"Whatever you do, don't move."
There was a pressure on Ames' throat so light that she might be dreaming it. But there was nothing false about the long slice of steel glinting in the low light of the room, or about the hand wrapped comfortably around its hilt.
Guerrero peered down at her. The glow from the bedside lamp reflected off of his glasses, obscuring his eyes. She couldn't tell if he was pleased or puzzled or just watching her with the same cool detachment he always wore when faced with the opportunity for a Teachable Moment. Although, "here's what happens when you let people pin you to the bed and put a knife to your throat" could be a messy lesson plan. She didn't think the hotel staff would appreciate it.
But then he cocked his head, the light's glare on his lenses shifted, and Ames saw that he looked…cautious. It was the look of, "you might be crazy" meeting the look of, "this might be the best idea you've ever had," and weaving between them was something clinical, something that understood the intimacy between knives and skin in a different context and was painfully slow to adjust.
She couldn't squirm, so her face did it for her. "We don't have to, if you don't want-"
He shushed her with a gesture, that gesture being the flat of the blade against her parted lips.
Her eyes held his until her tongue snaked out to tease the dull side of the blade. She'd have missed Guerrero's slight intake of breath if she hadn't been listening for it. She smiled against the metal and continued to lave the side and flat of the blade, even as he dragged it down from her mouth and tucked the tip beneath her chin.
The action spoke to something in her hindbrain, and she'd tipped her head back before she even registered moving. Ames was keenly aware of her pulse rushing beneath the fragile barrier of her skin as the tip of the blade traced a slow line from her chin to the hollow between her collarbones. It rested there, light as a butterfly, while Guerrero stretched his palm over her breast and traced the faint rise of her nipple through the fabric.
She didn't realize she'd been holding her breath until the knife no longer threatened to open an artery over the bed sheets. She inhaled and felt the little pop and fizz of oxygen rushing to her grateful brain, only for it to protest again when her next breath was delayed by the knife sliding down again. She felt a pressure on her breasts separate from his hand and she peered down to see the fabric over her cleavage depressed by the edge of the blade, a mere flick of the wrist away from splitting it—and possibly her- apart.
"Sure you want to do this?" He asked as he rocked the knife to and fro. The sound of the fabric scraping over the metal traveled from her ears to her groin, making her shiver. "It really is a nice dress."
There was something regretful in his tone, but she had a feeling it was more for her benefit than his. In her experience, no matter how appealing she looked in any given outfit Guerrero much preferred it off.
She wouldn't mourn the loss of this dress, however. Sure it cut a nice silhouette, and she'd found some brief satisfaction in owning a piece of clothing with red carpet style and a price tag to match (thank you company credit card). But she'd felt like she needed an engineering degree and two extra pairs of hands just to get into the damn thing, and getting out of it had proved to be as much of a pain in the ass. Or at least it had until she'd gently spun away from Guerrero's fumbling fingers, kissed the corner of his scowl and suggested a more…creative way of solving the problem.
So, she nodded. Guerrero shrugged, then shot her a warning glance—not that she needed it, knowing what he was about to do, but the fact that he'd thought of it was one of the reasons why he was the only one she'd trust to do this—before he tilted his wrist, increased the pressure on the knife, and started dragging it down.
The world narrowed to contain only the sight of the blade traversing the long plane from her breasts to her toes, guided by Guerrero's deliberate hand. He kept his knives exquisitely sharp, and the fabric parted beneath the blade almost as soon as the two made contact. Inch by inch, dark, glimmering silk gave way to creamy flesh broken by the rose tones of her lingerie. There were moments when the blade whispered against her skin- long enough to say hello but never long enough to hurt—and her whole body ached with the strain of not quivering, of ignoring fear and pleasure as they coiled into a little ball inside of her and made her wonder if it was possible to come from anticipation alone.
The blade found no resistance where her dress fabric pooled between her legs, and so Guerrero was able to slice it apart in one steady motion. The sound of it giving way made her gasp, and as soon as her legs were free and the knife was out of the way she arched her hips, silently imploring him to ease the tension inside of her.
He was staring at her stomach, and it took Ames a moment to realize that he was checking for damages. His breathing was steadier than hers yet still ragged at the edges, as though lust was finally intruding on the composure he'd needed to remove the dress without hurting her.
These were the moments she came back to her on her own: those few minutes, sometimes seconds, when he teetered on the edge between the professional and personal, when she got to watch those last walls fall down and he finally stopped being the Guerrero and instead became a man who lusted and wanted and needed just like anyone else.
Not that she thought he needed her. Theirs was not that kind of story, and Ames had never believed in happily ever after. But they were comfortable together, and she knew (was ninety-five percent certain, anyway) that she could count on him when it mattered. For her, that was enough.
"Guerrero," she purred, and his eyes flicked up to her face then down again when the motion of her hands over her breasts caught his attention. She slipped her fingers beneath her bra, pushing the cups up with her knuckles as she plucked and teased herself while her hips rocked against the mattress, desperate to find some friction.
He raised an eyebrow. Then, smirking, he slipped a knee between her thighs and leaned over to kiss her. His knee was just shy of where she needed it, and he knew it too, the bastard, because he broke away to chuckle against her throat when she whimpered and tried to slide forward on the mattress. He pinned her with a hand to her pelvis, while his other hand reached up to pluck open the front closure of her bra and take over for her own hand on her breast.
She was helpless to move with his hand holding her hips in place, but god, did she want to. His calloused fingers sent sparks of lightning through her skin, and the heel of his palm was tantalizing close to her clit. If she could just shift his hand down a little more…
Of course, psychic that he was, Guerrero moved his hand from her pelvis to her hip, but before she could mourn the loss his mouth found her breast and started doing some wonderfully distracting things. She sighed, arched up, and clutched at his back.
But his attention to her breast soon ended as well, and this time Ames did make a noise of protest. She felt him smile against her skin before he planted a trail of nips and kisses following the same path the knife had taken minutes ago. As she realized his destination, her breath grew even shallower. Finally his lips brushed her panties, and he caught the waistband between his teeth and tugged it playfully.
She made a small, urgent sound and he tipped his head up, pulling her panties tighter against her and making her squirm. He winked, and if she hadn't been soaking already the sight of him framed by her thighs, with her waistband taut in his mouth and his eyes dancing with mischief, would've certainly done the trick.
He let the fabric snap down again; she barely felt the sting of it. But his lips kept moving down until his mouth fell over the outline of her mound and his tongue swiped over her clit through the fabric.
Ames curled her fingers in the sheets and thrust her hips toward him, begging him to do it again. He obliged, sucking and tasting through the cotton, and while it was wonderful it wasn't enough. That last barrier between them was torture, and her frustration escaped as a pathetic little mewl that drew Guerrero's attention once more.
"Please," she said when she met his eyes.
He made a show of prying her thighs away from his cheeks. "Sorry, couldn't hear you."
"Please."
Her voice was a needy groan, the kind that she'd learned could sway him even when he'd resolved to drag out his teasing for as long as possible. It didn't always work, but it did now, and when he rose up she obligingly brought her legs together so that he could slide her panties down. He shook his head and pushed her legs back to the mattress.
"Wha-" she began, then stopped when she saw his hand swipe over the mattress and come up with the knife. Seeing it head-on for so long had made her forget how big it was; from hilt to tip it was probably the length of her forearm, and the way its edge shined in the light left Ames no doubt it could slice her up like deli meat.
She swallowed, but her mouth had gone dry.
Guerrero twisted the knife in the air and smirked at her. Then he turned the blade edge towards her skin and brought it down until it balanced feather-light on the swell of her stomach and over her panties. He crooked a finger beneath her waistband and tugged, bringing the blade up with it. His eyes flicked to hers, and she could imagine what he saw there: animal terror mixed with lust, overlaid by the same stubborn determination she turned to any challenge she wanted to overcome. Her heart thudded in her ears, with every desperate beat finding its counterpoint between her thighs.
His tongue flicked over his lips—out of nerves or resolve or anticipation, it was impossible to tell—and he slid the knife back and down. Her panties slowly fell open, exposing her to the cool air. The rush of it between her legs made her shiver, and Guerrero shot her such a sharp look that she froze again at once.
Finally the knife completed its journey, and Ames' panties were split up to the point where they met the mattress. Guerrero pushed aside the sticky cotton with the dull edge of the blade and made a sound of approval that made Ames flush even as her toes curled.
"Guerrero," she began. Then she trailed off, for when he looked at her his eyes seemed huge and dark, and they bore a glint of mischief that made her very aware of the fact that he still hadn't removed the knife from between her legs.
"What do you want?" He asked.
"I want…" her eyes darted down to the hilt of the knife, turning so innocently between two of his fingers. "I want you to…"
The knife was mesmerizing. She could just see the heel of it peeking up from between her thighs. She wanted, she wanted, and she knew it was stupid and crazy and that's why she couldn't find the words.
"I think," Guerrero said, his voice sensual with a touch of growl that made her bite her lip, "that you want this."
He settled the dull edge of the blade between her lips and tilted it back so that it pressed into her clit. The response was instant: Ames' body jerked and she buried her fingers in the sheets, groaning.
"I had a feeling." He said, grinning.
The cold metal of the knife blade warmed quickly as Ames rocked against it. Guerrero must have driven the tip down into the mattress to keep the blade steady, she thought, because otherwise she'd have knocked the thing halfway across the mattress with the force of her thrusts. The metal's firm, slick friction against her skin was heaven, and Guerrero was tipping the edge back and forth to mirror her movements and apply jolts of pressure to her clit.
Her hands flew to her breasts again, pulling and tugging and squeezing and adding to the sensations threatening to overwhelm her. But that was the problem, she realized—they threatened, but they weren't quite there, and she was reaching the point where she needed to come like she needed to breathe.
She tried to articulate that, but all she managed was his name and a desperate squeak.
But Guerrero was psychic, or at least they'd been at this long enough for him to be fluent in her various mid-coital noises, so he set the knife down on the mattress and in the span of seconds he worked off his belt and opened his fly.
"Sheath," he grunted, nodding towards the nightstand, and Ames pouted but rolled over to retrieve the object in question. It was a utilitarian thing made of some dark, rough material like canvas or Cordura. Ames thought leather would be sexier, but "sexy" and "practical" rarely shared a sentence when it came to their profession.
She sat up and saw that in the time she'd taken to get the sheath he'd worked himself out of his dress pants slipped on a condom. He caught her by the wrist and tugged gently, bidding her closer until she was straddling his thighs and his erection bobbed enticingly against her stomach. She smiled and, before he could do anything else, she reached down and stroked him, then swallowed his sigh with a kiss.
Her hips rocked against him, because while kissing was wonderful it did nothing to ease her throbbing ache. Finally Guerrero's hands clasped her backside and hoisted her up, breaking their lips apart, though he continued to kiss the tops of her breasts and the lines of her collarbones. Ames' hand flew behind her to guide him in. It took her a touch longer than usual, since she still had to navigate the loose flaps of cotton from her ruined panties. When she found the spot he lowered her slowly; she felt every inch as he buried it inside her, and her walls clung to him, never wanting to let go again now that her body finally, finally had what it wanted.
"Fuck, you feel good," he growled against her shoulder. She kissed him again, off center and a little messy but she sure as hell didn't care and judging by the little noise he made as he thrust into her, he didn't care either.
But there was still something missing. Her hand skirted down her belly between them, but Guerrero drew it away, earning him a noise of protest that he ignored in favor of taking the sheath still clutched in her other hand. He picked up the knife and tucked his chin over her shoulder; Ames heard what she assumed to be the knife returning to its home.
She shifted and herself against her lap, trying but not quite managing to get the extra friction she needed.
"More, please." She gasped, her breath ruffling his hair. She heard him chuckle—never a good sign, when they were like this—followed by him straightening, the sheathed knife in hand.
Ames had only a moment to ponder this before he slid his hand between them, shifted his grip so that he was holding the sheath by the blade end, then lowered the hilt of the knife onto her clit.
Pleasure hit her like a lightning strike. She cried out and dug her fingers into his shoulders as her hips bucked as though they couldn't decide what they wanted more: the feel of him inside her, or the rough leather that was almost too much for her sensitive nub.
"Too much?" he asked, and Ames shook her head fervently.
"No, no…that's—oh, that's-" She bit her lip and whimpered, unable to manage anything coherent as Guerrero lightened the pressure of the knife so that her clit just brushed the leather as she bounced in his lap. Little jolts of not-quite pain made her muscles twitch around him; he shifted her to change his angle, and suddenly she was driving down faster, harder, and he was tearing noises from her throat that she'd be embarrassed about if she thought of them later.
His lips found hers and they came together in a clash of teeth and tongue that echoed the primal rhythm of their bodies. Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close even when the kiss dissolved into him planting warm, desperate kisses on her jaw and moaning against her skin.
She felt like a rubber band stretched just shy of breaking, and the rough noises Guerrero was making told her that he wasn't far off either. The knife hilt dropped lower over her clit, uncomfortably so, and they realized at the same moment that his control of it was slipping the closer to the edge he got. He tossed it to the floor and used his fingers instead; they didn't have the deliciously jarring texture of the leather, but they were blunt and calloused and they knew her well. They flicked and stroked and pinched by turns, fraying the threads holding her together until, finally, the last thread snapped.
She threw her head back and swore as her thighs and arms locked around him and her body tried to draw him into the deepest parts of her. Her blood roared like the ocean in her ears, and over that she heard something that was half moan, half sob, and realized it had come from her.
Guerrero supported her as she came down; her orgasm had wrung her of the energy to do much more than press soft kisses to his cheek as he shuddered, then went still within her.
She breathed softly, taking in the tang of sweat and sex overlaying the fainter smell of Guerrero's cologne. She stroked his back in in broad, soothing circles as she nuzzled his neck. He brushed his lips over her shoulder, then rested his forehead there, and for one wild, endorphin-induced moment, Ames wondered what it would be like if theirs was that kind of story—the kind where they wanted and needed each other, and where nights like this weren't just something they stole between jobs, but a regular part of a life they had together.
But theirs was not that kind of story, and there was no point in dreaming otherwise.
It was enough to lie in his arms afterwards and appreciate how warm and safe he made her feel when she hadn't realized she'd missed feeling either. Especially after what they'd just done; she couldn't think of a single other person she'd trust to use a knife on her like that, not even Chance.
She did know one thing, though: they were sure as hell going to do that again.