Celebration Week Day 7 - fic goodness!
Title: You Can Be Henry Miller & I’ll Be Anaïs Nin
Rating: R for sex and swearing
Spoilers: Set between seasons 1 and 2
Summary: After the events of ‘Briar Rose’, Dominic finds himself back in Victor’s body.
Notes: Yes, it's supposed to end like that. Sorry :p
There’s a moment of overwhelming relief as he shudders into consciousness, like waking up suddenly after a nightmare. The relief doesn’t last long, all it takes is a cursory glance to realise that he’s still in Victor’s body. He’s claustrophobic just at the thought of it, of being packaged into a body that isn’t his whilst his own is in stasis, imprisoned on a floor that’s part-hospital, part-mortuary.
It’s just Adelle in the dimly-lit room now, and she wasn’t wearing that outfit a minute ago which means that time - how much, he can’t tell - has passed.
“Alpha,” he asks urgently. “Did he…”
“He escaped,” she grimaces. “But not before telling slashing up your - Victor’s - face. I’m sorry.” He touches the raised scars, feeling foolishly self-conscious. There’s a tool of some sort on the desk a foot away, a spanner of some sort. Knowing Topher it probably came in a cereal box and is made of shiny plastic, but it could make for an effective weapon if he can grab it.
“And Boyd?”
“Much the same as ever. Unharmed, you’ll be glad to hear. Delighted to have another reason to hover over me constantly with that reproachful expression he seems so fond of.”
“I still can’t believe you replaced me with him.”
“I didn’t replace you.” The words slip out before she can stop them, and she masks her consternation with a sip of whisky. He’s aware of a fleeting hope that it’s at least afternoon, but pushes the concern away, reminding himself that this is the woman who consigned his body to the Attic without a second thought - if she wants to drink herself into a coma before noon, let her.
“So I’m here for…”
She looks surprised that he asks, as though they were having lunch together, as though they were friends. “Your scintillating conversation, Mr Dominic.”
He doesn’t know quite how to respond to that. He’s aware of being tested but about what he isn’t sure. She looks like she hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks, and he wonders how much damage Alpha inflicted this time. It seems like less than an hour ago when he was being strapped to the chair, fighting all the way. He remembers the lights, the pain, a gunshot and her blank expression before everything went black. Then Alpha’s message, Whiskey pumping him full of drugs, the scent of Adelle’s perfume as she whispered into his ear.
And now she wants to talk.
“So, how about those Dodgers?”
She rolls her eyes. “Baseball season is over, Mr. Dominic.”
He’s surprised she knows, before remembering that some of their players are clients. “I’d talk about the weather, but since it’s been months if not years since I last saw the outside world…” Her gaze flickers pointedly to the switches on the console, so he says the first thing that comes into his head. “You look nice.”
It’s true. She’s wearing a deep purple gauzy top that’s not quite see-through enough to be sexy but not opaque enough to be demure, and her black pencil skirt is cut up to there. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was dressed for seduction.
“Thank you,” she says uncertainly.
“Don’t worry,” he adds dryly, “I won’t ask you to return the compliment.”
The ghost of a smile flickers across her face. “It could be worse.”
“You always were fond of this body,” he taunts quietly, impatient for her to reveal her agenda. She ignores the barb, and reaches for her glass. He wonders if the trembling of her hand is to do with his reappearance or the scotch. “Can I have a glass of that?”
She frowns. “You don’t drink on duty. Or afterwards, as I recall.” The occasional invitations, always refused, hang between them.
“Maybe not with you,” he mutters. She looks, to his surprise, a little hurt. “Not like that, Adelle. I was the undercover agent, you were the mark. Getting drunk with you would not have been a good plan.” Not entirely true - he’s drunk with everyone from pimps to politicians and not slipped up, and she’s an eerie mixture of the two. He didn’t get drunk with her because he didn’t want to betray his feelings. Like hell he's going to tell her that, though.
She dips one finger in the liquid and smears it gently across his mouth. It stings slightly, Victor’s lips must be chapped.
It’s good, from what he can taste. She presses the glass to his lips, and lets him drink deeply. It’s tricky, though, and some of the liquid dribbles out of the glass and onto his skin. When it meets the stitches he gives a yelp of pain and wonders if this is just Adelle’s take on Chinese water torture. He runs his tongue along the rim of the glass, alcohol mingling with the smudged remnants of lipstick.
“Are you hungry?” He nods, because even if this body isn’t, his brain is telling him that he hasn’t eaten since this morning. And when you consider this morning was at least a few months ago, he could definitely go for some food. It’s nothing too substantial, just carrot sticks and hummous, but he’s grateful to be able to taste something other than the wheatgrass smoothie Victor evidently had earlier. She feeds him, which isn't as unpleasant an experience as he'd have imagined and eats a little herself, and they stay together for a while in companionable silence.
A thought occurs to him. “Who knows I’m here? Topher, presumably, unless you had Ivy do it. Boyd?”
She shakes her head. “He would have….asked questions that I prefer not to answer.”
“Oh, and Topher didn’t?”
“Topher said a lot of things when I ordered him to imprint Victor with your personality. I wasn’t listening to any of them.”
“So why did you?” She doesn’t respond, just stares at him, but whether she’s realising how much she missed him or just drinking in the sight of Victor shirtless - and why is he shirtless? Are the Actives wandering around partly-unclothed now, or is this just how Adelle gets her kicks?
She runs her hand across his chest, which sort of answers his question.
“You knew,” she murmurs in his ear. “You knew about Roger, but you never said anything. Why was that?”
He shrugs. “If you wanted a few dirty weekends with a bespoke gigolo it was none of my business.” She looks like she wants to argue with him, but lets his remark pass. “I never knew what you saw in him anyway.”
“Jealous?” she asks archly.
“Of a doll? Never.” He’s painfully aware that he’s no more real than Roger was, just a cluster of memories installed in Victor’s brain at the whim of Adelle DeWitt. He knows she’s thinking the same thing.
“So is this what Roger and Miss Lonely Hearts get up to? That’s a breach of contract, Adelle, there’s nothing about bondage in the client request.”
“We haven’t explored that particular avenue,” she replies, as though he’s commented on the weather. “Although,” she adds with a feral smile, “now I know how fetching he looks tied up, I might have to make a few new purchases.”
“He’s programmed to do whatever you say, Adelle, I don’t think you need to tie him up in order to have your way with him.”
She simply arches an eyebrow, and caresses the red leather straps around his wrist. “Perhaps it’s just more fun.”
“You’re not the one tied up.”
“Would you prefer that, Mr Dominic?” she purrs. “You always did enjoy being in control.”
The image that springs to mind isn’t entirely unwanted - hell, he’s jerked off to the image of Adelle DeWitt prostrate beneath him, her slender wrists fastened together with one of his ties more often than he can count. But he could do without imagining her hand trailing down his chest. It’s only when he forces his imagination to other, more chaste, images that he realises that her touch is real.
Her hand travels lower, her fingers skimming lightly over his burgeoning erection and he realises that the yoga pants leave very little to the imagination.
“Adelle,” he gasps, “What the fuck are you doing?”He misses her touch as soon as she stops, and then jolts as the liquid splashes onto his chest, cool and sticky, but that’s nothing to the heat of her tongue as she laps the scotch up from his torso.
She tugs the flimsy fabric down, just enough to reveal him, and OK, being in Victor’s body isn’t as bad as it could be. Still, if he ever gets back into his own body, he’ll have one hell of an inferiority complex. She traces a perfectly manicured fingernail up his length and he curses through gritted teeth as his hips jerk.
“Relax,” she whispers. “Why fight this? We both know you want it.”
It’s the Attic. It has to be. Nothing else could come close to this fusion of fantasy and terror, although if anyone were going to engineer such a fucked-up seduction, it would probably be her.
“All you need to do is tell me you’re not interested, and I’ll stop.” In other words, Victor will be wiped clean, and it’s goodbye Laurence Dominic. If this is real, he wants to get as much mileage out of his brief return to existence as he can.
“Don’t stop.”
Smiling, she replaces her finger with her tongue, watching his reaction. It’s a mixture of pride and voyeurism - on the one hand, Adelle DeWitt is going down on him, has imprinted his personality onto an Active for no apparent reason other than lust and mind games. On the other hand, that is very obviously not his cock. In the end, it’s easier not to watch, to close his eyes and pretend this isn’t happening in the chair, pretend he never got unmasked as an NSA spy.
He feels his climax approach and, from the way she pulls back and glares at him, so does she. She glances at the door, which he hopes like hell is locked, and unzips her skirt. He commits the sight of her to memory, even though he knows he won’t last the day before getting wiped. She stands there for a moment, letting him look, avoiding his eyes. She’s lost weight, the outlines of her ribs visible beneath her porcelain skin, but she’s still so beautiful it takes his breath away.
She lowers the chair enough for her to straddle it, wordlessly indicating what she wants. He spares a brief moment of admiration at the toned muscles of her thighs, still not sure whether to thank God or his messed-up subconscious for this strange blessing. He kisses her lightly on the inside of her thigh, and her startled gasp turns into a moan as he bites down on her flesh. It will bruise, he thinks, and the thought of the mark, hidden beneath stockings and skirts, spurs him on as he greedily presses his mouth against her warm, slick skin. It’s a pain in the ass not having his hands free, but he’s always been resourceful and she anticipates his movements the way she always does, or maybe they just share the same need. He fucks her with his tongue as hard as he can, so hard it kind of hurts but he doesn’t care, then shifts slightly to trace his tongue across her wet folds, sucking on hot flesh and making his way oh-so-gradually to her clit.
He goes slow at first, tormenting her in the only way he can right now, and then suddenly speeds up, licking and sucking fiercely as she tangles her hand in his hair and hisses his name over and over again. She’s trembling now, barely able to stand, and she grips the chair white-knuckled. She’s panting now, more undignified than he’s ever seen her as she gulps for air in ragged, whimpering breaths. He’s half tempted to stop, to tell her that he’ll only get her off if she unties him, but he gives in and lets her have the orgasm she’d denied him, and she comes with a sharp, gasping cry.
She stumbles back against the wall, flushed and breathing heavily. She runs a hand through her hair, which only serves to make it even more of a tousled mess. Post-coital is a good look on her. He wonders if that’s it, if she’ll consign him to oblivion again now that her itch has been scratched, but the glint in her eye and the swagger in her steps as she approaches the chair again tells him differently.
He thought he’d imagined every possible way this could happen over the last three years. Apparently not. “Should we, uh…?”
She rolls her eyes. “Still so concerned about my well-being, Mr. Dominic? Don’t worry, you’re clean.”
“Are you?”
“I’ve seen the files you kept. Not only did you access everything from my undergraduate dissertation to the names of my childhood pets, you also saw fit to read up on my medical history. In the six months you’ve been…gone, I haven’t exactly had time for intimate relations.”
He files that away. Six months. That’s good, it means she still needs him, even if it is only for a quick roll in the metaphorical hay of Topher’s imprinting room. It means this might not be the last time.
She bends to brush her lips across his. He’d like to think that she tastes of regret and missed opportunities, but it’s mostly just the scotch. “I always imagined doing you in the chair,” he murmurs. “Just never quite like this.”
She flashes him a wintery smile. “I prefer to be on top.”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course you do.”
“I could call for Topher, you know,” she smirks. “Or Boyd. Or I could imprint any one of the phenomenally attractive men and women downstairs to come and take your place.”
“I’ll stay.” And then, because the whole living life as though every moment is your last is actually pretty true in his case, adds “but don’t let that stop you bringing one of the girls up here. You know, if that’s what you want.” She snorts with barely-suppressed laughter and then sinks down on him. It takes all his self-control not to come right then and there.
“Oh God,” she whispers. “Laurence…” It’s the first time she’s ever used his name.
“Untie me,” he begs. “Just my hands, come on. Let me touch you.”
“Where would you like touch me?” she asks softly.
He tells her, and she traces her own hands across her skin following his instructions with more attention than she had ever shown when his suggestion might have, say, saved her life or stopped Alpha going rogue.
As she grinds against him, he revels in the sensation of her long dark hair falling across his chest - she still uses the same shampoo, the one that smells of pomegranate - and of her tongue teasing his nipples wickedly. It feels bizarrely intimate, as though they could be any other devoted-yet-kinky couple making love with one of them strapped to a billion-dollar piece of scientific equipment in a secret underground facility full of very attractive zombies. He wishes desperately that he’d responded to her subtle overtures, the way she offered him a drink or inquired about his taste in music. He’d thought the distance was a good idea, kept him objective. His words to Adelle earlier - or six months ago, depending on your perspective - flash into his mind. "It’s embarrassing how naïve you are.”
He’s amazed at how she looks with all her defences stripped away, her eyes half-lidded and biting her lower lip as she squirms against him so that he’s hitting the exact spot she needs. His palms itch with the desire to fasten around her waist, her perfect ass, and pull her closer. He’s shaking with the need to come, and from her guttural whimpers, she’s not far off either.
“Come for me, Adelle,” he murmurs softly. “Just let go.”
Their eyes meet, and he sees their entire history in hers. The desire, the betrayal, the trust she once had in him. Any anger she might feel is obliterated by the orgasm that washes over her. Her breath hitches and her body stiffens and then he’s gone too, splashing into her hotly as she clenches around him. For the next few minutes they’re nothing but two bodies, damp with sweat, clinging to each other.
She recovers first, and wriggles off the chair in search of her clothes. She doesn’t meet his eyes until she’s dressed, and there’s an awkward silence as they both realise what has to come next.
“Hey, it’s been fun and all…I’ll call you, OK?” She doesn’t smile - OK, so it wasn’t his wittiest wisecrack, but give a guy a break - and just stares at him.
“You aren’t going to beg for mercy? Plead with me not to flip this switch and restore Victor to his placid, broccoli-loving self?”
“Would it make any difference if I did?” Anger creeps into his voice. “Come on, Adelle, I didn’t think I was going to fuck my way out of the Attic. This is a game for you, just like everything else.”
“What precisely are you trying to say, Mr. Dominic?”
“I’m saying let’s do this again.” Her expression is a mixture of scornful and something that might, under other circumstances, have been happiness. “Hear me out. There’ll come a point when you’ll need me permanently. You can’t control what’s coming, you’re going to need someone you can trust. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to keep me…updated, once in a while. I’d like to do this again, and not just because the alternative is oblivion.”
“Quite the silver-tongued charmer,” she mutters wryly, before a smile melts the condescension off her face. “You’re right, as ever. This was ‘fun’.” Her eyes are cold. “That’s all it was. A way for me to relieve tension during a particularly stressful day. An itch I wanted to scratch, and since asking for Roger’s imprint would have raised more than a few eyebrows, I chose the next best thing.” She strokes his face tenderly and he tries to repress a shudder because she’s always at her sweetest when she’s about to strike. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Dominic.”
He feels the familiar rush of panic as she moves to flick the switches that will erase him, but there’s an unsteadiness in her gait that makes him doubt her sincerity. She turns to look at him, and her eyes are dark with unshed tears.
“We could have been wonderful, Laurence.”
He smiles at her, a real smile and not one of the conceited smirks he put on every day with his expensive suits. “We already were.”
She turns away from him, her shoulders heaving with the beginnings of a sob, and in his last moments of consciousness he wishes that he could reach out to her and
Rating: R for sex and swearing
Spoilers: Set between seasons 1 and 2
Summary: After the events of ‘Briar Rose’, Dominic finds himself back in Victor’s body.
Notes: Yes, it's supposed to end like that. Sorry :p
There’s a moment of overwhelming relief as he shudders into consciousness, like waking up suddenly after a nightmare. The relief doesn’t last long, all it takes is a cursory glance to realise that he’s still in Victor’s body. He’s claustrophobic just at the thought of it, of being packaged into a body that isn’t his whilst his own is in stasis, imprisoned on a floor that’s part-hospital, part-mortuary.
It’s just Adelle in the dimly-lit room now, and she wasn’t wearing that outfit a minute ago which means that time - how much, he can’t tell - has passed.
“Alpha,” he asks urgently. “Did he…”
“He escaped,” she grimaces. “But not before telling slashing up your - Victor’s - face. I’m sorry.” He touches the raised scars, feeling foolishly self-conscious. There’s a tool of some sort on the desk a foot away, a spanner of some sort. Knowing Topher it probably came in a cereal box and is made of shiny plastic, but it could make for an effective weapon if he can grab it.
“And Boyd?”
“Much the same as ever. Unharmed, you’ll be glad to hear. Delighted to have another reason to hover over me constantly with that reproachful expression he seems so fond of.”
“I still can’t believe you replaced me with him.”
“I didn’t replace you.” The words slip out before she can stop them, and she masks her consternation with a sip of whisky. He’s aware of a fleeting hope that it’s at least afternoon, but pushes the concern away, reminding himself that this is the woman who consigned his body to the Attic without a second thought - if she wants to drink herself into a coma before noon, let her.
“So I’m here for…”
She looks surprised that he asks, as though they were having lunch together, as though they were friends. “Your scintillating conversation, Mr Dominic.”
He doesn’t know quite how to respond to that. He’s aware of being tested but about what he isn’t sure. She looks like she hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks, and he wonders how much damage Alpha inflicted this time. It seems like less than an hour ago when he was being strapped to the chair, fighting all the way. He remembers the lights, the pain, a gunshot and her blank expression before everything went black. Then Alpha’s message, Whiskey pumping him full of drugs, the scent of Adelle’s perfume as she whispered into his ear.
And now she wants to talk.
“So, how about those Dodgers?”
She rolls her eyes. “Baseball season is over, Mr. Dominic.”
He’s surprised she knows, before remembering that some of their players are clients. “I’d talk about the weather, but since it’s been months if not years since I last saw the outside world…” Her gaze flickers pointedly to the switches on the console, so he says the first thing that comes into his head. “You look nice.”
It’s true. She’s wearing a deep purple gauzy top that’s not quite see-through enough to be sexy but not opaque enough to be demure, and her black pencil skirt is cut up to there. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was dressed for seduction.
“Thank you,” she says uncertainly.
“Don’t worry,” he adds dryly, “I won’t ask you to return the compliment.”
The ghost of a smile flickers across her face. “It could be worse.”
“You always were fond of this body,” he taunts quietly, impatient for her to reveal her agenda. She ignores the barb, and reaches for her glass. He wonders if the trembling of her hand is to do with his reappearance or the scotch. “Can I have a glass of that?”
She frowns. “You don’t drink on duty. Or afterwards, as I recall.” The occasional invitations, always refused, hang between them.
“Maybe not with you,” he mutters. She looks, to his surprise, a little hurt. “Not like that, Adelle. I was the undercover agent, you were the mark. Getting drunk with you would not have been a good plan.” Not entirely true - he’s drunk with everyone from pimps to politicians and not slipped up, and she’s an eerie mixture of the two. He didn’t get drunk with her because he didn’t want to betray his feelings. Like hell he's going to tell her that, though.
She dips one finger in the liquid and smears it gently across his mouth. It stings slightly, Victor’s lips must be chapped.
It’s good, from what he can taste. She presses the glass to his lips, and lets him drink deeply. It’s tricky, though, and some of the liquid dribbles out of the glass and onto his skin. When it meets the stitches he gives a yelp of pain and wonders if this is just Adelle’s take on Chinese water torture. He runs his tongue along the rim of the glass, alcohol mingling with the smudged remnants of lipstick.
“Are you hungry?” He nods, because even if this body isn’t, his brain is telling him that he hasn’t eaten since this morning. And when you consider this morning was at least a few months ago, he could definitely go for some food. It’s nothing too substantial, just carrot sticks and hummous, but he’s grateful to be able to taste something other than the wheatgrass smoothie Victor evidently had earlier. She feeds him, which isn't as unpleasant an experience as he'd have imagined and eats a little herself, and they stay together for a while in companionable silence.
A thought occurs to him. “Who knows I’m here? Topher, presumably, unless you had Ivy do it. Boyd?”
She shakes her head. “He would have….asked questions that I prefer not to answer.”
“Oh, and Topher didn’t?”
“Topher said a lot of things when I ordered him to imprint Victor with your personality. I wasn’t listening to any of them.”
“So why did you?” She doesn’t respond, just stares at him, but whether she’s realising how much she missed him or just drinking in the sight of Victor shirtless - and why is he shirtless? Are the Actives wandering around partly-unclothed now, or is this just how Adelle gets her kicks?
She runs her hand across his chest, which sort of answers his question.
“You knew,” she murmurs in his ear. “You knew about Roger, but you never said anything. Why was that?”
He shrugs. “If you wanted a few dirty weekends with a bespoke gigolo it was none of my business.” She looks like she wants to argue with him, but lets his remark pass. “I never knew what you saw in him anyway.”
“Jealous?” she asks archly.
“Of a doll? Never.” He’s painfully aware that he’s no more real than Roger was, just a cluster of memories installed in Victor’s brain at the whim of Adelle DeWitt. He knows she’s thinking the same thing.
“So is this what Roger and Miss Lonely Hearts get up to? That’s a breach of contract, Adelle, there’s nothing about bondage in the client request.”
“We haven’t explored that particular avenue,” she replies, as though he’s commented on the weather. “Although,” she adds with a feral smile, “now I know how fetching he looks tied up, I might have to make a few new purchases.”
“He’s programmed to do whatever you say, Adelle, I don’t think you need to tie him up in order to have your way with him.”
She simply arches an eyebrow, and caresses the red leather straps around his wrist. “Perhaps it’s just more fun.”
“You’re not the one tied up.”
“Would you prefer that, Mr Dominic?” she purrs. “You always did enjoy being in control.”
The image that springs to mind isn’t entirely unwanted - hell, he’s jerked off to the image of Adelle DeWitt prostrate beneath him, her slender wrists fastened together with one of his ties more often than he can count. But he could do without imagining her hand trailing down his chest. It’s only when he forces his imagination to other, more chaste, images that he realises that her touch is real.
Her hand travels lower, her fingers skimming lightly over his burgeoning erection and he realises that the yoga pants leave very little to the imagination.
“Adelle,” he gasps, “What the fuck are you doing?”He misses her touch as soon as she stops, and then jolts as the liquid splashes onto his chest, cool and sticky, but that’s nothing to the heat of her tongue as she laps the scotch up from his torso.
She tugs the flimsy fabric down, just enough to reveal him, and OK, being in Victor’s body isn’t as bad as it could be. Still, if he ever gets back into his own body, he’ll have one hell of an inferiority complex. She traces a perfectly manicured fingernail up his length and he curses through gritted teeth as his hips jerk.
“Relax,” she whispers. “Why fight this? We both know you want it.”
It’s the Attic. It has to be. Nothing else could come close to this fusion of fantasy and terror, although if anyone were going to engineer such a fucked-up seduction, it would probably be her.
“All you need to do is tell me you’re not interested, and I’ll stop.” In other words, Victor will be wiped clean, and it’s goodbye Laurence Dominic. If this is real, he wants to get as much mileage out of his brief return to existence as he can.
“Don’t stop.”
Smiling, she replaces her finger with her tongue, watching his reaction. It’s a mixture of pride and voyeurism - on the one hand, Adelle DeWitt is going down on him, has imprinted his personality onto an Active for no apparent reason other than lust and mind games. On the other hand, that is very obviously not his cock. In the end, it’s easier not to watch, to close his eyes and pretend this isn’t happening in the chair, pretend he never got unmasked as an NSA spy.
He feels his climax approach and, from the way she pulls back and glares at him, so does she. She glances at the door, which he hopes like hell is locked, and unzips her skirt. He commits the sight of her to memory, even though he knows he won’t last the day before getting wiped. She stands there for a moment, letting him look, avoiding his eyes. She’s lost weight, the outlines of her ribs visible beneath her porcelain skin, but she’s still so beautiful it takes his breath away.
She lowers the chair enough for her to straddle it, wordlessly indicating what she wants. He spares a brief moment of admiration at the toned muscles of her thighs, still not sure whether to thank God or his messed-up subconscious for this strange blessing. He kisses her lightly on the inside of her thigh, and her startled gasp turns into a moan as he bites down on her flesh. It will bruise, he thinks, and the thought of the mark, hidden beneath stockings and skirts, spurs him on as he greedily presses his mouth against her warm, slick skin. It’s a pain in the ass not having his hands free, but he’s always been resourceful and she anticipates his movements the way she always does, or maybe they just share the same need. He fucks her with his tongue as hard as he can, so hard it kind of hurts but he doesn’t care, then shifts slightly to trace his tongue across her wet folds, sucking on hot flesh and making his way oh-so-gradually to her clit.
He goes slow at first, tormenting her in the only way he can right now, and then suddenly speeds up, licking and sucking fiercely as she tangles her hand in his hair and hisses his name over and over again. She’s trembling now, barely able to stand, and she grips the chair white-knuckled. She’s panting now, more undignified than he’s ever seen her as she gulps for air in ragged, whimpering breaths. He’s half tempted to stop, to tell her that he’ll only get her off if she unties him, but he gives in and lets her have the orgasm she’d denied him, and she comes with a sharp, gasping cry.
She stumbles back against the wall, flushed and breathing heavily. She runs a hand through her hair, which only serves to make it even more of a tousled mess. Post-coital is a good look on her. He wonders if that’s it, if she’ll consign him to oblivion again now that her itch has been scratched, but the glint in her eye and the swagger in her steps as she approaches the chair again tells him differently.
He thought he’d imagined every possible way this could happen over the last three years. Apparently not. “Should we, uh…?”
She rolls her eyes. “Still so concerned about my well-being, Mr. Dominic? Don’t worry, you’re clean.”
“Are you?”
“I’ve seen the files you kept. Not only did you access everything from my undergraduate dissertation to the names of my childhood pets, you also saw fit to read up on my medical history. In the six months you’ve been…gone, I haven’t exactly had time for intimate relations.”
He files that away. Six months. That’s good, it means she still needs him, even if it is only for a quick roll in the metaphorical hay of Topher’s imprinting room. It means this might not be the last time.
She bends to brush her lips across his. He’d like to think that she tastes of regret and missed opportunities, but it’s mostly just the scotch. “I always imagined doing you in the chair,” he murmurs. “Just never quite like this.”
She flashes him a wintery smile. “I prefer to be on top.”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course you do.”
“I could call for Topher, you know,” she smirks. “Or Boyd. Or I could imprint any one of the phenomenally attractive men and women downstairs to come and take your place.”
“I’ll stay.” And then, because the whole living life as though every moment is your last is actually pretty true in his case, adds “but don’t let that stop you bringing one of the girls up here. You know, if that’s what you want.” She snorts with barely-suppressed laughter and then sinks down on him. It takes all his self-control not to come right then and there.
“Oh God,” she whispers. “Laurence…” It’s the first time she’s ever used his name.
“Untie me,” he begs. “Just my hands, come on. Let me touch you.”
“Where would you like touch me?” she asks softly.
He tells her, and she traces her own hands across her skin following his instructions with more attention than she had ever shown when his suggestion might have, say, saved her life or stopped Alpha going rogue.
As she grinds against him, he revels in the sensation of her long dark hair falling across his chest - she still uses the same shampoo, the one that smells of pomegranate - and of her tongue teasing his nipples wickedly. It feels bizarrely intimate, as though they could be any other devoted-yet-kinky couple making love with one of them strapped to a billion-dollar piece of scientific equipment in a secret underground facility full of very attractive zombies. He wishes desperately that he’d responded to her subtle overtures, the way she offered him a drink or inquired about his taste in music. He’d thought the distance was a good idea, kept him objective. His words to Adelle earlier - or six months ago, depending on your perspective - flash into his mind. "It’s embarrassing how naïve you are.”
He’s amazed at how she looks with all her defences stripped away, her eyes half-lidded and biting her lower lip as she squirms against him so that he’s hitting the exact spot she needs. His palms itch with the desire to fasten around her waist, her perfect ass, and pull her closer. He’s shaking with the need to come, and from her guttural whimpers, she’s not far off either.
“Come for me, Adelle,” he murmurs softly. “Just let go.”
Their eyes meet, and he sees their entire history in hers. The desire, the betrayal, the trust she once had in him. Any anger she might feel is obliterated by the orgasm that washes over her. Her breath hitches and her body stiffens and then he’s gone too, splashing into her hotly as she clenches around him. For the next few minutes they’re nothing but two bodies, damp with sweat, clinging to each other.
She recovers first, and wriggles off the chair in search of her clothes. She doesn’t meet his eyes until she’s dressed, and there’s an awkward silence as they both realise what has to come next.
“Hey, it’s been fun and all…I’ll call you, OK?” She doesn’t smile - OK, so it wasn’t his wittiest wisecrack, but give a guy a break - and just stares at him.
“You aren’t going to beg for mercy? Plead with me not to flip this switch and restore Victor to his placid, broccoli-loving self?”
“Would it make any difference if I did?” Anger creeps into his voice. “Come on, Adelle, I didn’t think I was going to fuck my way out of the Attic. This is a game for you, just like everything else.”
“What precisely are you trying to say, Mr. Dominic?”
“I’m saying let’s do this again.” Her expression is a mixture of scornful and something that might, under other circumstances, have been happiness. “Hear me out. There’ll come a point when you’ll need me permanently. You can’t control what’s coming, you’re going to need someone you can trust. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to keep me…updated, once in a while. I’d like to do this again, and not just because the alternative is oblivion.”
“Quite the silver-tongued charmer,” she mutters wryly, before a smile melts the condescension off her face. “You’re right, as ever. This was ‘fun’.” Her eyes are cold. “That’s all it was. A way for me to relieve tension during a particularly stressful day. An itch I wanted to scratch, and since asking for Roger’s imprint would have raised more than a few eyebrows, I chose the next best thing.” She strokes his face tenderly and he tries to repress a shudder because she’s always at her sweetest when she’s about to strike. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Dominic.”
He feels the familiar rush of panic as she moves to flick the switches that will erase him, but there’s an unsteadiness in her gait that makes him doubt her sincerity. She turns to look at him, and her eyes are dark with unshed tears.
“We could have been wonderful, Laurence.”
He smiles at her, a real smile and not one of the conceited smirks he put on every day with his expensive suits. “We already were.”
She turns away from him, her shoulders heaving with the beginnings of a sob, and in his last moments of consciousness he wishes that he could reach out to her and