Tonight won't be the first time that Whistler has gone 'undercover', dressing to blend in with every other human on the block to draw vampires out, tempting little morsel that she is. It won't even be the first time she's done it without Hannibal there to watch her back - hell, she's been hunting vampires a hell of a lot longer than she's known him and she can certainly hold her own in a fight. Even so, normally he'd still be a little bit twitchy about it, ridiculous as that sounds even inside his own head - he's not quite stupid enough to say anything like that out loud, at least some of the time.
But if he's twitchy tonight, it has nothing to do with Abby hunting on her own. It doesn't even have much to do with the why or the where - she's going to be getting a little too close to Danica Talos' world, where King's face is known. It makes sense to leave his ass behind.
No, it's the how that has him twitchy. And she damned well knows it, too.
She catches his eye in the mirror and raises one eyebrow at him. It's her 'what the hell are you up to' look - he knows that one a little too well - but it's ruined by the small smile that's playing around the corner of her mouth.
Her red mouth. Her very red mouth, full and luscious, bright with a shade of lipstick that she doesn't wear.
Given how hard his dick is in his pants, he's beginning to understand why she might want to avoid it.
"How long before you and Dex leave?"
He's aiming for casual, but he doesn't need the slightly sardonic look she gives him in the mirror to tell him he's missed it by a mile. It's clear in the way that her mouth twitches again, bee-stung lips curling up as she watches him.
"Fifteen mikes or so," she says, turning her attention back to smudging the makeup around her eyes. It makes her look mysterious, the kind of feminine mystique that he just doesn't associate with Whistler. She's female, sure, and she's also a fucking mystery to him sometimes, but this is something else, a whole new world opening up before him, one that seems to consist of Abigail Whistler in black, lacy underwear with a mouth that's just made for sucking his dick.
Fifteen minutes. He could do a hell of a lot in fifteen minutes - to Whistler and with Whistler both. But he can tell from the focused look in her eye as she stares at her reflection, painting on her makeup like it's a mask she needs to hide behind, that she won't go for it. He recognises that look, too - the outfit may be different, but that's her 'I'm about to kill evil things' expression. The intense one. The one that goes straight to his dick and would even if she didn't currently look like a walking wet dream.
He's pretty sure he's going to spend the two or three hours she's out mingling with rich vampire groupies jerking off until he's fucking raw.
It doesn't stop him from asking, "Wanna fool around until then?" because God knows he's not the kind of guy to learn from experience, or let a few little setbacks like involuntary vampirism and five years as Danica Talos' fucktoy stop him from enjoying life to the full. And there's very little that's more enjoyable than watching Whistler ride him with that same focused expression, at least short of staking vamps himself.
She gives him another look, one that's all wry amusement and 'I see what you're doing'.
"I don't want to get mussed," she says, adjusting her bra strap as she looks back at her reflection and then nodding to herself as she seems to think that what she sees is acceptable.
Fuck acceptable. She looks absolutely fucking amazing as she stands up, smoothing her hands down her body - over expanses of pale, smooth skin and black, barely there underwear, making sure that everything is in the right place, that her stockings are neat and unwrinkled, that the garter belt is firmly fastened, a small frown of concentration between her brows.
Hannibal swallows, his dick even harder now. Yep. Definitely going to spend the next little - long - while jerking off, thinking of her.
She steps away and shimmies into her dress, and any disappointment he feels at her body being covered up is brief. She still looks amazing in her dress - it's tight and black, sleek, shiny satin that fits in all the right places - and he's got a hell of a memory and a fine imagination. If he closes his eyes he can picture exactly what she looks like underneath it, every curve of that luscious, flexible body enhanced, not hidden, by black lace.
Yep. That's definitely a mental image good enough to tide him over until he can get his hands on her later tonight.
"Zip me up?" she asks, and when he opens his eyes again she's standing in front of him, her mouth still amused, still full and red and just begging to be plundered.
She sees straight through him, of course, but then she has since the moment she met him.
She turns around, lifting her hair out of the way, and he's confronted with the smooth, tempting s-curve of her spine. So sue him if he lingers, letting his fingers stroke along her skin as he slowly eases the zipper up, inch by tortuous inch. He pauses at the top before deciding 'what the hell' and leaning down to kiss the curve of her neck, right at the point where it meets her shoulder.
Maybe he lingers there for a moment, too, just to feel the shiver the runs through her, the way that she leans back against him, the kind of subtle move he'd miss if he didn't know her so well. But when she turns around to face him, the look in her eyes is hooded, green and even more mysterious, giving nothing away.
"Thank you," she says, and he can't help it - his gaze drops to her mouth and stays there. He couldn't look away even if someone pointed a gun at his head. Knowing their line of work, that's a distinct possibility.
Her mouth curls up in another smile, this one sleek and satisfied, and he blinks down at her when her hand comes to rest on his chest. She hasn't put her heels on yet - and even if she had, he'd still have a few inches on her - but she rises on tiptoes and presses her mouth against his.
She kisses him slowly and thoroughly, her hand coming up to grip his chin and hold him in place - just firmly enough to have him holding still without the bite that Danica's touch had to it, the one that would have had him pulling away in an instant. He closes his eyes and goes with it, the unfamiliar taste of lipstick giving it an unexpected edge, something sweet and close to cloying that offsets the familiar taste of Whistler's mouth.
He's even more turned on when she pulls back, keeping hold of his chin and eyeing his mouth thoughtfully. She hums to herself, something as smug in the sound as there is in her smile, and then her thumb rubs over his lips.
"You've got lipstick on you," she says, and her voice has a husky tone to it, one that says 'sex' and 'yes please' and goes straight to his dick.
"Yeah, but not where I want it," he grouses, and that self-satisfied smile of hers disappears to be replaced by a grin.
"So predictable," she murmurs, but she doesn't seem pissed and he takes advantage of it, leaning in to claim her mouth again.
Her lipstick is slightly smudged when he pulls back, but she doesn't seem to mind that either, looking up at him from underneath her lashes, her expression considering. And then her hand lands firmly in the middle of his chest, catching him off guard as she shoves him backwards.
He lands on the bed, ass on the edge and braced on his elbows, staring up at her with a questioning look. They've rough-housed before - hard not to when their fists and feet are sometimes the only things keeping them alive - but it's always been in jest and it's never been when Whistler has been wearing a dress. Could be interesting, he thinks, raising his eyebrows at her hopefully.
She shakes her head minutely, but the expression on her face now is indulgent. Still, he's not expecting her to sink gracefully to her knees in front of him, her hands moving confidently to his belt.
Oh. Oh, fuck yes.
She slow slides his zipper down, her gaze intense as she fixes on her goal; all of that focus, all of that intensity is now reserved for his dick, and he loves it, fucking loves it when she looks at him like this, like he's something she just wants to eat up with a spoon. He still gasps when she slides her hand in, her fingers firm as they free his dick from his pants, brisk and business-like but still managing to make him feel like a million fucking dollars.
She wraps her fingers around him, running her palm along his length, just tight enough to curl his toes up. It feels amazing - it always feels amazing, but tonight it feels as perfect as she looks, and it's not long before he grows rock hard under her touch.
He's half-expecting it, but she still manages to drive another gasp out of him when she lowers her head, her lips parting as she eases him into her mouth. She doesn't stop there, though - she teases him, torments him in the best way possible, her tongue swirling around the head of his cock, her fingers stroking lightly up and down the base of it, and all the while her eyes are meeting his, challenging him, waiting for him to submit.
He's more than happy to submit to Whistler. He always has been.
She lets go of his dick, placing her hands on his thighs, and then she takes him in as far as he will go, swallowing him more deeply than she has before, gagging a little on his length. He tries to pull away - he does, he really does, because man, he might love the way her mouth feels around him, the way she's swallowing around his cock, but he's not exactly unfamiliar with the whole dick sucking deal from the other side. Danica loved to share everything with her brother, and he fucking hated it when Asher just shoved his dick down his throat. He sure as fuck doesn't want to do that to Abby.
But Abby has different ideas; she won't let him move away, the hands she has planted on his thighs firm and strong, her fingers digging in when he tries to shift position, pull back a little to let her breathe.
He takes the hint and relaxes, and as soon as he does she eases up on the death grip she has on him.
He's going to have bruises tomorrow. He can't find it in him to care.
She swallows again, and then pulls off him enough to take in a gasping breath. When she lowers her head again, it's not quite as deeply this time but it still takes enough of him in to have his own fingers curling into the mattress, a ragged curse falling from his lips.
She meets his eyes again, open challenge in them as she pulls off him completely, her fingers now stripping his length, hard and fast enough to have him biting back on a cry. There's lipstick on his dick, a ring of it - red and bright - around the base of it, and her eyes have watered a little, making her mascara run. But it's her lips - red and wet, with the lipstick smeared around her mouth - that has his breath catching in his throat, his heart stuttering in his chest. Just the sight of it is almost enough to make him come.
Maybe she sees it, or maybe this was always the way it was going to end, but she lowers her head again, sliding his dick back into her mouth, working on him like a pro, using tricks he didn't even know she knew to drive him out of his mind. There's no real finesse to it - it's down and dirty, wet and sloppy, and way hotter than he could ever have imagined, even given his fertile imagination. And throughout it all, she watches him with fierce eyes and a demanding tongue.
The tension rises in him, higher and higher, until his balls are tight up against his body and his hips are jerking restlessly on the bed, each swipe of her tongue, each steadily sucking pull taking him closer and closer to the point of no return. "Abby," he warns her. "I'm gonna come..."
She pulls off him, her fingers wrapped tightly around the base of his dick. "Come in my mouth," she says roughly, and the tone goes straight through him, another thrum of almost unbearable pleasure. "I don't want come on my dress."
Her wish has always been his command, but he's still close to frantic as he watches her lowering her head again, taking him into her mouth and leaving lipstick everywhere she touches. Every part of him feels it: the pressure of her mouth, the fierceness in her gaze, the tension in her touch.
It's too much; he comes with a jerk, spilling into her mouth as her name spills from his lips, and she swallows him down.
She kisses him afterwards, and he tastes himself on her lips alongside the lipstick, now blurred around the edges. Kisses him slowly and deeply, her hand cupping his face and holding him still while she explores his mouth.
There's a sudden, sharp knock on the door and the sound jerks him back to the present, his heart pounding as Dex's voice echoes into the room. "Whistler, you ready?"
Only then does Abby release his mouth, holding his gaze, her own steady and serious, as she yells back, "Just give me a minute, okay?"
Dex moves away, grumbling about women and how long they take to get ready, the words soft and indistinct, which is just as well as Hannibal suspects Abby would kick Dex's ass if she could hear him properly. As for him... well, he's in no fit state to kick anyone's ass at the moment.
Abby gives him another one of those smiles, soft and satisfied, yes, but also warm around the edges as her thumb strokes along his lower lip. And then she moves back to the mirror, busying herself with fixing her makeup as he sinks back onto the bed, his dick still hanging out of his pants, and thinks about how fucking awesome she is. How lucky he is.
Maybe he even dozes for a minute or two - coming as hard as that always wipes him out a little - because it only seems a matter of moments before she's back by the bedside, staring down at him. There's no sign of her mascara running now, but her lipstick isn't as sharp as it was before. It's softer, blurred around the edges where her lips are a little swollen.
It suits her better, he thinks, than the carefully precise edges she'd first painted on, and not just because he can look at her now and know damned well that her lips are like that because his dick's been between them.
She reaches down again, a considering look on her face as her thumb traces the outlines of his mouth. This time he gives into temptation, parting his lips to nip at her thumb, making her smile.
"You'd better wash that lipstick off your face," she says with a slight smile. "Unless you want Hedges to think you've been experimenting."
Eh, he's sure that's not the worst thing Hedges has thought about him, and if he had any brain cells left - if she hadn't sucked them all out of his dick - he'd probably say something along those lines. But it's too late - she's already moving away before he can think of it.
Then she pauses and looks back at him.
"But just off your face," she adds. "Don't shower yet. I want to know you'll be walking around for the rest of the night with my mark on you."
His breath stutters in his throat again, his treacherous dick twitching even though he's just come.
Whistler doesn't miss it, of course. Her smile is still satisfied but there's a darker edge to it now, something considering and knowing in it, and it sends a shiver through him, one that consists of one hundred percent unadulterated lust.
"And if you're very good," she adds with a purr, "maybe I'll let you fuck me while I'm still wearing these stockings. Push you down onto the bed, tie you up, ride you until you come. You'd like that, right?"
He lets out a sound. He's pretty sure he was aiming for 'yes' and he's just as sure that he doesn't quite make it. Whistler's smile turns into a grin, something sweeter in it now, not as feral, but it doesn't do anything to lessen his arousal.
She blows him a kiss and heads out of the door, leaving him with that very pretty mental image and the imprint of her mouth still on his skin.
Oh, yes. He's pretty much going to be fantasising about her for the rest of the night, but he won't be jerking off unless he's sure he'll be able to get it up for her later tonight.
On the other hand, he thinks, closing his eyes and picturing Whistler again, in that dress and with that mouth as he moves his hand to his already hardening dick, he's pretty sure that's not going to be an issue.