Desire
By VivaGlam
A/N: I do not own Lara Croft, Tomb Raider, nor do I claim to. This story is mine, but other than that, I'm just playing with her. Eidos, and whoever owns her, please don't sue me. I just adore her, and wanted to explore within her mind, that's all.
* * *
The darkness brushes against her, stirring her skin and smoothes silken beads of water over her, the droplets of sweat beading and dripping, to throw themselves off the edge of her jaw, destroying themselves on the stone floor at her feet.
Some things are just too hard to resist.
Her eyes widened imperceptibly, and then narrowed, cool blue withdrawing before focusing with harshly fierce intensity. Drawing in the sight of the beautiful object raised on the dais in front of her, she had to will herself to hold her hands back, not, however, curbing the breathy, fairly inaudible purr that whispers past her lips.
"You're mine, now."
A slanted, piercing glare is sent at him, annoyance uncoiling at his words interrupting her mental appraisal.
"Do you mind?"
The comment is pointed, asked with an arch to it, aided with the crisp accent, edges glass-sharp and clear-cut, slicing through the haze of greed with knife-sure ease. Full lips are pursed, dewdrop and red as the setting sun.
"Mind what?"
She levels another gaze at him, the lips pushed out, pursed, and he falls silent, realizing that to expect an answer was to expect too much. Leather creaks, worn and used as she slips the pistols back into their holsters, and she tilts her chin up, angling he head as she takes one step closer, heavy boots soft and muted over the dusty steps.
The ghost of a smile quirks her lips, and an almost-laugh teases her chest, tickling as it pushed to be let out. Triumph was close, she could taste it, feel the phantom-whisper of her prize telling her she'd succeeded, the butterfly-flit of Victory as she brushed her lips over her own.
Dust trembled in the air, motes dancing in eagerness, radiant rays of light streaking here and there, seeming as one to point in the direction of the artifact, calling out for her touch, to be held close, given the respect and desire it craved.
One last, near-hasty check for traps, and she reached out, hands pausing a mere inch away from the object of her driven, single-minded lust, as she ran quickly through her mental notes, checking and searching frantically, to see if she forgotten anything important, that could possibly be life-threatening.
A dull, elating blank came up.
Fine-boned hands, slender and tanned, darted out, clasping about the object, callused fingertips clutching over the cool, silky gold, glittering cut edges of the jewels biting into her hands.
"At last."