Author's Note: Let's be clear on one thing - I don't go here. I have a type, and Samuel Drake falls firmly within the parameters of that type. So when someone showed him to me and I watched a bunch of YouTube videos of him in action, I decided I was going to show up in a fandom I don't even go to and write this trash. Extremely NSFW.
He should have known the moment he laid eyes on her, who and what she was. Samuel Drake was a career thief, and not to toot his own horn, but he was a career thief of enviable skill. His fifteen year stint in a Panama prison had done nothing to dull the edge of his illicit gifts, and in fact, only gave him a meaner edge and sharper focus when he walked free. And if there was one thing any career thief worth their salt could do, it was easy spot another thief while on a job.
So when he laid eyes on her, he should have known. In fact, he did know, but he had never been one to shy away from trouble.
He watched her, as sleek as a prowling jungle cat, working the crowd. She moved with lissome grace, and had he been an untrained ass, he would have missed the finesse with which her deft hands freed the party goers of their valuables. He smiled, remembering why he was at the party as well, and decided to tail her. He'd test her mettle, see if she was as graceful when met with a challenge. Her back was to him, and Sam took a moment to let his eyes sweep appraisingly along the exposed area; her dress dipped low enough to skim the dimples just above her ass, just enough to be a bit scandalous, but she still moved gracefully. Her skin was a rich, satiny brown, the color of burnished umber, and his eyes wept up her spine to settle on the back of her head.
"You going to stare at me all evening, or are you going to do what you came here to do?" She asked, casually nursing a flute of champagne. Her hair was thick and curly, jet black and pinned in an elegant coif, letting him see the exposed and elegant arc of her throat as she turned to face him. Sam should have known, but God help him, he hadn't seen anyone finesse a crowd like that in some time. He missed it.
"Can't blame me for admiring the view," he said with a grin and she peered at him with dark eyes over the rim of her champagne flute, brows raised in a wry look that said she clearly would not be bought with simple flirtation. He figured as much, but he had to break the ice somehow.
"We're on one of the most beautiful islands in the world," she told him, "and you decide to use that line on me. Tsk. I expected better from someone like you."
Sam laughed. "Someone like me? What's that supposed to mean?"
She said nothing, taking another sip of her champagne and setting the glass down on a napkin on the bar. Sam noted there wasn't even an imprint of her lipstick on the glass. She was a professional.
"Oh don't be coy," she said, moving toward him and he could have sworn she was liquid poured into human skin and bone, closing the distance, "we both know why we're here. And let's face it: you do stand out." Sam grinned. So she'd play that game, eh? Good.
"Yeah, guess I do. Still don't know what you're on about, though. I'm just here to enjoy the party."
She smiled, close enough that he could smell her. No perfume, just a faint floral scent from the heat of her dark skin.
"So am I." She said, and brushed past him. She glanced over her shoulder once, shooting him a smile that might as well have been a thrown gauntlet for all the challenge in it.
And then she vanished into the crowd.
Sam took a deep breath.
"You about done fooling around?" Came Sully's voice in the earwig, "Alarms have been deactivated, and we've got control of the camera to the main entrance to the vault. The rest is on you."
Sam cracked his knuckles, adjusting his bowtie, and making his way through the throng toward the back hallway. The place was heavily guarded from the outside, but inside, the security mostly hung around main points of entry. Sam avoided those easily, feigning heading to the men's room, before he made his way through the maze of hallways toward the vault. With each passing, the cameras observation was fuzzed via a small emitter around his upper arm. Each passing would erase his image, and when he got to the vault entrance, he froze.
"Sully," he said, "we got a problem. Did you knock out that guard?"
A pause, and then Sully's voice crackled into his ear.
"No. He should be shitting his brains out in the men's room right now. Why?"
Sam sighed. "Looks like he's been knocked out here. Someone's already in the vault. I'm gonna check it out."
He should have known. Even the smallest jobs came with the hefty baggage of shit.
The vault was large, large enough to hold multi-foot tall statues Sam could easily identify as authentic. He was very interested in the convincing replica of the statue of Athena from the Parthenon. That could fetch a pretty price in a few billionaire homes if he could find a way to transport the damn thing. He found the item he was after, mounted and unguarded, a single flask made entirely of silver, etched with what looked to be Arabic all around.
He found the slinky dress of his nameless rival draped over the arm of Julius Caesar, and Sam had to grin. Was she running around naked? God help him, he hoped so, but he doubted it.
"Mind if I borrow this?" He asked the statue, which remained motionless and bland. Sam took the dress, draped it over his own arm, and found her meticulously working on a smaller vault, dressed in a grayish bodysuit which covered her from head to toe. Sam watched for a moment, impressed with the woman and her deft fingers.
"Alright, sweetheart," she said softly, "let's listen to that heartbeat…" She didn't glance up, "Hand me my toolkit, please, lovely? You look rather silly standing there holding my Dolce & Gabbana."
Sam's smirk became a grin.
"Didn't want to disturb your work. What are you after?" He reached for the leather-wrapped toolkit, handing it over to her. She didn't answer him, but reached for it, snatching it as he tried to pull it away. She had quick hands too.
"Confidentiality is the reason I am in business," she said, "and it's rather rude to ask another thief about their work, don't you think?" She began the process of decoding the vault's locking mechanism, listening for the tumblers as she worked. It was an older vault, but still formidable and heavy. The only way in was with a key or some very fine tools.
"Aha!" She said as the vault gave a satisfying click. Gently, she opened the door, and peered inside. Finding whatever she was after, she gathered the papers and files from the vault and tucked them under her arm. She turned to face Sam, then.
"I appreciate your assistance," she said with a smile, "mind unzipping me?"
Sam chuckled. "I thought you'd never ask."
Later, when he and Sully were back at the hotel, Sam thought that for once, he truly was a fortunate man.
And then he checked his pockets.
"Oh you have got to be shitting me." He muttered, "That little minx made off with my Zippo."
He had to use matches, of course, provided by the hotel, but the Zippo he'd lost to his nameless, darkling thief was more than just a lighter—it held sentimental value. Standing in front of the hotel lobby, he was about to strike the match when a dark hand came up, an lit the cigarette for him. Sam, startled, found his nameless thief standing there, wearing a sun dress.
"You should know better, Samuel Drake," she said, her voice like smoke and honey, "what if I'd been the police?"
Sam laughed, "I've spent my entire life evading cops, babe. You'd probably get lucky, though."
She smiled, looking every inch as unassuming as that sundress belied. Sam reached for his beloved Zippo but she pulled it away quickly.
"I'm going to hang onto this, if you don't mind." She told him, and walked away. Sam felt something prickle at the back of his neck and checked his pockets…finding his wallet returned. Goddamn she was good.
But that made her dangerous.
It was just past one in the morning when Sam heard the whisper of his door opening. He was groggy at first, but then was up, only to see her in that sun dress, looking like some kind of figment of his imagination. He wanted to say he dreamed her up, but he'd always considered himself a sucker for redheads. Still, a head full of onyx curls did little to dissuade him, even as she hovered on the edge of the bed, one knee propped against it.
"You here to return my lighter?" He asked. In the dim light, he saw a flash of silver between her fingers as she produced his lighters, and then it was gone.
"I will." She said simply, "If you invite me to."
He should have known in that moment what she was about but Sam was never one to turn down an invitation like that. So he invited her, watched her climb into his bed as if he was the guest and not her. Somehow, she'd come to straddle his lap, smirking.
"Unzip me?" She asked and Sam almost laughed. Instead, his hands smoothed up her back, found the dangling zipper, and pulled down.
He thought she'd never ask.
He peeled her out of that dress slow and easy, wanting to savor this moment—opportunity?—he didn't know what to call it. But God he wasn't going to question it. So every bit of skin he saw, he put his mouth on it. He couldn't place that floral scent, and it was partially obscured by the sweet and sour musk of her own sweat, but he liked the smell of her. Her skin was so warm, as soft as satin beneath his rough mouth. He was lingering on her throat when he felt her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling his head back. Her mouth sealed over his, and he held her close, letting himself ignore the warning signs in favor of this dizzying and electric thrill as her tongue slid into his mouth.
If he knew she wasn't going to vanish come morning, he would have taken his time, given her the premium treatment—a girl that fine deserved no less—but he knew this was a chance that wouldn't come again. He escaped her mouth, and she let him trail away, letting out a small gasp as he traced the curve of her breasts, brushing her nipples with his lips. He took one gently between his teeth, slid it into his mouth with just enough pressure until she let out the sound he wanted to hear. He pulled away, and felt trapped, beneath her, and within his own pants. He hadn't been this hard in a while.
"What do I call you?" He asked, his hands spanning the expanse of her ribcage, thumbs passing unhurried over her nipples, "You know…when it's time for me to scream a name when I come and whatnot."
She smirked, chuckling darkly.
"I'm sure you'll think of something, Samuel Drake." She told him, "Now shut up."
"Yes ma'am." He said to her and let her lead them. She reached down between them, stroked the thick, engorged length of his cock through his loose trousers. Sam swallowed, tried to think of something other than what her cunt was going to feel like, or what those pretty lips would look like wrapped around his—
"Ow!" He cried when she pinched his belly. She smiled at him with an arch look.
"Focus, Samuel." She told him, "Or you'll miss your cue."
"Yes, ma'am." He said automatically, and watched her. She pushed him back against the headboard, then freed his cock. It took every ounce of self-discipline not to reach for her. She slid down, and he knew, and felt something churning in his gut with anticipation. The first touch of her lips made him hiss, and then the rest of her mouth flowed over him from the tip to nearly the base before she pulled up, leaving his cock glistening and slick. She looked up at him from beneath sooty lashes.
She was about to escalate the situation and Sam had a feeling he was going to disappoint her. She looked ready to work him for every drop he had in his balls and God he wanted her to.
She moved, as languid as he'd seen her working the crowd back at the manor. In truth, it was that image that saved him, watching her move through the throng with practiced ease and finesse. He almost could forget the smooth, hot, wet velvet of her mouth bobbing along the length of his cock, sucking rudely. He looked down, saw the crown of black curls spilled over his lap, a continuous motion of up and down. He glimpsed her face, saw her cheeks hollowed as she worked him, and then she halted, sliding down until he felt the tip of his cock bump the back of her throat…which proceeded to constrict around him.
"Holy shit!" He hissed, and took her by the hair. If she did that again he wouldn't know what her cunt even looked like, let alone felt like, and this whole fantasy would end. She pulled up, and her laughter broke the muggy silence, clear and husky.
"Listen…" He told her, trying to catch his breath, "If you want this to last longer than three minutes you've gotta cut me some slack here."
She tilted her head, heedless of the grip he still had in her hair.
"Why?" She asked. "I don't expect you to cut me any."
Why those words gave him strength and burned his blood with desire he would never know, but they did, and he found himself reaching for her, pulling her close, her sundress bunched around her waist, which she discarded across the room. From then, Sam didn't think words mattered anymore. He didn't even care that she was as yet, unnamed, he just wanted…and so did she. Whatever her ulterior motive was, it didn't matter right then, and when she mounted him, and his rough and calloused hands gripped her hips, the only thing that did matter was his aim.
Her cry told him his aim was true, and for a moment they were still. His heart was hammering, a feverish cadence, and he knew from the slick and easy fit she could feel his pulse in her cunt they were so goddamn close. When she reached behind him, her hands gripping the headboard, he smiled at her…and then lifted her up. She hissed, clamping her teeth around a moan as she came back down, taking him into herself. She was so wet he could hear it with each slide, coating him, skin to skin.
Her grip on the headboard was white-knuckled but sure, and as their rhythm picked up, going from experimental to punishing and urgent, Sam forgot himself and instead, simply held onto her. She rode him hard, breasts bouncing too much for him to take a nipple into his mouth, and she was too fast for him to reach between them to rub her clit, but God yes…yes. He wanted to see what she could do and here she was. He stilled her, though, muscles in his arms straining to hold onto her, and then decided he'd take her up on her words and not cut her any slack. He shoved her off, rolling her onto her belly. Sensing his desire, her palms pressed against the headboard, fingers spread, and she laughed when he gripped her hips from behind, jerking her up onto her knees, leaving the rest of her supine.
He traced the shaped of her cunt with his fingers, curious.
"No name, huh?" He chuckled, pushing her knees apart as he gripped his cock with one hand and guided himself into her. He watched as she parted around him easily, and her cunt felt deeper at this angle. This time, she couldn't clamp her teeth around a sound, not like this. Sam didn't give her respite, and punished her immediately, pulling her back and forth along his cock, reveling in the rhythmic sound of her ass striking against his thrusting hips. The headboard, once sturdy, clacked against the wall in time to their fucking, and he looked down at her, the sinuous length of her arched back, her outstretched arms, her hands pressed against the rocking headboard, fingers curling as her nails left little grooves in the wood.
It was over too soon for him, and he heard himself grunt, fierce and forceful, pulling out of her reluctantly. He held his cock in his hand, watched with an almost tender triumph as he spent his come all over the rotund curve of her ass. He glanced at the clock. It was nearly three in the morning.
She turned over, heedless of the mess he'd made, and she looked…God she looked ready. Sam knew he owed her one—possibly more—and so he performed an act of contrition, kneeling down between her widespread legs to mouth at her cunt. It didn't take her by surprise, but the smooth pass of his rough tongue did make her pliant. She lifted her legs, draped them over his strong shoulders, tilting her head back and shutting her eyes.
"Mmm…" She moaned, "You should give up this life of crime, Samuel Drake…come work for me instead."
Sam's answer was to suck her clit between his lips and reach to hold her hips down as she cried out. He didn't answer her with words, and after he escalated the situation, she no longer spoke. Instead, he started teasing out different sounds from her; long, undulating cries when he did this, or short, staccato gasps when he did that.
That's a lie. She did use words. Words like yesyesyes, and Ooooh God.
He liked those words, even more than he liked the way she said his name in that condescending 'fuck me' voice. Her thighs closed around his head, and he took to her clit again, tormenting the little bud with his tongue until he heard her cries become higher in pitch, until she sounded like she was having a breakdown. And then a shiver, a seismic tremor of release, and a wash of slick on his lips and chin as her hips strained against his grip, trying to pump against his mouth.
Sam waited until her shuddering died down and became gentle tremors, and then slowly released her hips. Her legs slid from his shoulders, limp, and he wiped his mouth, meeting her glassy and heavy-lidded gaze.
"It's a tempting offer," he told her, "I do pretty good work." He reached down, slid his hands along her muscled calves, tickled the backs of her knees. "I like where I am, now, though."
She licked her lips, eyed him from top to bottom.
"So I gathered." She said, her voice only slightly breathless.
Sam shrugged, and he went to her, compelled seemingly by his need to indulge in what he knew to be trouble. He kissed her gently, and she rose up to meet him, wrapping her arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. Unsteady, they tumbled to the mattress, laughing like teenagers.
Sam had to admit, ignoring his gut had worked out pretty favorably this time around. And he even got to feel the comfort of a warm body next to him for the rest of the night. That was nice.
But she was gone with the dawn, as he knew she would be. Women in her line of work wilted in the daytime hours. As he dressed and packed, he noted his Zippo was on the nightstand, but in return for that, she'd taken something far more valuable.
"Son of a bitch!" He cried tearing through his suitcase. The flask of silver was gone, and with it, his and Sully's score.
Ending Note: As always, comments are greatly appreciated. This will likely be the only fic I write for this fandom as I merely wished to scratch an itch. Thanks for participating.