Her workload didn't prove to be too difficult; just very tedious. It was incredibly dull to compile phone records that served of some importance while others seemed more spam than anything. But she couldn't complain. It's not like she hadn't been doing all this to gain information on Moriarty all these years.
At one point she had attempted to track down her location, but there must have been a GPS scrambler in the complex because she couldn't even get a signal. Even if she could somehow contact her intelligence team, she'd have no idea what to say. She was sure that she wasn't the only operative looking for Moriarty. And if none had found him now, she doubted they would any time soon.
She had no visitors for several days, except for the same man who would roll in a cart of food and drink for her twice a day. It was like being locked in a hotel room all day where she had to whore out her technical skills. It was an incredibly familiar feeling for her.
It was the evening of what she thought was the fifth day since her arrival in this room when she heard the door open behind her. She turned to see a more casual version of the Jim Moriarty she was used to. He wore dark slacks and a white v-neck tee, and his hand were two glasses with an amber liquid filled halfway.
"Good evening," he began lazily. He walked over to her desk and set down one of the glasses in front of her. "Brought you a little present."
She stood up so she was more his height level and pushed the chair to the side. "Thank you," she politely replied before gulping back the entirety of what was sure to have been an expensive aged scotch. She forgot she had taken painkillers earlier in the day and the alcohol hit her way harder than it should have. He smirked and did the same. "And I've got some presents for you," she continued, trying to ignore her intoxication and turning away from him to open up a few files she had saved. "So far I've got most of his cases, a good deal of background, and I'm working my way up to his current affairs."
He squinted as he scanned the screen in front of her, as the soft glow of the computer monitors was the only light source in the room now that it was completely dark outside. "And how long will that take?" he distractedly asked.
"About a week more."
Jim's eyes seemed to grow darker with exhilarated hunger as he stared at the screen before them, taking in every juicy detail as if it were a succulent supper he was about to devour as a last meal. She curiously gazed upon his reaction, watching as the tip of his tongue grazed across his slightly parted lips, not sure how to react with his fascination. Knowing these next few moments would be incredibly vital, she forced herself to regain her focus and noticed something make a slight reflection in her peripheral vision. Looking down, it appeared to be the familiar handle of his black Swiss Army knife sticking out of the pocket of his trousers. Seeing an opportunity, she quickly looked back to his face to make sure he was fully engrossed in the documents before him before slowly reaching towards the object without disturbing its owner. As soon as her fingers reached the smooth handle, she pulled it out of his pocket and pulled at the knife portion as quickly as she could. In half a second, she had flipped Jim Moriarty around to face her, cold knife pressed against his jugular in one fluid motion, his head pressed downward between the knife and desk.
His surprise immediately dissolved into an entertained grin. She could have sworn his eyes grew darker but she didn't think it possible. If anything, they had been unchanged from the starved look moments ago.
"Impressive! But I can't help but feel a tad disappointed," he voiced. One of his hands shot up to hers, gripping tightly and slowly putting pressure down on the knife, sliding it across his skin to leave nothing but a thin line of glistening red fluid in its wake.
She stared at the cut he left there with her lips slightly parted, feeling a strange...longing, was it? The boldness of his action caught her off-guard. Perhaps he was right about her inherent but subdued bloodlust. Or perhaps that was just his way of psychologically manipulating her to his advantage. Either way, she couldn't help but feel a lascivious pull toward this man's bold move; this man, who she had spent over two years trying to find and have killed, and he was presenting her the opportunity to do so on an extravagant platter. And yet even as those cold eyes dared her to make a more fatal move, her mind had already been made up.
"Go on," that Irish accent suggested to her with a knowing grin and she knew it was more a demand than anything. She drew the knife to his lower abdomen, making the tip of it graze upon his happy trail underneath his shirt before jerking forward, ripping the delicate fabric of his cotton tee. She moved up with similar movements to the very top, where the shirt opened to welcome her to his torso. She slipped the torn fabric over his shoulder and slid her right arm over his frame, her left dropping the knife onto the desk and sliding it through his smooth hair.
She was close enough to feel his breath upon her lips when he suddenly grabbed her hips and spun her around, pinning her between his own hips and the desk. She felt his ragged breath on her neck caused by his hardness against her backside. As soon as his lips touched the delicate spot where her shoulder and neck met, she let out a longing sigh. It had been too long. Far too long since she had had the touch of another body pressed against her skin, breath drawn upon her neck, fingertips running down the sides of body.
He wrapped his arm around her front, pulling upon the loose bow that held her ensemble together. It fell apart from the center before Jim's hands slid it from her shoulders, brushing his fingers against them before following the trail with his lips. When her robe her slipped down to the ground, his fingers unhurriedly moved to her front, his fingertips brushing against the underside of her breasts. As his lips moved up her neck, his hands moved up her chest, until his mouth reached her jaw line and his fingertips reached the dark areolas around her nipples. He made sure to reach both her lips with his own and her nipples with his fingertips at the same time.
The first instance she felt his touch on her nipples, her mind had shattered as if he had sedated her once more. The movement was so slow and particular; she felt every ridge of his thumb's fingertip brush against one of the most sensitive spots on her body. The movement continued in light, circular motions around the tip of her nipple as his lips sucked the edge of hers, making her turn her head to devote her own attention to them.
The slow touch of his lips and tantalizing movement of his fingers threw her by surprise. She didn't expect someone like Jim Moriarty to go at a leisurely pace. Then again, there was no one else like Jim Moriarty. She had no idea what to expect.
He brought her nipple in between his index finger and thumb and pressed into a gentle squeeze, forcing her to pull away from his lips to let a soft moan. He grinned wickedly, seeing the response the small amount of pleasure and pain brought her. It was so interesting to him how some people made the same sounds they did when they were dying or in immense pain as they did when they were feeling the most pleasurable stimulations throughout their body. It excited him to hear the sound in either context, and made him crave more. He wanted to hear her scream. He wanted to see her throw her head back without restraint like she had done when her fingers were shattered. He wanted to feel her quiver beneath him like she had when he had touched her after nearly being asphyxiated to death.
While one hand began to unfasten his trousers, the other travelled its way down the front of her torso right between her thighs, feeling the moistness from just outside her slit. He knew he was right about her: she just couldn't stay away from new, exhilarating experiences as much as she wanted to believe she could get accustomed to a boring life. But he would let her figure that out on her own. This was not the time to discuss his psychoanalysis.
Deciding he was ready and through waiting, he pushed her legs farther apart with his own, adjusting and slowly guiding himself into her. He had barely heard her sigh of relief, his mind focusing on how her tight inner muscles began to adapt to him. He found it hard to contain his own sigh, feeling her close around him.
He began his slow, tantalizing thrusts, hearing her sighs grow louder and louder until they were minute moans. It wasn't good enough for him though. This wasn't enough to make her cry out in ecstasy.
His thrusts soon became hard and rough, practically throwing her hipbones into the edge of the desk with every maneuver. She soon found her face pressed up against the desk, Jim's hand having pushing her back all the way down until her rear was fully exposed and he could thrust his entirety of himself into her. Now this was the type of sex she had expected from him.
At this point, her moans were comparable to someone who was being punched repeatedly in the stomach. And yet that wasn't enough for him. But as he looked down, he saw tiny droplets of crimson fall upon her sweaty back. Realizing it was from the cut on his throat, and growing increasingly greedy, a thought formed in his mind.
Almost too vigorously, he grabbed a fistful of her hair from her scalp and pulled her body upright into his. He couldn't tell if her sudden wail was from pleasure or pain, but that was the point, wasn't it? He reached out for the knife she had previously discarded, his other handed working his way down her torso. Once he reached his destination, he parted her lips with his index and ring fingers, letting his ring finger stroke downward as slowly as it could, while still plunging into her.
"Oh, fuck!" she yelled out in a higher-pitched voice, throwing her head back to allow him to pull her head farther back from her hair. He was correct once again, finding that her gravitation toward pleasure and pain inflicted at the same time would elicit just the response he wanted. But this wasn't close to what he had planned. Oh, no.
"Thought you didn't like violence?" he asked arrogantly in between thrusts.
She let out shaky chuckle, sighing out, "I don't."
So she was still in denial. "Let's see if we can't change that…" He reached for the knife she had previously discarded and ran the cold blade up and down the front of her stomach, resting finally in the middle of her ribcage on her left side. Her breath became hitched and anticipation rung in the air for his next action. He dug the blade into her side, drawing a horizontal line less than an inch wide. Another moan followed that could have been caused by either his continued rough thrusting or his carving of her flesh.
Another line etched but this time in a curved manner earned another moan, one of her hands falling to the side of his thigh and digging her sharp fingernails into it. This earned more straight lines in the same area, almost all in different directions. The finger on her clit began to rub harder as he carved his last line. This was more than enough as her mind all of a sudden succumbed to the blinding satisfaction that had long been building up inside her. She collapsed forward, clutching onto the edge of the desk as her inner muscles pulsated around him, her shaky screams filling the quiet room.
He continued plunging into her, having gotten just what he wanted and now out for his own contentment. She was bent over before him, a slight bit of blood on her back. Recovering herself quickly enough, she pushed the computer keyboard off the desk before pulling away and turning around to face him. Before he could even protest to her action, she drew herself onto the desk, wrapped her legs around his torso and wrenched him into her once more.
As he appreciated her bold move in his mind, she leaned back upon her elbows, giving him an entire frontal view of herself, including his own artwork. There, upon her upper body right atop her ribs, blood trickled down from a perfectly carved JM in her skin. Seeing his masterpiece before him, he leaned forward, pushing hard into her as his own buildup exploded in violent satisfaction.
He collapsed onto her body, both of their breathing too rapid to for their senses to come back to them. Weariness (or perhaps the scotch) had hit them both to the point of utter exhaustion.
Feeling the sensation flowing through his very bones, Jim stood upright, grabbing Emma by the waist and pulling her toward him. After a brief rough kiss, he pulled her forward as her legs found the strength to wrap around his waist once more. He picked her up like this and carried her to the bed, practically throwing her down and, much to her surprise, collapsing next to her. She was far too drowsy to question it, as the scotch mixed with her painkillers had weighed both her mind and body down. Without another glance at the naked psychopath next to her, she found herself submitting to the sex coma that was looming above them both.