Shiver
He's had girls like her before, pretty, cold, and mean. They all start out indifferent—you can fuck me if you want—and they all end up simpering in the end—you'll call, right? He's slid his hands up skirts and down pants and touched them, stroked their smooth, slick folds until they're panting and begging for it, lips and tongues and cheeks and faces flushed with a heat that belies their icy exterior.
Not this one, who rolls her eyes at his gun and tugs the strap of her nightgown back over her shoulder, walks over to the monitors to make sure her subordinates aren't nearby, tick-tocking her hips in a way that—fucking Near. She smirks at him over her shoulder, the closest thing to a come on he's likely to get from her, and turns back to the screen, idly twirling her hair in that girlish way.
"How close are you?" she murmurs, voice dusky and low and shooting straight to his crotch. The light from the screens turns the filmy nightgown into a pale blue-white halo around her perfectly-formed body. Fuck Near and her legs that stretch for days, turned so shyly in an almost pigeon-toed stance that would look awkward and stupid on anyone else but on her only emphasizes the tiny triangle of light glowing between her thighs. He wonders irrationally if she's wearing panties and chokes on the suddenly vivid picture of her little gofer, that man in the black suit who stares so lovingly at her when he thinks no one is looking, setting her on the edge of his desk and sliding his hands reverently up her thighs, worshiping at the delta of her temple with his mouth and fingers.
"Near enough!" he snarls, but it's halfhearted—the other half is in his pants, thumping painfully against the tight laces. He can see her reflection in the glass as she changes the channel, screen flashing dark, then white, gothic N centered. She's smiling at him wryly as she leans over, requesting politely and quietly to be left alone, but all he can see is the hard points of her nipples in the reflection and the almost-imagined wisps of pale white hair in the shadowplay of her nightgown.
Impulsively—she hasn't even released the button on the intercom yet—he reaches forward and cups her cunt beneath the dress. She's warm—she's unnaturally hot and wet and slick with want—and moans softly into the microphone, hands stuttering to turn it off. Mello chuckles to himself, imagining Gevanni wanking himself into a stupor over that tiny exhalation.
"Wha—what are you doing, Mello?" she stammers, arms shaking as she leans into the chair in front of her.
"You're a smart girl, Near," he grins as he slides his finger through the sticky sweetness, rubbing her clit as he passes. "You're such a smart girl, aren't you? Has no one ever fingered your cunt before?"
The response is immediate: she jerks, panting against her arm, and her legs fall open, even if only marginally. Her shoulders glisten slightly in the light of the screens and he leans forward, biting the nape of her neck and thrusting a finger inside her. She's tight, ridged muscles grasping and pulling and sucking at him as if her body knows what he wants, even if she somehow doesn't yet. He reaches around her, gripping her right breast fiercely, and swings her around to face the rest of the room. "Get on the fucking bed," he growls, biting at her ear and pinching her nipple sharply. She staggers weakly over to the small bed and sits, staring back at him with huge eyes.
Mello isn't fool enough to think for even a minute that he's blinded her with lust. Even across the room, he can see the wheels turning, see her working out the best way to use his cock against him. He stalks over, and already she's back up to speed, has worked out the rules to this new game. He peels his vest off and drops it next to the bed, and she smirks up at him, trailing a finger along the curved edge of his scars.
Her lips are small and soft, surprisingly warm—her skin is surprisingly warm, even after the liquid heat of her—as he presses himself against her. Her breasts are firm, smallish—just perfect for a cupped palm or an open mouth—and her nipples press against his bare chest through the flimsy fabric like buttons. He smoothes his hand around the curve of her left breast and rubs his thumb over it, staring in fascination as it pebbles further. He's suddenly overcome with the wonder of her tiny body, everything perfect in miniature, it seems, and how her bent knee at his waist makes him feel so large and awkward next to her.
Mello's surprised to feel his pants loosen in the hip. They can't loosen elsewhere—the leather is sticking to his sweaty skin—and Near is smiling her twisted little smile again, dangling the cord—how did she get the whole thing out without him noticing?—in front of his eyes. Then there's a small hand questing in through the opened flap of his pants, tugging him out and playing with the precome smeared across the leaking tip. He watches in almost hopeless arousal as Near's small, pink tongue traces over a fingertip that's shiny-slick. "Oh, god," he moans helplessly into her neck, fingers already buried inside her again. Their hips are a good foot away from each other and they're both already thrusting toward the other, and it strikes Mello that this is the way it's always been between them: separate and distant, aching to connect even as they hold each other back. "Oh, god," he moans again when her walls squeeze and ripple around his fingers. She's coming.
Her eyes were unfocused as he batted her hand away from its weakened grip on his cock. A shiver raced down his back as he positioned himself, thrust in, and promptly exploded. It feels like there was no build-up at all and like there was several hours of teasing and like he's been coming forever as the world fazes in and out grey and white—the same colors as Near, sprawled beneath him, eyes shrewd. It feels like the spurts won't stop—one, two, six more before he collapses, chest heaving, onto her smaller frame. She pushes at his shoulders slick with sweat and he magnanimously rolls off of her, eyes closed and victorious.
"Not too good for me now, huh?" he asks, fingers finding her clit still hard and manipulating it until she bats his hand away in irritation. They come back slick and streaky with blood and come. "Oh, shit," he breathes, curling to look at her carefully.
Near rolls her eyes again, shoving him onto his back. "Don't be so sentimental," she says shortly, throwing a leg over him to sit on his abdomen. He's half-hard again from the way her breasts look from this angle and the fact that he's nineteen and the way she rocks against his stomach, the tiny nub of her clit pressed against his muscles and her hips rolling in small, sharp circles. "Fuck me again."
In the end, barely able to walk out of the building, knees weak with exhaustion and the lingering effects of arousal, Mello realizes that even if he had won—if one considers cracking the ice princess's shell just long enough to stick it in winning— he's lost: nothing happened that Near didn't plan. And the next time he sees her, surrounded by her flunkies pointing guns at him, her simple white pajamas are gender-neutral enough to pretend he'd never known otherwise.