And then she sees him. Of course, it's not possible. He's dead. She didn't visit his grave – no fucking way – and it might be empty, as is, but she knows. She saw him die. She even thought she would stop breathing as he did, but no, she had endured, and now she was supposed to believe he was there too ?
« You're dead », she tells him, venom in her voice. He only laughs.
« I missed you too, beautiful ».
She stares at him, because she hates him, not because she wants to grab him and fuck him just now.
« Berlin doesn't die, at least not until he decides to leave this world with real class ». Does he really believe himself above death ? It could be so. He bends toward her. « I will tell you, if you care to know. Methinks the lady has other things on her mind ». She can smell his cologne, somehow this is both a trigger and a turn on. She doesn't want to see him, doesn't want to smell him, doesn't want to feel his heat radiating from his elegant form and wonder how it would be to find herself under him and allow him to take her just like before. She would certainly be burned to the bone. Maybe she deserves the pain, and the pleasure. She finds the inner strength to turn away from him, but it's probably the hardest thing she ever did.
« What do you want ? », she whispers.
« What do you want, honey ? », he retorts. The pet name is almost aggressive.
« I want you to suffer and die », she replies, not afraid he's going to strike her in the middle of a bar. Instead his hand lands on top of hers, warm and powerful, and she moans. She could slap herself for this. She can't deny there's panic growing inside of her, in fact it's a miracle she's not having a panic attack on her stool. But there's something else pooling inside, and maybe this works like hippies say homeopathy does : just a little bit of Berlin to cure her from…
His grip is suddenly stronger, or she only notices it now. He doesn't smile anymore and there's anger and lust dancing in his eyes. She gives a full body shiver and he doesn't try to make her feel more at ease at all. « You made me suffer already, more than you will know, more than I thought was possible ». There's truth ringing in this sentence and she would feel bad for any other being. « But I don't believe you want me dead. I believe you even cried for me. Did you cry for me, little girl, when I was dead ? ». She doesn't reply, but she knows she did, and when he brings her hand up to his lips, his warm mouth kissing and exploring every finger, she tells herself she owes him – she wants to.
She does shake her head in denial, because a part of herself she doesn't want to exist enjoys hurting him. His tongue is warm and soft and obviously skilled. She squeezes her thighs not to imagine him there.
« You can tell them all that. That cunt Nairobi, that Monica slut, the journalists, if that makes you feel better. But you can't tell me that, not when I felt you come apart on my dick. And above all, you can't lie to yourself. Your painkillers didn't mess up with your brain so much you cannot remember throwing yourself at me ? You said you'd do it, and you took off your clothes. You kissed me back like crazy, you were craving my hands on you and my cock in you. »
She almost hisses at him, hatred full on taking over her in her gaze. She bets her eyes are almost dark now, and she hopes it is not from arousal at the images his slick voice imprint into her mind.
« I was afraid to die ! I thought you'd killed Monica, you asshole ! ». She yells because the tears can't be quite far. She suddenly realizes anyone could be listening in, accusing her of having ties to the criminal mastermind, but people don't care, not in that hole.
« You were afraid, that's true. You were only prettier for that, and hornier. No, don't deny it. Many like that, men and woman ». He puts her hand down and she can see some moisture over her digits, as if she had touched herself, or pleasured him. She freezes, unsure he wants her to understand what she's starting to wonder about men wise. Not that she cares. Not that she cares.
She doesn't know how to deny, so she deflects. « You don't give two shits about me, why don't you leave me alone ? I'm sure you can find… ». She interrupts herself, hating that she almost called him hot. He catches it and he smiles, smug. She gets that sinking feeling in her stomach.
« Ah, easier with someone who knows what you want, no ? Anyway, you grew on me, and I'm back, so isn't that perfect ? ». It's a real question, almost. Only a psychopath would ask this.
« What do you want ? ». She knows, but she has to.
« One night ». She trembles, then tells herself it's a no, then she stares into his eyes and her whole face is burning, she's certain her cleavage too but she won't stare at it. He does instead, and she decides maybe one night is ok. Just so she will remember his lips on her breasts until her own death. The idea is hateful.
« Then one night again, then another, you know ». She bites her lip and it hurts. « I've thought of you so often ». Ariadna knows what that means. So she resists imagining him jerking off, untucking himself from his impeccable suits he always wore on TV and rubbing until he could only say her name and finish into his hand. No, she didn't forget how he sounded when he was so close, how he looked, how she came to crave it.
She crumbles, physically too, looking down to her glass. « I don't even know how to call you… ». His hand now roams over her shoulder, climbs toward her face, and his thumb caresses her lower pic. She's afraid to find out what his eyes express now, but she is so used to this, so conditioned, that before she can help her mouth is slightly opened, and she gently licks at him. They both are startled and he doesn't remove his hand, but she feels it tremble. Apparently he wasn't expecting her to give in this easily. She's ashamed, but he doesn't give her any time to ponder. Before she can say or do anything to deflect, he is standing, and he fishes a luxurious leather wallet from his jacket, throwing coins for the waiter. She counts, quick, and she notices he has invited her. It seems like Berlin is a gentleman until he has a gun against your temple.
« Come now », he orders, and he doesn't have to repeat himself because she is somehow standing, too. Her legs feel like jelly and he catches her, helps her steady herself. His tone is slightly more human. « Hey, I didn't hurt you in there, not going to hurt you now, ok ? ». They obviously have different ideas of hurt, but she's indeed alive, and physically, she bears no traces… still she feels something hard as she clings to him, trying to find her footing, and she recoils. He chuckles, low and dangerous.
« Not for you, princess, unless you're the type ». She blanches, he laughs again and he leads her toward the exit, his hand on her lower back burning through her clothes. He knows he can make her his again, because she wants that, because she never stopped being so. And if she's not her usual style, not a married woman – he's a thief after all, he loves seducing and leading them astray, even better if he can get them to trust him with their savings – or a slutty lapdancer who'll grind on his dick, not even a young guy who wants to experience a real man, he enjoys her naivety and otherness. So no, he doubts she's the type to want his gun against her skull as he screws her hard into the desk, but he won't need that kind of extra tonight. He doesn't even need anything to scare her, he can sense she's close to crying when she finally hops into his car. Too classy to belong to a drug dealer, not exactly nouveau riche, but certainly a prop to attract girls.
Ariadna sits down, quietly. She wishes she could sit behind instead of next to him, but she knows he wants her there. His hand on her knee tells her so. She regrets putting on such a short skirt when it reaches the hem. Her breath hitches, he doesn't slip under it and for some reason it unsettles her.
He finally decides she deserves an answer.
« I'm sure you know my name, doll, but Berlin is good. I bet you kept my best picture too, did you cut it out from a magazine, or do you have it on your phone ? ». She stops breathing. He won this bet. « Show me », he asks, casually. She doesn't move, so he repeats it, some steel into his tone and his hand trailing northward, closer to her underwear, to where she is warm and wet. She would never know what made her comply faster. She nervously handles her purse, looks for her phone desperately, clutches at it…
« Ariadna… », he warns. His tone is barely different from when he was grabbing her hair, directing her down. She passes it to him, removing her hand as if the phone was on fire. The fire of hell, certainly. He drives like a maniac, and it's not better now that he's also scrolling through her pics. A dumb selfie, he hates those duck faces. He decides to delete it. Just in case she meant to send that to someone. Some countryside locale, okay, a little kid that looks a bit like her – Ariadna doesn't have children, so must be a niece. He gloriously doesn't care. It's red and he doesn't stop and she tenses, hearing honking. He will get them killed, both of them, and she doesn't want to die with him. She wants the cops to be there when needed, for once, to stop hiding behind terror attack risks to allow the citizens to die at the hands of other animals. « He has a gun, officer ! », she would say, and she would be free to go home…
Some victorious sound escapes his throat as he finds them. Two pictures, actually. She keeps two photographs of him on her all day. There's no other guy in her age range to be found. He grins and gives it back to her, photograph still on the screen, just so she knows he knows. She takes it with trembling hand, and the tears are there.
They say nothing until they arrive in front of a luxurious condo. They don't need to.
There's a night porter and he handles the car. He looks tired, too tired to think or exist, and he doesn't even look at the crying woman next to the guy paying his salary. She ponders that place is just as much as a lawless hole as the bar, just high class. He grabs at her arm, just making sure she doesn't make a run for an untimely exit. He wants to come several times that night. His grip is suddenly shaking on her arm, he hates it so he handles her rougher, as if it was her fault. She doesn't say anything, she learned not to in the Casa de papel already.
He presses the button and the elevator is quick to cater to his whim, too. The door dings open and she has to step in. She's still crying, and suddenly he's fed up so he elbows her. « Stop that », he orders, and she tries, so hard. The ride is long, he doesn't touch her more. She looks at everything but him, mainly at her feet. When the door opens again, he pushes her, or drags her, out. He is getting nervous, impatient, and he fiddles with his keys when they're at the right door. It's strangely human and unBerlin like. Something switches inside her. « Shit », he mutters. He doesn't know what's worse, the disease or the nerves, or whatever causes this.
Ariadna considers running, but instead she whispers, « Allow me ? », and she gently gets a hold of the key. The door opens for her. She doesn't dare come in, but she stares at him expecting anything. He is breathing hard – it could be anything – and he doesn't physically force her inside. She is the first to finally enter, breaking eye contact, and he follows just after, turning on the light. She takes her surroundings in and hears him fighting with various locks. She never thought him afraid of anything, and still… She should be terrified that she's locked up with him now, but once again she is almost moved by this display of a feeling. Berlin catches her staring and stops in his tracks, as if he didn't care.
The whole apartment stinks of ill gotten money. She judged hard just one moment before, but now they're watching each other and though she expects him to make a move, or even speak, he doesn't. She's running out of oxygen, unable to breathe. This time she's not afraid, she has nothing to gain, everything to lose, but she's again throwing herself at him, on him, on tip toes, her mouth pressing against his. He's so much stronger than she is but he didn't see this coming and he finds himself back against the door. It only takes one second until he's in control again, kissing back. Her hands are everywhere, grabbing his lapel, running under his jacket. He embraces her. She's crying again but that time he doesn't mind.
She's the one suddenly realizing, waking up and smelling the coffee. She breaks the kiss, takes a couple steps back, a horrified look on her too made up face. If he was caught by surprise, he doesn't show it. A smug expression on his face, he licks his lips. « Well… », he says, and laughs mockingly. She's fucked. That, and the pics ? She's fucked. She can say she hates him, wants him to die painfully… And it would be true. But there's no way he's going to accept that she doesn't desire him.
« I want to go home », she whines. One last attempt, she knows it is doomed and she wouldn't want it to work, not really.
« So soon, beauty ? But you can't leave me that way ». He doesn't make any move, but she knows what he means, where not to look, and her body betrays her as her eyes fall onto his groin. He is so visibly hard for her, just from that awkward kiss, that she whines again, but differently. He averts his eyes for one second as if he couldn't bear the raw need on her face. It kills her.
He pats down at his hair for a moment, attempting to calm down. He wants to be in control, he refuses to come quick, or worse inside his pants like a virgin groom on his wedding night. The comparison is insane and makes him smile, which frightens her in turn. He inspires deeply.
« On the couch, Ariadna… », he nods toward the right direction, his hands clasping. It's the right time for a last escape attempt, she should hit him with her purse if she didn't carelessly dump it on the ground while she was all over him. « No », she mouthes silently, and he nods a yes, adamant. She has no more tears to shed as she slowly makes way toward the couch.
She sits on it, gingerly, obviously tense as a bow string. « Lie down… I won't even touch you, love ». This makes it a bit better as she complies, until she registers the word love, and also realizes what he wants from her. He sits on the couch next to her. That's too much contact already but he's not touching her on purpose. « I saw the pictures », he says softly, insisting on the plural. Relief floods in as he claims he won't ask if she often looked at them. Impending doom is what she experiences when he tells her to show him what she does with those thoughts.
The worst is that she wants to scratch that itch, just not now, not with him looking and always breathing down her ear. Oh God, she can't.
« You can, beautiful », he says as if he heard her thought, as in the Casa when he sensed that she thought she couldn't peak anymore. « Let me start you off ? ». She reacts at that, finally, and decides it's better if he doesn't. Much better. Her hand awkwardly find her thigh and trails to the inside. It's burning. She instinctively squeezes her legs, looking for pressure. « I want to see it all, bella », he whispers, and she gives up on personal space and dignity, opening her legs slightly. She closes her eyes but it's dumb because what she would think of is right there, next to her, staring at her hand getting closer and closer. She's wet mid thigh already. He notices the glistening, or her reaction, and he moans. She can't keep her eyes closed to this. She looks for his gaze and finds it. « Just right there », he croons when she rubs against her damp underwear. Slutty, lacy, flimsy. He sees it all and smiles. She wets her lips, he stops smiling. His gaze is frighteningly dark and she hasn't even started. Despite being afraid – or because of it – she doesn't delay and she slips a questing finger toward her aching clit. She inhales sharply finding herself so sensitive. She circles long and slow, afraid that if she goes hard at it she'll be over in a second. Hopefully she can give him some eye candy without getting herself off under his scrutiny. He studies her face, the way he hips cant when she presses a bit too much. Several times he wants to reach out and touch her. Her hair, her face, her gaudy cleavage, but he catches himself every time. « Quicker », he suggests, or orders, and it's all the same. His eyes dart from her cunt to her face. He doesn't know where to look. Finally the pesky underwear has to go, and he repeats « Show me ».
She doesn't remove it, but she brings her other hand to pull it on the side, exposing herself to him, swollen and open. Her breathing is erratic, noisy. He looks just there, where she desires him, and she flicks and rubs at her folds, at her clit, everywhere it aches. « Don't stop », he says, as if she was touching him instead. He looks just as affected. She bites her lip, and flicks left to right again and again, as she does thinking of him, of his hand doing it. Her hips lift off the couch on their own volition and she hears him call her name. She meets his eyes and she sees stars.
When she recovers, he is casually playing with her hair. « It was beautiful… ». This sounds honest, too. « It was embarrasingly quick, though. Aren't gals supposed to take forever ? ». She doesn't find it in herself to care that she just needed his voice and his eyes.
He stands strangely slow, as if he was more dizzy than he would like to be. Some time he got rid of his jacket. Just as in her fantasies, he is huge and he is working on his fly and she doesn't want to stare but she does. « Wait, no », she pleads. She doesn't really want to go all the way, just because she had this sick idea, or fantasy.
« We're doing this », he says, coldly, but she notices a stain on his crotch, he's leaking already. She always imagined that, if he was alive, he would be fucking every night once out of that hell house. Maybe he didn't, maybe he friggin waited for her. Or maybe he did, but she affects him so much. She doesn't know what to think, what she wants it to be. His eyes have followed hers and he looks strangely vulnerable now, his hands stopping their move. She doesn't want to, but she gives him a little smile, a reassurance that it's normal and all. She would never have thought he would need it, he probably doesn't still, but she likes the idea again. Just to make sure, she extends her hand toward him. « Do you want… ? ». He steps back as if he was afraid he would burst from her touch. « No », he says curtly.
« Can I see you ? », she asks, not meaning to. He seems slightly taken aback, but he catches his expression and corrects it. This time she doesn't want him to just climb on her or fuck her from behind, she wants eye candy, too. Because it's the last time. She's calling the police once she's out of there. Yeah right.
She licks her lips, not even as a tease, when he is exposed for her, hard and leaking, but she acknowledges it's better not to touch him, if she wants him to last. She did this with a kiss, almost a peck frankly, and with her hand on herself. She feels power, raw and energizing, running through her veins like adrenaline. She wants more. « I want to see all of you ». No question. And Berlin obeys.
He tries to look smug as he unbuttons his shirt, each button made from some precious material, not cheap plastic, but he's only keeping the charade half way. He throws it on the ground and sits on the sofa in his undershirt, maybe hoping he can proceed now, but she takes hold of his chin and she kisses him with everything she has, like she really means it. Her hand slips under the thin undershirt and she feels… scars. She stops kissing, mouth half open. Some bullets did find their target, then ? He stares back, daring her to feel pity or anything at all. She gently attempts to lift the cloth and he catches her hand. The old Ariadna would have given up, but this one frees her wrist and lifts again. This time, he lets her. She shivers when she sees them. It's worse than she would have imagined, though it looks healed now. On an impulse she bends toward his torso and she kisses him, kisses them, and she sobs into his skin. She doesn't know who she's crying for.
She feels his embrace and she is afraid to look at him. It's her fault, she caused this, she did this to him, how can he feel when he always cared to look perfect ? So instead of coming up she bends lower, kisses his hardness and holds him down when he almost jumps. « I told you fucking don't », he growls, but she wants to make up for this, she wants to make him feel good and her mouth descends on his length, licking and massaging and taking as deep as she can even if she gags. « No », he says again, harshly, but his hands grab at her and push her onto his dick and his hips are bucking already. He always loved to finish there and she never had that much passion. He pulls her back at the last moment and she can admire the self control. He is leaking and throbbing. This time he doesn't let her even touch it. He pushes her back into the couch and he grabs at her thighs, her legs opening immediately. He doesn't bother removing her underwear but she pulls on her cleavage until she can give him the perfect show he doesn't need. He wants to be inside her but he touches there instead, massaging her breasts until she's so tense again she finds she may come just from this. He finally lies down on her and she feels him pushing the flimsy material aside. She clings to his shoulders, moaning before he even grazes at her, and she yells the name she always knew him under when he penetrates her fully. Maybe the neighbours will think someone has a kink for Germany. She can swear he's reaching deeper than ever and she could cry because it is so good. He fills her and stretches her and he starts moving, gripping at her hips. Her hands leave his shoulders and play with her breasts, searching his gaze. His hands are busy so his mouth finds her cleavage just like she dreamed it.
She wishes she could love him and not be a psycho, she wishes she could tell him…
She starts pulsating and this is too much stimulation for him, he wants to be a real man and not some wimpy boy so he lets go of her breasts and puts some distance, puts on a façade, fails to do so. Perhaps if he looks at her eyes, but the passion he reads there burns him. He goes for a slower rhythm, for playing with her hair, but somehow the slow motion only emphasizes how she clings to his dick, how she rubs just the right way. Maybe he should have let her suck him off, not show her his face as he came, but he wants more, he wants… He looks straight at her, well conscious of the way his mouth sometimes twitches, and that he can't stifle all his moans.
In the house he never cared because they were all going to burn and crash and die, but now in the real world, he vaguely wonders if he should pull out, maybe finish himself on her face, or just jump out last moment and come holding her. In the real world, you have to think of consequences. Berlin aces heists, but isn't good with real. She seems to get it, uncanny, and she says « No ». Just so she is clear, she adds « I want to feel you when you're there ». Her voice is not even trembling. That's so much more consent he ever had from her, and from many others for the record… He kisses her, then, his hands cradling her face, not like him at all. Their tongues meet and the kiss deepens, until he can only moan and groan into her mouth but he doesn't budge and she clings and rubs at his bare skin, hoping to lead him to his peak while she contracts and whines through hers. The whole thing is too much for him, much more than he expected. He would have gone for a quick fuck, even just a hand job looking at her.
He comes hard, almost painfully, deep inside her. It's crazy, it's all crazy. She has seen his face, she knows his name, granted the whole world does but she also she knows too much, he should kill her. This hits him mid orgasm, and Berlin being Berlin, it doesn't quite spoil it for him, the danger, the violence, the power. But he also knows he's not going to. As he rests on top of her, still inside of her folds, he ponders he might need to use her a few more times before he can allow this problem to find a solution. Of course it's much more complicated but he doesn't do feelings, doesn't want to catch them, have them, discuss them. He could give her the best orgasm of her life and shoot her quick and painless. He promised her not to hurt her, nothing else. Cop out, cop out. She looks at him, as if in awe, and he tells himself maybe he can spare a woman he had to fight off because she wanted to go down on him. Once again a mere cop out. « Ariadna… », he calls. This time she uses his real name. The rest of the sentence doesn't come to him. But he's keeping that one.