Not gently. Not because I've decided anything. I move around the console and I put my hands on his face and I kiss him to stop him from saying anything else, because if he keeps talking I'm going to understand him, and understanding him is a weapon I don't know how to hold safely. I kiss him to test what he'll do. I kiss him to punish him for making me feel something in a place where feeling is a liability. I kiss him because the Consortium trained me to exploit vulnerability, and his vulnerability is so complete right now, so unexpected, that exploiting it is the only response my body knows.
He responds without hesitation. No push toward something he's already planned, no manipulation, no careful escalation toward a calculated outcome. Just his mouth on mine and his hands in my hair and the raw, graceless want of a man who has stopped performing.
I bite his lower lip and taste the copper of it, and he makes a sound that isn't pain. His hands tighten in my hair and he turnsme, walking me backward until my hips hit the console and the Malachar file scatters across the surface behind me. Data chips clattering. Screens flickering with the evidence of everything he is.
He lifts me onto the console and I let him, my legs opening to pull him closer, my hands fisting in his shirt. The screen behind me is still displaying his surveillance reports and I can feel the heat of it against my back, the glow of his secrets pressed against my skin through the fabric of my clothes.
"You broke into my vault." His mouth is against my throat, his voice low and rough and nothing like the measured instrument he usually plays.
"You left the door open for me."
His teeth graze the tendon of my neck and I arch into it, my fingers finding the buttons of his shirt and working them open with the same precision I used on his security system. His skin under my hands is hot, scarred in places I want to map with my tongue, and when I press my palm flat against his chest I can feel his heart slamming, faster than his composure suggests.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, and his eyes in this light are almost silver, stripped of warmth, stripped of pretense. "You read everything."
"Not everything." I pull his shirt off his shoulders. "Not yet."
His hands find the hem of my top and pull it over my head in one motion, and the cool air of the vault hits my bare skin at the same time his mouth finds my collarbone. I hiss at the contrast. His lips are hot, his teeth sharp enough to mark, and he's working his way down my chest with a focus that feels less like seduction and more like cataloguing. Like he's memorizing the geography of me the way I memorized his security codes.
I reach between us and palm him through his pants, feeling the hard length of him against my hand. He groans into my skin, his hips pushing forward, and the sound vibrates throughmy ribs. I work his belt open. He unclasps my bra and tosses it somewhere among his scattered data chips.
He takes my breast in his mouth and I grab the back of his head, holding him there while my other hand shoves his pants down his hips. His cock is thick and hot against my thigh when it springs free, and I wrap my fingers around it and stroke, base to tip, feeling the wet at the head, the pulse of blood under the skin.
"You could destroy me." He says it against my breast, his mouth still working, his hips rocking into my hand.
"I know." I tighten my grip and he makes a sound that's almost a growl, low in his chest, an animal thing. "Take off my pants."
He does. Fast, rough, peeling them and my underwear down my legs in one pull and letting them drop to the floor. I'm bare on his console now, surrounded by his screens, his secrets scrolling behind me, and he stands between my spread thighs looking at me like I'm a detonation he's chosen not to prevent.
His hand slides up my inner thigh. Slow. Precise. The same deliberate pace he uses when delivering intelligence, as if the information needs to arrive in exactly the right order. His fingers reach my cunt and I'm wet, embarrassingly, undeniably wet, and his breath hitches when he feels it.
"This is what my secrets do to you?"
"Don't flatter yourself." But my voice cracks on the last word because his fingers are sliding through me, spreading me open, pressing two inside with a confidence that suggests he's thought about this geometry before. I clench around him and his jaw tightens, his other hand gripping my hip hard enough to leave prints.
He curls his fingers and finds the spot that makes my vision blur, and I let my head fall back against the screen behind me. Malachar's file is warm against my skull. The irony is so sharp it could draw blood.
"More," I tell him. Not a request.
He withdraws his fingers and I watch him bring them to his mouth. Watch him taste me while looking directly into my eyes. The sight of it sends heat flooding through my belly, a pulse so strong my thighs clench. He grabs my hips and pulls me to the edge of the console, and I feel the head of his cock press against me, hot and blunt and insistent.
"Look at me," he says.
I do. Grey eyes into grey eyes, no contacts, no covers, no walls between what we are and what we're doing. He pushes inside me in one long stroke and I feel every inch of it, the stretch, the fullness, the way my body opens for him like a lock accepting the right key. My mouth falls open. His hands tighten on my hips until I can feel each individual finger pressing a bruise into my skin.
He fucks me hard. No preamble, no escalation, just the full force of something that has been compressed too long finally detonating. The console shudders with each thrust and data chips scatter and fall to the floor around us like debris. I brace one hand behind me on the screen, Malachar's surveillance reports smearing under my palm, and grab his shoulder with the other, my nails digging in deep enough to mark.
His hand comes up to my throat. Not squeezing. Holding. His thumb rests against my pulse point and I know he can feel how fast my heart is going, the evidence of what he's doing to me written in the rhythm under his fingers. He controls the angle with that hand on my throat, tipping my head back so he can watch my face while he drives into me.
"You broke into my vault," he says again, and this time it sounds like a prayer.
"You showed me everything." My voice is ragged, punched out of me with each thrust. "You wanted me to see."
His pace increases and I feel the coil tightening in my belly, that bright, terrible pressure building toward something I can't stop. I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him deeper and he swears, a word I've never heard from his careful mouth, and his hand tightens on my throat just enough that I feel the edges of my vision soften.
I take everything from him. Every hard thrust, every bruising grip, every sound he makes that he can't suppress. I take the confession and the vulnerability and the grief he carries for a man who used him, and I transmute it all into this. Bodies and friction and the slick sounds of fucking echoing off the walls of his most private space.
I come with his hand on my throat and his cock buried inside me and his secrets glowing against my back. The orgasm tears through me in waves that clench and release, and I hear myself make a sound that isn't a word, something raw that bounces off the vault walls and comes back changed. He follows me over the edge seconds later, his rhythm stuttering, his forehead dropping against mine, his breath hot and harsh against my lips. I feel him pulse inside me and the warmth of it spreads and I hold him there with my legs while he shakes.
