"Well, what do you think?"
Red looks up from the magazine he'd found on Lizzie's coffee table and stares. His gaze travels from the red knee length boots that encase her otherwise bare legs, past the white fluffy hem of the matching red jacket that barely covers her ass, over the tightly clasped buckle that hugs her waist, stops on the generous amount of cleavage that is on display where he stares a little more, and then finally rises up to meet her enquiring eyes.
"It's red," he says dumbly.
Lizzie snorts. "Of course it's red. Traditionally, I think it's the colour that Mrs. Claus always wears."
"Traditionally, Mrs. Claus is a chubby old woman with white hair and rosy cheeks, who's married to an even older and chubbier man. And they both, I might add, live in a climate where it is most definitely too cold to walk around with that much flesh uncovered," he corrects.
"Well, since I'm no longer bound by the ties of fake-matrimony and there's not even an elf in the picture who can tell me what I can or cannot wear, I'd like your opinion. So. How do I look?"
How did she look? Well, one look at her in that outfit and he wants to fuck her senseless. He has an overwhelming urge to throw her against the wall and pound her hard and fast. His eyes even flicker to the wall he has in mind, picturing her there, pinned by his weight, her legs wrapped around his waist as he takes his pleasure instinctively and selfishly. He wants to feel her sliding up and down the length of him as he slams into her with wild abandon. And he wants to do this while she's wearing nothing but those red boots. But he also wants it to be good for her. He wants to take her, make no mistake about that, but he wants her to be a willing, no, eager participant. He wants to make her gasp and moan and finally whimper as he fills her completely. And that's only the beginning of what he wants. But he can't say that. No, he can never say that.
She taps her foot impatiently, waiting for his reply, and he realises that he's been caught daydreaming. Fantasising. Whatever.
"You look like every teenage boys wet dream," he finally says, hoping she'll be happy with that.
Apparently she's not, because she frowns and presses him further.
"Yes, but what do you think?"
"Lizzie, if I was a teenage boy, I'd . . ."
A small smile tugs her lips. "You'd what?"
He gets lost in the 'what if' and while imagining the many varied and oh-so-naughty possibilities he re-discovers the part of his psyche that he's managed to keep hidden from her for so long. The part that he calls the Beast, because it's hungry and yearning and is driven by urges that demand immediate gratification, wants to come out and play. This part of him, the Beast, is just enough of a chauvinist to want to brand her with his mouth. He wants to suckle her supple flesh and leave his mark for all to see. He wants all men to know to whom she belongs. And while he's there, feasting on delicious Lizzie skin, he wants to make her forget everyone who came before him, and leave no room for any one to come after him. He wants to drive all thoughts not solely related to him from her mind. The only things he wants her to be aware of is his name, her name, and the fact that he's giving her the best sex she's had in her entire life. But that part of him is better left chained. That part, if given free reign, would take over and never let her forget that she belonged to him.
So he pushes the Beast down and clears his throat. "I'd probably embarrass myself terribly and then go home and have to do some laundry," he admits with a wry smile.
"But do you like it?"
Red puts the magazine down and shifts in the sofa. "Why are you asking me this?"
"Because I want your opinion. I thought I told you that already."
"Where are you going to wear that . . . little ensemble, anyway?" he asks, artfully sidestepping the question.
"I was thinking of wearing it to the Christmas party this year."
He sputters and feels the anger rising. "You're not serious?"
Lizzie fluffs her jacket. "Why not?"
"Because . . . for starters, it's indecent. You'll get arrested if you walk outside like that!"
"I don't plan on walking the streets in it, Red."
She had that right. She wasn't going anywhere where she displayed that much skin. "I know you're not, because I forbid it."
Her eyes flash that dangerous colour and he knows that she's mad, but there is no way on this earth that he's letting her walk around in public like that. She is his, even if she doesn't know it yet, and there is Just. No. Way.
"You forbid it?"
"Yes, I forbid it. Do you know what the average man would think if he saw you like that?"
"I don't particularly care what the average man thinks of me," she interrupts. "I do, however, care what you think, and if you'd take your head out of your ass for five minutes I'd appreciate it if you told me."
"And Ressler," he continues, ignoring her comment and working himself up into a good old rant, "God knows he doesn't need any more encouragement. He thinks of you as sex on a stick already."
She can't help herself. She laughs. "Sex on a stick? Is that your phrase or his?"
It's his, but he's seen the way Ressler sometimes looks at her - at how most men with a pulse look at her - and knows that he would be in total agreement with his assessment. "Elizabeth, I'm serious. You are not leaving the house dressed like that."
"Who's going to stop me?" A challenge. He couldn't let that stand. Not today. Not with her looking like she did.
"I will, if I have to."
"And how do you plan on doing that, Red? You're going to have to restrain me somehow or another in order to do it, and we both know if you ever put your hands on me like that I'll take you down."
Another challenge. Interesting. "Are you so sure about that, Lizzie?"
"Yes," she says, but a flicker of self-doubt enters her tone, and she knows he hears it.
He just raises a brow and gets to his feet, never taking his eyes off her the whole time.
"You won't hurt me," she states firmly, knowing this as the one solid truth in her life.
"No, I won't," he agrees, taking a step towards her. "But there are ways of restraining someone without hurting them. Many ways, in fact. You know that as well as I do."
She's wary now, as she should be. She's pushed him just enough for the Beast come to the surface, and while she doesn't understand yet what she's dealing with, she can see the possessiveness and hunger in his eyes. "Red, why are you so . . . what does it matter who sees me in this? It's only a costume."
"It's a very revealing costume and I don't want any other man looking at you in it," he says quietly.
She presses him further. This, after all, was the whole point of donning the outfit in question. "Why? It's not as if you have any kind of claim on me."
He thinks on this for a moment and finally makes a decision. "Maybe I'm staking one now," he says, and grabs her arms and manoeuvres her towards the wall he picked out earlier.
"Really? You're staking your claim?"
She's now trapped against the wall, looking at him with those big blue eyes, and he can't hold back any longer.
"Yes," he replies. He crushes his lips to hers, and their tongues dance in a mutual frenzy of need. Her arms come out to wrap themselves around his neck and he feels her body respond to his as he grinds into her.
"You know you're mine now," she says in a smug tone when they break for air.
He props his arms against the wall that featured in his fantasy earlier and smiles at her. "Lizzie, I always was."
She kisses him again and tugs purposely at his belt buckle, and because he knows her so well he knows what they both want. There is no room for niceties – they will come after. Right now there is only heat and desire and the wall that is holding them both up. But later, after they've both exercised some demons and are more familiar with each other, he wants to let the Beast rest and make slow, torturous love to her. The kind that makes her moan his name in ecstasy over and over again, because he'll never get tired of the sound of his name on her lips. He wants to kiss her everywhere; slowly and sensuously, he wants to take his time and fully explore her. He wants to kiss her lips until they're swollen and she aches for more. He wants to feel her tongue sliding against his, just as it is now, hungry and demanding and knowing. He wants to memorise every inch of her body, to taste every expanse of skin. He wants to run his tongue up the inside of her thighs, and delve into her sweetness and lap and lick until she's thrashing uncontrollably and he's sated. He wants to feel her hands pulling at him and scratching trails down his back as he takes her to the edge of oblivion and holds her there.
He tells her what he wants.
"Later," she promises, because right now she wants hard and fast too.
And later he shows her.
~x~
Epilogue
They forgo Lizzie's Christmas party, because that would just open up a can of worms they weren't ready to deal with yet, but find another underway, one of Red's associates, and enter, hand in hand. This alone is enough to dull the hub of conversation. But the possessive glint in his eyes as he looks at her is noticed by all, and the room falls silent as this new development is digested. She faces the curiosity proudly and boldly, as she does with most things, and smiles as he moves behind her to take her coat.
She has forgone the contentious outfit and is instead wearing snug fitting pants with a simple blouse, low cut and red of course, for the occasion. She gives a slight shake of her head as he stares at her and waits patiently for her to remove one more thing.
"No," she says, reiterating her silent refusal, but she is all too familiar with his stubborn silence so in the end she concedes with a shrug.
He unwraps a gossamer scarf from her neck, revealing purplish marks that start in the middle of her throat and move along her neck before finally disappearing underneath her shirt. Their very existence screams, 'back off, she's mine,' and he smiles a predatory smile as this also is noted.
She knows all about this newly discovered side of him, of course. They have no secrets now. But as his hand settles in the small of her back and he tries to guide her toward someone he knows, she turns and stops him.
She straightens the Santa hat that is perched haphazardly on his head, worn indulgently and at her bequest, and kisses him passionately.
"If I have to bare my battle scars, so do you," she says in a low throaty voice, and his eyes darken at her tone as he loosens his tie and unbuttons the top of his shirt.
Because she too, also felt the need to brand him with her mark.
End.