Rated M - Role play prompt I filled over on tumblr.
He has the killer instinct.
Something that comes naturally, like breathing, a simple reflex, a mechanism for survival. Killing has saved his life more than once, but tonight - well, tonight his profession of choice may end his life rather than save it.
His target is as poisonous as himself, her charming wit a toxic tactic to draw in victims, but tonight - she'll be his victim.
He makes a show of his entrance, weaving amongst the tables until he reaches the bar, and he can feel when she notices him, his hair standing on end. He can sense her eyes fixing upon him, and not for the first time he wonders what she did to their employer, what task she'd failed that has her on the wrong side of this hit.
"Room 301" Her voice is a whisper, a tickle of something that dances across his skin and makes him shiver.
So, she doesn't know then.
She has connections, lots of them, and if he's completely honest he was hoping he wouldn't find her here tonight. He was hoping she'd cut her losses, catch a plane out of the country, and retire from this business at which she excels beyond compare.
He doesn't want to kill her.
He orders a scotch neat, takes a gulp of the liquid fire, flowing courage simmering down his throat, and well, there isn't much he can do for her now.
He follows their routine, sticks to the normalcy her behavior demands, because if she doesn't know, if she plans on enjoying one of their typical interludes without the knowledge that he's been asked to take her life, then that's what he'll give her.
When his knuckles rap a familiar beat against the door he can't help the twist of his stomach because this will be the last time; the last knock, the last kiss. Maybe he should end this misery quickly, snap her neck the moment she opens the door - why prolong things? But then she's there, a silk robe the only thing separating her skin from his hands, and maybe it's selfish, maybe it's sadistic, but he can't begrudge her a final bit of pleasure; can he?
"You're late." Her soft lips are the perfect contrast to the hard tone of voice, and he steps inside the room, fingers already busy loosening the top two buttons of his shirt.
He doesn't tell her why, doesn't explain that he'd hoped if he wasn't punctual, that she wouldn't wait; that he wouldn't be here, with her, only one more time. If only she'd run.
"Then I suppose we shouldn't waste any more time." He crashes his lips to hers, hard and pressing until she opens for him, until her tongue his searching his mouth, a desperate kiss he sinks into, drowning so as to not remember anything else.
He surrounds himself in her, fingers twisting in silky tresses, body firm and solid pinning her to the wall until he can imagine they are one, and with that thought, in this moment he thinks how this is a suicide mission, how he'll be killing himself once he snuffs the life from Regina Mills.
She pushes him back, shoves with more power than he imagined she could possess in such small arms, but then those arms seem to hold all of the power as they lift, delicate hands casting fabric aside to reveal nothing but warm flesh begging to be touched.
"You're over-dressed, Thief." That designation brings him back to reality, back to the tragedy of this rendezvous; he has a job to do. They call him the thief, not because he steals trinkets or jewels, but because what he steals is far more valuable - a life, after all, is priceless.
He would taunt her back, but what's the point. If tonight is all he can have, all they have left, then he has better things to do with his mouth.
And with that thought he strips down, clothing melting to a puddle in the floor while he follows her to the bed. They are usually more adventurous during these trysts, a bed almost seems prosaic, yet at the same time fitting. He wants her to be comfortable in the end, her last breath taken with her body supported by a pillow of feathers and twisted cotton.
She sits at the edge, the mattress sinking beneath her slight weight, and the way her dark eyes call him, the way she speaks without a single word makes him want to do the same. So he vows that before this night is through he'll show her how he feels, he'll show her again and again.
He kneels before her like she's his queen. "Lay down, Regina." And he looks away at the slight furrow of her brow. He doesn't usually call her by name, not so earnestly, not so intensely. She's suspicious, her muscles coiling with a knot of tension, but then his face is buried between her thighs, his tongue circling her clit, flicking and tasting, and she always tastes so good.
His fingers join his mouth, pivoting inside of her, back and forth, in then out, and her strangled gasps, writhing hips, her moan of his name, all of her has him wishing time could stand still. He savors her, licks and laps at her slick folds while she twists fingers in his hair, and she comes at least twice, her muscles tightening and releasing, throbbing under his attention.
Eventually he's on his back, her thighs on either side of his hips when she lowers herself onto his cock at an excruciatingly slow pace. It's torture, pure torment, and he never wants it to stop.
She rides him into the bed, breasts bouncing, nipples pebbling while his palms cups and his fingers tease.
She's about to come again. He can feel it, her walls clenching tighter, slick warmth squeezing at his cock. "That's it." He rasps out, "Come for me, Regina. Let go."
She smiles then, a wide and bright thing that makes his heart swell with affection. No, with lust, this is only lust, and he tamps down the fluttering of his stomach when she laughs, hips still shifting above him, the motion carrying them both rapidly closer to the end.
She topples over the edge with a loud moan, her body stuttering, and he empties himself buried deep inside of her, a silent wish to never leave.
"I know why you're here." It's a whisper across his ear, a cold chill running through his veins, and with sudden clarity he knows he isn't the only one with the killer instinct. She does know after all.
He flips them, tells her, "this isn't over".
But she just giggles, mirth shining back through her gaze before her fingers lift, tracing the line of his stubble, "Oh, but it is over for now I'm afraid." Her eyes shift to the clock settled on top of the nightstand, "I told the sitter we'd be home ten minutes ago."