Warning: This chapter is a bit racier than my usual stuff, but I'm unable to write a really smutty sex scene so bear with me. I did my best. Thanks.
Author's Note:
One, sorry for the long delay between updates. I was out of town again and didn't have time to write. Two, thank you for all your wonderful comments. I'm always amazed at how much support is growing for this story. It really keeps me committed to finishing it. Three, a little preview on Sark. He and Syd have issues that will become more clear as the story progresses. I'm working on giving him a backstory too because we know so little about his character and I think history will help explain him a little better. Hope that clears things up for everyone who's starting to hate Sark. That's the last thing I want to happen! I hope you enjoy this chapter!
~ * ~
"Tell me, in a world without pity
Do you think what I'm askin's too much
I just want something to hold onto
And a little of that human touch
Just a little of that human touch"
- Human Touch, Bruce Springsteen
~ * ~
That night I dreamed of him. After Sark left me in tears I pulled myself together and took one long, lasting look at my baby. I knew I'd see him in the morning, in a few hours in fact, but I couldn't bear to leave him. I was tempted to curl up in front of his crib, but I felt exhaustion creeping in and I wanted to bright and alert the next morning, so I reluctantly slunk off to my own room.
The place is like paradise, complete with the softest, fluffiest, most comfortable bed I've ever slept in. Everything about the room is amazing. There are silk negligees hanging in my closet, two-hundred dollar shampoo in my shower. It's all too orderly, too perfect, and I feel uncomfortable touching anything—except the bed. So I wash my face with my Neutrogena face wash and curl up in my flannel PJs and slip under my mother's ridiculously expensive comforter. . .and I dreamed of him.
* * * * *
It was right after I came to the island, maybe only a few weeks later, because I wake up in the very same room with an elastic bandage wrapped around my torso. I lift one hand to brush my hair off my face and it's a map of healing bruises. Hurriedly, I push up my silk nightgown and stare at a web of yellowing bruises and scabbed cuts. "What the hell happened to me?" I murmur out loud. Then it all comes back: Francie, Will, the Double, the fight. . .waking up in my mother's arms on an island in the Pacific.
I groan and collapse back on my pillows. Now I remember. I've been here for three weeks recovering from that disastrous fight with the Double. She nearly kicked my ass and I was lucky, but I had to kill her to survive. I close my eyes and remember that night. It was the hardest thing I ever did, pumping that woman's chest full of bullets. In my head I knew it wasn't Francie, that the real Francie was already dead and this woman was responsible, but I still felt like I was killing my best friend. I remembered collapsing afterwards, tears spilling down my cheeks, and then it all goes black. The next thing I remember is waking up here, in my own personal prison.
My mother says it's for the best, that she's protecting me from Sloane, but I know her better than she thinks. She's up to something, she's always up to something. I was worried at first, but it's not like she's not letting me leave so I'll have plenty of time to figure out what's really going on. Sighing, I push away all thoughts of my mother and Francie and Sloane. It's dark and I forgot to close my curtains and a full moon shimmers over the ocean outside. I'll give my mother credit where credit is due. She may be an untrustworthy snake, but she has a beautiful home. I like being by the ocean. It gives me a sense of peace, of comfort, reminds me there is a world I'm missing beyond this house, a world I need to get back to at any cost.
I jump out of bed and instantly regret my decision. My ribs ache from the impact and my head rings a little. I gingerly walk to my closet and open the doors and all I see is row upon row of sundresses. They're all a bit slinky, intended for beautiful tans and not much movement, neither of which I have any intention of doing this evening. I'm going to take the opportunity to find my way off this island. I select the least risqué one, a red and white halter that ties around the neck. I slip my feet into a pair of flip-flops and pad down the stairs.
To my surprise no one's around. My mother's study is dark, she already went to bed, and for once there are no special visitors or contacts wandering the halls. The house is quiet, empty, and all mine—perfect for planning a deception. I tour the first floor, searching for secret passages or hidden doors, but come up empty. I'll admit, it's dark and shadowy, but I thought my super-spy sense would compensate; guess not. I'll have to try again when it's light out. Realizing I'm not going to get anything done tonight I head out for the back porch, which overlooks the ocean. I figure I'll take a short walk, maybe collect some shells, watch the ocean a while from the house. I never make it that far.
When I go outside there's already someone on the porch leaning against the railing and watching the ocean. In the darkness it's hard to make out who he is. All I see is a tall, half-naked man wearing a pair of swim trunks hanging off his lean hips. Drops of water cling to his bare back and his blond hair sticks up in damp spikes. I decided to confront this unknown visitor and take a step forward, causing the floorboard to squeak under my feet. The man turns around and fixes me with an icy, blue stare. His mouth quirks into a cold smile and he crosses his arms over his chest. "Agent Bristow," Mr. Sark drawls. "What a wonderful surprise." There's something very dangerous about his tone, the way his body hums with energy. His eyes blaze through the darkness and I shiver under his gaze.
"What are you doing here?" I ask a bit shakily. Normally I'm calm and confident with him, but there's something different about tonight. He's making me nervous the way he's watching me so intently. "Aren't you supposed to be in prison?"
He rolls his eyes and turns to the porch rail. I notice a bottle of vodka resting on the wooden beam, good potato vodka, not the expensive red wine he normally drinks. He picks up the bottle and to my shock takes a long drink. What happened to refined Mr. Sark who only wears business suits and drinks Bordeaux? Now he's wearing a bathing suit and consuming a Russian peasant drink.. I blink a few times, wondering if I'm imagining all this, but he's still there, watching me intensely, when I open my eyes. "I'm no longer in the CIA's custody, Agent Bristow," he says and gestures towards the ocean, emphasizing the obvious. "Did you really think they could hold me there, like an animal trapped in a cage? You know your mother wouldn't leave me like that, although it's a pity it took her so long to finalize my escape."
I laugh, thinking I have the upper hand. "My mother put you there you sonofabitch. She's the reason you were rotting in prison in the first place!"
I expect a look of hurt to wash over his face, but he doesn't even blink. "I know, Agent Bristow. It was all part of her plan. Surely you know that."
Actually I didn't know that, and I'm tempted to tell him he's in denial, but there's something about the assuredness in his tone when he told me about my mother's plan that lets me know he's not lying. I'm the one in denial, thinking my mother would ever betray the child she raised to adulthood. "So she helped you escape and she's keeping me prisoner," I say annoyedly. "It figures she'd go out of her way for you and leave me here to steam."
Sark frowns and takes another swig from the bottle. "She only put me in prison to help you. She had to make them think her allegiance was flexible, regain some of your father's trust."
"Why?"
"So she could come running to your rescue. She wanted to protect you from Sloane. My imprisonment was part of the plan." He looks annoyed and kicks absently at sand staining the floorboards. Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's his swim, but he is most definitely more relaxed than I've ever seen him. He looks like a frat boy on Spring Break or an Abercrombie and Fitch model. Either way he looks human, something I'd never associated with Sark. He looks at me suddenly and something flashes in his eyes; it looked almost like a sheen of tears. But before I can ask him he looks away and turns back to the sea.
I sigh heavily and stare at his broad back. He runs a hand through his hair and my breath hisses sharply through my lips. His muscles bunch and his shoulders flex and desire coils in my belly. I'd never imagined Sark as anything more than a pay-by-the-hour assassin, a cold, unfeeling killer, but something is different tonight. He's vulnerable, sensitive, and getting strangely more attractive by the moment. He's visibly upset about something, and while I know who he is and what he does, I can't hide the feeling person inside me. Without thinking I reach over and lay a hand on his arm. I feel the tension immediately, hard, coiled muscles and hot skin. "Why are you drinking, Sark?" I ask softly.
I assume he'll twist out of my grasp immediately, but he surprises me. Instead, he turns and looks directly into my eyes. Even mores surprising, the hint of sadness is gone. Now they're burning with anger. "Someone very dear to me is dead, Sydney." He reaches out and grabs my wrist, pulling me closer to him. "A young, beautiful girl is gone and she's not coming back. You should know about that, Sydney."
I'm so stunned I don't notice Sark is now using my given name. I didn't think Sark was capable of feeling anything for another individual, much less loving one, but it's obvious he loved this person very deeply. But what is he talking about, knowing what it's like to be beautiful and gone? "Are you talking about me?" I ask softly. "I'm sorry for your loss, but what does it have to do with me?"
He laughs without humor and pushes me away. I take a wary step back and size him up. He's bigger than I originally thought and a lot more muscular. I'm still injured and I don't know if I'd be able to take him in a fight. "You are one of the most self-centered people I've ever encountered," he sneers. "Not everything is about you, but for once you're right. Do you remember the night you came here, bruised and bloody and almost dead?" I nod and watch him warily; he's looking at me as if he wishes I hadn't survived that night. "What happened, Sydney?"
I close my eyes as the memories come flashing back. I don't want to remember that night and the death and pain, but Sark won't let me forget. He presses on, goading me, making me remember. "I had a fight," I say weakly. "With the second Double. She stabbed Will. She tried to kill me. I had to defend myself."
He takes a step forward, his eyes burning hotly. "So what did you do?"
"She was coming at me with a knife. There wasn't anywhere else to run. I shot her. I had to. She—" I stop in mid-sentence, realizing what Sark has been getting at all along. "My god," I whisper. "It was her, the second Double. You were in love with her." It's more a statement than a question.
"Her name was Allison," he says flatly. "And you killed her." The fire disappears from his eyes and he regards me coldly. "I'll never forget that, Sydney. Never"
It takes me a moment to respond. "I'm sorry for your loss," I say slowly. "But I can't take back what happened. It was self-defense and if I did it all over again I wouldn't change anything."
He doesn't say anything, but a slow smile creeps across his face and I dread what's coming next. "Maybe, but remember your reporter friend, Will? An eye for an eye, right?"
I gasp and stagger a bit, grasping the railing for support. "What are you talking about? Will is fine!"
Sark shrugs his shoulder and leans against a column on the porch. "According to Agent Kendal, your friend is resting six feet underground. Unless of course he's lying. . .in an Agency wide brief.
It takes a few minutes to process his words. I cry out and collapse against the rail and he watches me curiously. He takes a hesitant step towards me and for a moment I think he's going to hug me, but he hands me the bottle of vodka instead. I take a long drink. . .then another. . .then another. I feel a little bit better. . .then the impact of his statement sinks in: Will, my best friend, is dead. I rush at him, arms punching and legs kicking. I forget my aching ribs and bruised fingers. I go at him with everything I have. "Why are you so evil?" I yell as he tries to restrain my flailing limbs. "Do you take pleasure in causing me pain? Does it make you feel good breaking my heart and telling me Will is dead? I'm sorry I killed you girlfriend, but it was her or me! You would have done the same thing! And here you're giving me lectures about selfishness when you're the most arrogant, cold-hearted—"
I never get to finish my rant, because a pair of hard, but surprisingly gentle lips, come crashing down on mine. It takes me a minute to realize Sark is kissing me, and another minute to realize I'm enjoying it. I should be pushing him away, but I find myself pressing harder against him instead. He pushes me back against the column, framing my face with his hands. I tangle my fingers in his hair and arch against him. God, it feels good. I'm past caring who he is. I just want to forget that my best friends are dead and it's all on my head. I brought them into this world; I might as well have shot the bullet myself. But this. . .Sark's mouth on mine and his hands on my skin. . . it make me forget all my pain.
He seems to be feeling the same thing. There's a desperation in his touch, like he's just craving some kind of connection with another person, even if it's me. For once he's right; we are the same. We're both hurting and just want the pain to go away. I gasp as his lips roam down my throat and smile as all my hurt melts away.
His fingers effortlessly play with the tie of my dress and the material parts, revealing my bare breasts. He tugs the dress the rest of the way down and I stand before him wearing nothing but the lace thong I found in underwear drawer. His eyes darken in the moonlight and he reaches for me again. Hands, lips, mouth. . . he's everywhere and I'm grateful for the pillar supporting my weight. I touch him everywhere he touches me, smiling as he groans into the night. But we never talk, not a single word. Hearing each other's voices would break the spell, remind us of who we are and what we're doing—and neither of us want to be reminded right now.
I wrap my legs around his hips and he buries his face in my neck and then he begins to move and I can't remember the rest. Everything spins around me and I feel like I'm flying, cliché, but true. I can feel him tightening inside me, feel the pace increase, and I feel tears spring to my eyes. It's just that good. He begins to shake and I quiver around him and he finally says something. "Look at me, Sydney," he whispers and I open my eyes. His are big and blue and burning again, but there's no anger there this time, only passion and desire. "Say my name, Sydney."
"Sark," I whisper.
He smiles and buries his face in my hair. "Remember this, Sydney. I want you to remember this forever."
It doesn't end with the escapade on the porch. Afterwards he picks up our clothes and without a word takes me by the hand and leads me to his bedroom. I spend the rest of the night there: in his bed, his shower, the hot tub on his balcony. And the next morning I wake up with him beside me, his arm wrapped possessively across my stomach. "Good morning, Agent Bristow," he whispers. "Sleep well?"
* * * * *
I shoot up in bed like a light, my eyes wild and my skin suspiciously hot. I press a hand to my forehead and it burns under my touch but I know I don't have a fever. No, I just had the most erotic, sexiest dream of my life—and it was with Sark. In the two years leading up to my relationship with Vaughn I had hundreds of dreams like this one, but never one so real, so lifelike. Then my mind starts whirling. . .
In my dream I slept with Sark three weeks after I was brought to the island. It took me nine months to carry a baby to term. I was missing for one year, eleven months. And I've been back at the CIA for five. I realize that wasn't a dream at all. It was real, a memory, a flashback of my past. All along I wondered how Sark and I could have created a child together. Now I know.
~ * ~
Please, please, please respond!
Author's Note:
One, sorry for the long delay between updates. I was out of town again and didn't have time to write. Two, thank you for all your wonderful comments. I'm always amazed at how much support is growing for this story. It really keeps me committed to finishing it. Three, a little preview on Sark. He and Syd have issues that will become more clear as the story progresses. I'm working on giving him a backstory too because we know so little about his character and I think history will help explain him a little better. Hope that clears things up for everyone who's starting to hate Sark. That's the last thing I want to happen! I hope you enjoy this chapter!
~ * ~
"Tell me, in a world without pity
Do you think what I'm askin's too much
I just want something to hold onto
And a little of that human touch
Just a little of that human touch"
- Human Touch, Bruce Springsteen
~ * ~
That night I dreamed of him. After Sark left me in tears I pulled myself together and took one long, lasting look at my baby. I knew I'd see him in the morning, in a few hours in fact, but I couldn't bear to leave him. I was tempted to curl up in front of his crib, but I felt exhaustion creeping in and I wanted to bright and alert the next morning, so I reluctantly slunk off to my own room.
The place is like paradise, complete with the softest, fluffiest, most comfortable bed I've ever slept in. Everything about the room is amazing. There are silk negligees hanging in my closet, two-hundred dollar shampoo in my shower. It's all too orderly, too perfect, and I feel uncomfortable touching anything—except the bed. So I wash my face with my Neutrogena face wash and curl up in my flannel PJs and slip under my mother's ridiculously expensive comforter. . .and I dreamed of him.
* * * * *
It was right after I came to the island, maybe only a few weeks later, because I wake up in the very same room with an elastic bandage wrapped around my torso. I lift one hand to brush my hair off my face and it's a map of healing bruises. Hurriedly, I push up my silk nightgown and stare at a web of yellowing bruises and scabbed cuts. "What the hell happened to me?" I murmur out loud. Then it all comes back: Francie, Will, the Double, the fight. . .waking up in my mother's arms on an island in the Pacific.
I groan and collapse back on my pillows. Now I remember. I've been here for three weeks recovering from that disastrous fight with the Double. She nearly kicked my ass and I was lucky, but I had to kill her to survive. I close my eyes and remember that night. It was the hardest thing I ever did, pumping that woman's chest full of bullets. In my head I knew it wasn't Francie, that the real Francie was already dead and this woman was responsible, but I still felt like I was killing my best friend. I remembered collapsing afterwards, tears spilling down my cheeks, and then it all goes black. The next thing I remember is waking up here, in my own personal prison.
My mother says it's for the best, that she's protecting me from Sloane, but I know her better than she thinks. She's up to something, she's always up to something. I was worried at first, but it's not like she's not letting me leave so I'll have plenty of time to figure out what's really going on. Sighing, I push away all thoughts of my mother and Francie and Sloane. It's dark and I forgot to close my curtains and a full moon shimmers over the ocean outside. I'll give my mother credit where credit is due. She may be an untrustworthy snake, but she has a beautiful home. I like being by the ocean. It gives me a sense of peace, of comfort, reminds me there is a world I'm missing beyond this house, a world I need to get back to at any cost.
I jump out of bed and instantly regret my decision. My ribs ache from the impact and my head rings a little. I gingerly walk to my closet and open the doors and all I see is row upon row of sundresses. They're all a bit slinky, intended for beautiful tans and not much movement, neither of which I have any intention of doing this evening. I'm going to take the opportunity to find my way off this island. I select the least risqué one, a red and white halter that ties around the neck. I slip my feet into a pair of flip-flops and pad down the stairs.
To my surprise no one's around. My mother's study is dark, she already went to bed, and for once there are no special visitors or contacts wandering the halls. The house is quiet, empty, and all mine—perfect for planning a deception. I tour the first floor, searching for secret passages or hidden doors, but come up empty. I'll admit, it's dark and shadowy, but I thought my super-spy sense would compensate; guess not. I'll have to try again when it's light out. Realizing I'm not going to get anything done tonight I head out for the back porch, which overlooks the ocean. I figure I'll take a short walk, maybe collect some shells, watch the ocean a while from the house. I never make it that far.
When I go outside there's already someone on the porch leaning against the railing and watching the ocean. In the darkness it's hard to make out who he is. All I see is a tall, half-naked man wearing a pair of swim trunks hanging off his lean hips. Drops of water cling to his bare back and his blond hair sticks up in damp spikes. I decided to confront this unknown visitor and take a step forward, causing the floorboard to squeak under my feet. The man turns around and fixes me with an icy, blue stare. His mouth quirks into a cold smile and he crosses his arms over his chest. "Agent Bristow," Mr. Sark drawls. "What a wonderful surprise." There's something very dangerous about his tone, the way his body hums with energy. His eyes blaze through the darkness and I shiver under his gaze.
"What are you doing here?" I ask a bit shakily. Normally I'm calm and confident with him, but there's something different about tonight. He's making me nervous the way he's watching me so intently. "Aren't you supposed to be in prison?"
He rolls his eyes and turns to the porch rail. I notice a bottle of vodka resting on the wooden beam, good potato vodka, not the expensive red wine he normally drinks. He picks up the bottle and to my shock takes a long drink. What happened to refined Mr. Sark who only wears business suits and drinks Bordeaux? Now he's wearing a bathing suit and consuming a Russian peasant drink.. I blink a few times, wondering if I'm imagining all this, but he's still there, watching me intensely, when I open my eyes. "I'm no longer in the CIA's custody, Agent Bristow," he says and gestures towards the ocean, emphasizing the obvious. "Did you really think they could hold me there, like an animal trapped in a cage? You know your mother wouldn't leave me like that, although it's a pity it took her so long to finalize my escape."
I laugh, thinking I have the upper hand. "My mother put you there you sonofabitch. She's the reason you were rotting in prison in the first place!"
I expect a look of hurt to wash over his face, but he doesn't even blink. "I know, Agent Bristow. It was all part of her plan. Surely you know that."
Actually I didn't know that, and I'm tempted to tell him he's in denial, but there's something about the assuredness in his tone when he told me about my mother's plan that lets me know he's not lying. I'm the one in denial, thinking my mother would ever betray the child she raised to adulthood. "So she helped you escape and she's keeping me prisoner," I say annoyedly. "It figures she'd go out of her way for you and leave me here to steam."
Sark frowns and takes another swig from the bottle. "She only put me in prison to help you. She had to make them think her allegiance was flexible, regain some of your father's trust."
"Why?"
"So she could come running to your rescue. She wanted to protect you from Sloane. My imprisonment was part of the plan." He looks annoyed and kicks absently at sand staining the floorboards. Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's his swim, but he is most definitely more relaxed than I've ever seen him. He looks like a frat boy on Spring Break or an Abercrombie and Fitch model. Either way he looks human, something I'd never associated with Sark. He looks at me suddenly and something flashes in his eyes; it looked almost like a sheen of tears. But before I can ask him he looks away and turns back to the sea.
I sigh heavily and stare at his broad back. He runs a hand through his hair and my breath hisses sharply through my lips. His muscles bunch and his shoulders flex and desire coils in my belly. I'd never imagined Sark as anything more than a pay-by-the-hour assassin, a cold, unfeeling killer, but something is different tonight. He's vulnerable, sensitive, and getting strangely more attractive by the moment. He's visibly upset about something, and while I know who he is and what he does, I can't hide the feeling person inside me. Without thinking I reach over and lay a hand on his arm. I feel the tension immediately, hard, coiled muscles and hot skin. "Why are you drinking, Sark?" I ask softly.
I assume he'll twist out of my grasp immediately, but he surprises me. Instead, he turns and looks directly into my eyes. Even mores surprising, the hint of sadness is gone. Now they're burning with anger. "Someone very dear to me is dead, Sydney." He reaches out and grabs my wrist, pulling me closer to him. "A young, beautiful girl is gone and she's not coming back. You should know about that, Sydney."
I'm so stunned I don't notice Sark is now using my given name. I didn't think Sark was capable of feeling anything for another individual, much less loving one, but it's obvious he loved this person very deeply. But what is he talking about, knowing what it's like to be beautiful and gone? "Are you talking about me?" I ask softly. "I'm sorry for your loss, but what does it have to do with me?"
He laughs without humor and pushes me away. I take a wary step back and size him up. He's bigger than I originally thought and a lot more muscular. I'm still injured and I don't know if I'd be able to take him in a fight. "You are one of the most self-centered people I've ever encountered," he sneers. "Not everything is about you, but for once you're right. Do you remember the night you came here, bruised and bloody and almost dead?" I nod and watch him warily; he's looking at me as if he wishes I hadn't survived that night. "What happened, Sydney?"
I close my eyes as the memories come flashing back. I don't want to remember that night and the death and pain, but Sark won't let me forget. He presses on, goading me, making me remember. "I had a fight," I say weakly. "With the second Double. She stabbed Will. She tried to kill me. I had to defend myself."
He takes a step forward, his eyes burning hotly. "So what did you do?"
"She was coming at me with a knife. There wasn't anywhere else to run. I shot her. I had to. She—" I stop in mid-sentence, realizing what Sark has been getting at all along. "My god," I whisper. "It was her, the second Double. You were in love with her." It's more a statement than a question.
"Her name was Allison," he says flatly. "And you killed her." The fire disappears from his eyes and he regards me coldly. "I'll never forget that, Sydney. Never"
It takes me a moment to respond. "I'm sorry for your loss," I say slowly. "But I can't take back what happened. It was self-defense and if I did it all over again I wouldn't change anything."
He doesn't say anything, but a slow smile creeps across his face and I dread what's coming next. "Maybe, but remember your reporter friend, Will? An eye for an eye, right?"
I gasp and stagger a bit, grasping the railing for support. "What are you talking about? Will is fine!"
Sark shrugs his shoulder and leans against a column on the porch. "According to Agent Kendal, your friend is resting six feet underground. Unless of course he's lying. . .in an Agency wide brief.
It takes a few minutes to process his words. I cry out and collapse against the rail and he watches me curiously. He takes a hesitant step towards me and for a moment I think he's going to hug me, but he hands me the bottle of vodka instead. I take a long drink. . .then another. . .then another. I feel a little bit better. . .then the impact of his statement sinks in: Will, my best friend, is dead. I rush at him, arms punching and legs kicking. I forget my aching ribs and bruised fingers. I go at him with everything I have. "Why are you so evil?" I yell as he tries to restrain my flailing limbs. "Do you take pleasure in causing me pain? Does it make you feel good breaking my heart and telling me Will is dead? I'm sorry I killed you girlfriend, but it was her or me! You would have done the same thing! And here you're giving me lectures about selfishness when you're the most arrogant, cold-hearted—"
I never get to finish my rant, because a pair of hard, but surprisingly gentle lips, come crashing down on mine. It takes me a minute to realize Sark is kissing me, and another minute to realize I'm enjoying it. I should be pushing him away, but I find myself pressing harder against him instead. He pushes me back against the column, framing my face with his hands. I tangle my fingers in his hair and arch against him. God, it feels good. I'm past caring who he is. I just want to forget that my best friends are dead and it's all on my head. I brought them into this world; I might as well have shot the bullet myself. But this. . .Sark's mouth on mine and his hands on my skin. . . it make me forget all my pain.
He seems to be feeling the same thing. There's a desperation in his touch, like he's just craving some kind of connection with another person, even if it's me. For once he's right; we are the same. We're both hurting and just want the pain to go away. I gasp as his lips roam down my throat and smile as all my hurt melts away.
His fingers effortlessly play with the tie of my dress and the material parts, revealing my bare breasts. He tugs the dress the rest of the way down and I stand before him wearing nothing but the lace thong I found in underwear drawer. His eyes darken in the moonlight and he reaches for me again. Hands, lips, mouth. . . he's everywhere and I'm grateful for the pillar supporting my weight. I touch him everywhere he touches me, smiling as he groans into the night. But we never talk, not a single word. Hearing each other's voices would break the spell, remind us of who we are and what we're doing—and neither of us want to be reminded right now.
I wrap my legs around his hips and he buries his face in my neck and then he begins to move and I can't remember the rest. Everything spins around me and I feel like I'm flying, cliché, but true. I can feel him tightening inside me, feel the pace increase, and I feel tears spring to my eyes. It's just that good. He begins to shake and I quiver around him and he finally says something. "Look at me, Sydney," he whispers and I open my eyes. His are big and blue and burning again, but there's no anger there this time, only passion and desire. "Say my name, Sydney."
"Sark," I whisper.
He smiles and buries his face in my hair. "Remember this, Sydney. I want you to remember this forever."
It doesn't end with the escapade on the porch. Afterwards he picks up our clothes and without a word takes me by the hand and leads me to his bedroom. I spend the rest of the night there: in his bed, his shower, the hot tub on his balcony. And the next morning I wake up with him beside me, his arm wrapped possessively across my stomach. "Good morning, Agent Bristow," he whispers. "Sleep well?"
* * * * *
I shoot up in bed like a light, my eyes wild and my skin suspiciously hot. I press a hand to my forehead and it burns under my touch but I know I don't have a fever. No, I just had the most erotic, sexiest dream of my life—and it was with Sark. In the two years leading up to my relationship with Vaughn I had hundreds of dreams like this one, but never one so real, so lifelike. Then my mind starts whirling. . .
In my dream I slept with Sark three weeks after I was brought to the island. It took me nine months to carry a baby to term. I was missing for one year, eleven months. And I've been back at the CIA for five. I realize that wasn't a dream at all. It was real, a memory, a flashback of my past. All along I wondered how Sark and I could have created a child together. Now I know.
~ * ~
Please, please, please respond!