She imagines he'd be cold.

Pressed silk suits, starched collars, stiff creases, sharp lines – his skin, persistently cool against hers, as he leans against her, arms on either side of her body. He's boxing her in. He nudges a curl with a fingertip with a soft chuckle, almost curious, before leaning in, pressing a soft kiss against the pale skin of her neck. "We shouldn't be doing this." She leaves off the epithet. Saying it would almost make it real somehow.

He can feel her pulse speed up under the firm touch of his tongue as his hands reach around her waist. She shifts against him and groans, leans back. Her hips rock against him and she can feel him, hard, but still, they are who they are. She reaches up to undo his tie ever so slowly, notes the impassive expression on his face. When his eyes rake over her, she feels a slow warmth burn through her. "You're the boss," he says, voice low. She bites her lip, nods.

She pushes his suit jacket off his shoulders, then his shirt buttons, one by one. She can see his jaw clench when she runs her fingertips over his bare skin. And then, her eyes on his, she reaches for him. There's the barest hint of a twitch. He's been trained well.

But there is a moment (when her fingers skimmed his elbow, perhaps? Or that look, that kiss…) when he breaks. She loves that moment, loves the look in his eyes when he stops being the head of security and starts being someone who needs. She loses herself then, somewhere between the rough grip of his hand on her hip and his searing kisses on her neck. There is the rustle of silk chiffon and then their pants, her gasps. The veins in his arm bulge when his hands tighten on her hips, when he makes a guttural grunt against her skin. They disentangle, dress in relative silence.

When they're all put together, he gives her an inquisitive nod. "So. Rounds."

She licks her lips, gives him a decisive nod. "Thank you."

She wakes at two in the morning, neck cramping from her uncomfortable position splayed on her desk. The Dollhouse is eerily silent, though she's used to it, finds comfort in it sometimes. She stands, joints cracking, and moves quickly down the hall. She punches in the keycode, swipes her card, and waits for the elevator.

The Attic is dusty. People are blocked off behind little cells but she walks decisively, heels clicking noisily in the stillness towards the corner cell. The guard standing there lazily acknowledges her presence, inserts a passcode and his card. She walks inside and he just sits there, flop like a teddy bear, eyes dead, dressed in a plain t-shirt and gray pants.

She crosses her arms, stares at him for a second. Rolling her eyes, she turns to leave. "Pathetic," she mumbles. "What am I doing here?"

He grabs her arm and she turns back, jolted. Those bright, blue eyes seem sharp again. "I know you!" he says, thumb brushing against her skin. "I know you! Do I – Do I know you? Please…" He drops his voice to a whisper. "Please, do you know who I am?"

She exhales loudly, jerks her arm out of his grasp.

His warmth still sears through her three floors down.