A/N: I know I have about a gazillion other stories I need to update but please bear with me, I'm busy and I'm recovering from an awful writer's block. I'll get to my other fics but in the meantime, I brought you something else to enjoy. It's an idea that came to me out of nowhere and I thought I'd give it a go, see if it'll help me write again. So far so good, I hope y'all enjoy it though.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own Once Upon a Time or any of the characters known in the fandom. If I did, things would've been different.
A/N2: Ah, yes, please forgive my mistakes, too. I wrote this (and finished it) while being half asleep. Kindly point them out, I'd appreciate that!
Money made the world go round, she would know.
She was loaded, covered from head to toe with silver, gold, and diamonds. Tiffany rings, Bulgari bracelets, Cartier earrings. Givenchy clutch stacked with Benjamins. Louboutin pumps cladding her feet, and a Versace dress — a tight-fitting, multi-stitched, ribbed, black Versace dress, to be precise, picked specially for tonight. Picked for the sole purpose of seducing rich men and leaving with one. As she'd done for years.
Move to a new place. Change identities. Meet a guy. Get close. Take him to bed. Fake interest. Scam him. Leave. And repeat.
It was an easy job and the outcome blew her mind every time. She was in her late-twenties and a millionaire; what more could she ask for? All she had to do was feign interest, date them for a little while, get everything a woman could ever ask for, then leave. Most times, flirting and fucking did the job, sometimes they never made it past unzipping her dress before they were out like a light, and she still ended up with the results she came for.
It all started as a dare. A friend challenged her to a one-night-stand and she went through with it. She took a random man from the bar to bed, and on the way out the next morning, she found his credit card laying on the table. A few kisses on the neck and a husked question in his ear was all it took to get a pin number out of him. And the rest was history.
A history that kept on repeating itself, differently every time.
Another bar. That's where she found herself tonight, again.
The Dead Rabbit Grocery & Grog.
Neither the exterior nor the interior appealed to her, nevertheless, she walked in and gave her surroundings a quick glance around. Beggars can't be choosers. She wasted a whole week in the city with no results. No one caught her attention, no one was worthy of it. They were either well-off but old and wrinkly, or young and hot without an extra dime to spare. The imperfect mixture…until she saw him.
Him with his athletic figure, clothed in a well tailored, three-piece, midnight blue suit. Him with his perfect, preppy, medium brown, short hair. Him and his blue eyes, calm yet fierce…and fixed on her.
He was watching her as she watched him, one corner of his mouth tipped upward in a smirk. He got up, standing tall at five-foot-nine — give or take, and walked toward her, and she felt that familiar heat pool between her thighs, a pressure coiling in the pit of her stomach. She averted her eyes, looking away from him and focused on the martini in front of her instead, swirling the tip of her index along the brim.
She was interested. Oh, so very interested, but what was Regina Mills if she didn't play hard to get at first?
"Can I buy you a drink?"
She heard from behind her, and from the corner of her eyes she could tell it was him, and he was a Brit, she mused. She'd been with Americans before, a handful of foreigners, too; Italians, Frenchmen, a couple of Spaniards, but never an Englishman. She felt him standing beside her, and when she glanced over, she caught his eyes gazing over her. Christ. He looked ten times better up-close and smelled divine. His cologne filled her nostrils, carrying a musky scent with a little hint of nature, not in any way unpleasant.
"I'm good," she declined, gesturing over at her barely touched drink.
From experience, she expected an argument to flare, for him to be persistent and stubbornly insist on buying her a drink. After all, almost every man who'd ever offered to buy her one before, did, and those didn't, they weren't the nicest over her rejection. But he caught her completely off guard when he laughed. She glanced back and watched him nod, wearing a genuine smile on his face.
"Very well, lovely," he smiled, baring his dimples. "I'll let you enjoy the rest of your evening then."
"That's it?" Regina scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. "You're giving up after just one try?"
"I'm sorry?"
"You aren't even going to attempt to ask again?
"I—"
"You know what?" she interrupted. "Save it. I won't be saying yes even if you did, I'm not into quitters."
That made him laugh, a sweet, lighthearted chuckle that had her weak at the knees.
What was happening to her? Was it because she hadn't been laid in a while? Two weeks weren't even that long! Get a grip on yourself, Regina.
"I didn't ask you again because I assumed it would be rude of me to do so," he asserted. "I was taught better than to pressure a woman into agreeing to something she's against. But I'll happily buy you another glass of martini—" he waved at the untouched glass in front of her. "Or whatever else you might fancy."
She misjudged him. She completely misjudged him. That smug smile that graced his face earlier on gave him away as a jerk, a man who just wouldn't take no for an answer, but he was the complete opposite of that, and she felt her face flush out of embarrassment.
Regina cleared her throat and straightened up on her stool, she reached for her drink and downed it in one go, needing the kick of confidence she knew it would give her — the confidence she always had and lost in the thought of him. Dammit.
He might not even be rich, she mentally reasoned with herself, and as though he read her mind, as a proof, he reached forward and exposed his watch in the process. A Rolex.
Hot and filthy rich. Well. She finally found her perfect match.
"Fine," she darted her tongue out, wetting her lips before glancing up at him. "I'll have another dry martini."
Two dry martinis and a handful of shots later, Regina found herself in his room. Drunk, naked, and horny, and he was equally as wasted as her, and judging by his erection, equally as horny, too.
She removed her last garment, her damp underwear, and flung it in his direction, grinning widely as he caught it with his hand and brought it to his nose, giving it a long sniff before humming in appreciation. He wasn't the first to do that, he certainly wouldn't be the last, but just like every time it happened, it aroused her.
"Are you just going to stand there, ogling me and sniffing my panties or—" Regina laid sprawled over the bed with her legs parted invitingly for him, exposing her wet center. Two weeks were too long for a woman used to having sex almost everyday, the slightest touches from him had her dripping. "Would you rather have the real thing instead?" she purred, tilting her head to the side to glance over at him, her lips curling into a sly smile.
He didn't waste another second, settling between her legs, pressing his lips to the inside of her thighs, kissing and nipping, occasionally grazing his teeth over her delicate skin, faintly marking her as if she was his. She was no ones, though. She wasn't a prize to be possessed, she belonged to no man. But her attempt to clear it up died at the tip of her tongue when his flicked over her clit, erupting a harsh gasp out of her. She wasn't prepared for the direct contact over her nub but he didn't seem to care, continuing with his stimulation. Her hands flew to his head, her fingers threaded in his hair and she tugged him closer. The pleasure was intense — and she'd blame it on not sleeping around for a little while rather than praise him and his talented tongue, and boost his ego, but despite being overwhelmed by it, she couldn't bring herself to push him away and give herself a moment to adjust.
He lapped at her, swiped his tongue in-between her slick nether lips and sucked. He devoured her as though he'd been dying of hunger and she, laying spread over the mattress, was his feast.
"I need…" she whimpered, her manicured nails dragging along his scalp. She needed more, she needed to come already, and he didn't disappoint, pressing two fingers into her and curving them as he thrusted.
Unlike most of the men she'd been with, mindlessly fingering her for their twisted fantasies and pleasure rather than the other way around, he seemed more experienced. His fingers instantly curled and began their search for that sweet spot inside her, and she didn't have to guide him, he found it on his own. Her hips bucked and she mewled out in pleasure, and he slipped an arm across her, pinning her down, and she could feel him smiling smugly against her. The bastard.
With him pleasuring her the way he did; firmly sucking at her clit, swirling and flicking his tongue over it, and his fingers roughly plunging into her, angled to rub against her g-spot with every thrust, she was rapidly approaching her orgasm. She was close, too close…almost there, but then he pulled away, withdrawing his digits and leaving her frustrated — but not for long.
He flipped her over with one swift move, lowered himself on top of her then smacked her thighs apart and rested one hand over her hip to hold her in place, and with the other, he lined himself against her. She felt him teasing her, dragging the tip between her lips, gathering her arousal.
"Just fuck me already," she groused, and he chuckled above her, his lips ghosting over her neck ever-so-lightly.
"Eager, are we, lovely?" he ridiculed, and before she was given the chance to bite back at his remark, he entered her.
She hissed at the invasion, her fingers curling into the bedsheets. He wasn't the biggest she ever had in her life, but he was the biggest she'd had in a very, very long time and he blew her mind, rubbing her in all the right places. Gods. She hoped he'd fall into her trap — she could get used to this for a little longer.
She woke up feeling groggy, sore between the legs, covered in love bites, and with a terrible hangover. She woke up to a mistake.
Being who she was and doing what she did, Regina never fell asleep next to her victims on the first night, most certainly not after consuming the large amount of alcohol she had the evening before. That rule was set to help her work faster and better, and while she lived by the phrase Rules are meant to be broken, that was one rule she knew she shouldn't have.
She roused handcuffed to the headboard, both hands bound over her head, and she tugged. Once. Twice. Thrice.
"Unless you know how to pick a lock or have some tricks up your sleeves, I doubt you'd be freeing yourself anytime soon."
Regina lifted her gaze up and met two pools of blue staring right back at her. She snarled, "What do you think you're doing?"
"Making a living," he answered simply, and her brows raised to her hairline in confusion. Making a living? By what? Handcuffing her to a bed, nude and all?
She frowned, giving the handcuffs another tug in a vain attempt to free herself. "Release me."
"I'm sorry," he plopped down on the edge of the bed and pulled his boxers up, then turned around and flashed her a wide, cheeky grin. "I'm afraid I can't do that."
She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "And why not? Are you a cop or something? And even if you were, it's not like you have the right to just do this," she tugged at the handcuffs again.
"I'm not a cop," he assured, getting up to put the rest of his clothes on whilst she laid sprawled in all her naked glory in front of him. And there she thought he was a gentleman; definitely anything but a gentleman is what he was. "But I'd say my job is somewhat similar to a cop's job, minus the badge and the uniform, that is…and the cool car…" he added in a murmur, turning around to face her and goodness, she wanted nothing more than to slap that cocky smile off his face. "But I get paid twice as much, if not three times more."
"I don't care about that nor do I find it amusing," she rolled her eyes again.
"But I think you should care." He neared her, and the closer he got, the wider his smile became. "Betty, or is it Nellie…or was it Eva?"
Her eyes bulged and she gulped the lump that formed in her throat. Those were the names she used in the past, a few of her many alias.
"Who are you?"
"I'm glad you asked," he retorted, extending a hand out for a shake before withdrawing it with a laugh. "Sorry, I forgot that you can't— oh! Yes, who I am. I'm Robin Locksley, I'm someone hired by two of the men you scammed, lovely. Jefferson and Keith, I believe they're called, and they promised me a hefty amount of cash in exchange of finding you and bringing you to them, which is exactly what I'm going to do."
Well, shit.