarantee it.”
“Fuck you, Sark.”
He smiled. “Precisely.”
Click Here for Drabble, Part 2
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rhienelleth
