You press tightly to him, naked pleas of helpless need escaping with every breath you take. Desire spikes through you, his fingertips digging into the soft meat of your thighs, lifting you off the bed to press his length against your softest place, and it sends a harder jolt of excitement shunting through your spine.
The hit man gives a soft chuff, like laughter, at your responsiveness, as if he isn’t sure what to make of it. His voice is rough, distressed velvet on your ears when he says your name, directing your attention to his eyes which bore through and into you, seeing every erotic and shameless desire you’ve ever imagined up until this point.
And he doesn’t judge you for them.
Suddenly he cradles your face, and kisses ever so softly, when all you want is more - but this, this is nice, and his breath is sweet and spicy like mulled wine. He tastes you deep, teeth grazing your lips, because he only knows how to kiss with nothing less than everything he has. That has always been how he operates, how he lives, how he breathes.
Up until now, he wasn’t sure he could trust you with all of that. You want to be sure you can handle it, but nothing’s truly a certainty. Right now this hurts deliciously, the way he crushes against you and pulls your head back and nips at your throat and the ticklish lobes of your ear. You can’t breathe. It’s maddening. You want more.
There’s no way he’s never done this before.
There’s a touch at your lips - not his mouth but his fingertips. Unthinking, you take in his trigger finger, feel the rough callous texture with your tongue, wet it with saliva, knowing the taste isn’t just salt but copper and gunpowder and blood - all burned right into his skin, like an invisible tattoo.
You revel in the subtle change, his expression delicious as you fearlessly slide him right down to your throat. He grips your jaw, shaking breath, fucking you like that until your lips are gleaming and moist.
Slow, worshipful licks until he shivers out your name, pulls his hand away, but you guide him somewhere else - and here’s where his bravado falters, his actions stumble.
You whisper a gentle please, too soft to frighten him away. You have to learn to let go, make him him decide on his own. You can’t push him too much - he’s like a wild animal, you have to make him hungry, make him want to do it, or he will run from you as fast and far into the wilderness where killers come from and you don’t know how long until he will come back.
Don’t run, you think as hard and desperately as possible, gently winding your arms around his shoulders and bringing him down to you. You arch your hips to him wordlessly, so hard you can hear your spine give in tiny orderly crackles. Your body throbs with his breaths.
He doesn’t run. You offer your throat. He can’t help himself.
He doesn’t need your fingers to get inside you. And when he is, he’s in your blood and in your head and in your fingertips, clawing into your rib cage as he moans, his hips pummeling against you, his hand pulling at your hair until you scream. It feels too good to notice how it begins to hurt. You’ll know later. He’ll take care of you then. Right now it’s just you, both of you almost crying. You’re trembling, arching, pulling him closer, his skin slick with sweat, his shaven scalp and vivid tattoo pressing through his skin, as sharp and harsh as the day it was carved into his delicate skin, hard as a railroad track.
He was only a child then. And he wears it now like a man, and he tightens inside you as if struck by lightening, as if it were too forbidden to touch.
That isn’t who he is. You carve your nails into his shoulder blades and whimper as if they are cutting into you. All muscle, all powerful male strength bears down into you as he cums with your name hooking in his lungs, catching on his throat.
It’s over. He’s burned into you, another tattoo, somewhere dark and secret in your heart.