“They were lovely people,” Bela lies, a nasty smile puckering her mouth. “And I killed them, and I got rich. And I can't be bothered to give a damn. Just like I don't care what happens to you.”
Dean slams her against the wall and oh my, yes, he is strong; and yes, she is afraid of him. This is the person who's going to kill me, she thinks, a little hysterical. After my deal, after six years of trafficking with demons and sociopaths, this green-eyed boy is the one, in the end. How odd.
The thought has a galvanizing effect. She stares into those furious, contemptuous eyes and feels the fear, still, but it's a good fear. It's fear with broad shoulders and a strong arm pinning her, pumping heat and the faintest scent of balsam; fear with hectic spots of rage lighting up his freckles, fear with a steady gun hand and cocky stance crowded in tight, heaving against her hip to hip. It's fear with a human face and human hands, oh so very warm and close. Something she can push and feel and fight.
Unlike, say, the ambushing memories of Abby's father's tweed chaise. Unlike dark shapes skittering behind bushes at the edges of her vision or the baying of hellhounds in her nightmares.
The sheer relief of his physical presence bursts in her chest suddenly, and she has to swallow a (very ill-timed) giggle. Dizzy and dry-mouthed all at once, she sways forward, Dean's face an inch from hers.
“You make me sick,” he murmurs.
“Likewise,” she tells him, meaning it. Willing him to pull the trigger. Come on, tiger, let's go out with a bang. It's late and I'm tired and I'd rather it was you than--
The arm pinning her releases, slides down slowly to knot in a fist at her jacket front. Warm fingertips slip just inside a gap between buttons, brushing her breast through the thin silk of her camisole. Both nipples are instantly, painfully tight, and she shudders against him.
“You're not worth it,” he says, wrenching her aside without warning; but Bela's had enough—or she hasn't had anywhere near enough—and she rolls the momentum of his shove into a pivoting kick to his wrist. The gun goes flying and they both lunge, but Bela's faster. Panting, she shoves the barrel up under his chin and backs him against the bed where his knees seem to buckle and he sits. She makes a hasty scrabble for her own gun, still tucked into his waistband, before he can make a play. They glare at each other, hearts hammering.
“Leave the appraisals to me,” she says, looming over him and punctuating each jibe with a solid blow to his face. “And stick to what you know, Dean--” Smack! “--drinking--” Smack! “--and hustling--” Smack! “--and salting your stinking graves!” She cracks the gun butt against his jaw and he falls back, gasping; he raises his arms to protect his face and she jabs an elbow into his solar plexus.
Adrenaline rockets through her veins, burning away the fear and exhaustion. There is nothing but pleasure—sharper, more acute pleasure than she imagined possible—as she watches Dean Winchester writhe in breathless agony beneath her. She took his breath. She caused his agony. And she may have a one-way ticket for the 12:01 to Hell, but this moment right here? It feels damn close to Heaven, and Bela wants more. A lot more.
“Sit up,” she breathes, hauling him up by the shirtfront with shaking hands, gun tucked snug beneath his chin. “Sit up, you high-handed prick.”
He props himself up on his elbows. “Fuck you,” he spits, lip split and eyes glittering with hate.
“Fuck this.” She whips the gun down into the fork of his crotch. “You're a cheap little con, aren't you, Dean? For all your holier-than-thou garbage and sanctimonious prattling on about my job and my family--about whom you know nothing, by the way—” she jabs the gun and he squirms, “--we're cut from the same cloth, you and I.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean sneers.
“Slightly irregular.” She smiles. “And unraveling very, very quickly.” The pistol at Dean's crotch begins a gentle, almost sinuous rocking motion, tracing the line of his fly, back down to slide firmly beneath his balls, nuzzle, press and up again. His breath catches, but not from pain.
Bela's smile vanishes as quickly as it came. “And we both know a thing or two about games, I think,” she says, lowering herself to straddle one knee, gun pressing and gliding between his legs. “You really are the most dreadful tease, you know that, Dean? Smiling and flirting and polishing your halo, looking down your nose at me, when everyone....” (she presses the gun more firmly) “...alive, dead, undead, demonic and ethereal...knows that you...” (pauses, licks at the stipple of sweat beading his upper lip) “...are the easiest lay this side of the south Alexandria crossroads.”
If his cock wasn't swollen full-length already, that does it; he arches slightly at her words and the hard, impersonal pressure of the Remington sliding between his thighs. “Go to Hell,” he manages, coloring brilliantly, hands fisting in the coverlet.
“Soon enough,” Bela says, watching him fight it with a greedy, appraising eye. “But there's something I want before I go, beautiful. Nothing serious; just a token, really.” She leans down to murmur in his ear. “And you're going to give it up.”
He jerks back with a hiss. There's rage on his face still, yes, but the haughty certainty—that pissy, self-righteous pucker that drives Bela directly up the damask wallpaper—is gone. In its place she sees fear, confusion, and (hello, what's this?) more than a little spark of lust. My, oh my. So Saint Dean likes it rough, hm? Talk about a final meal.
“Take it all off,” she orders, gesturing vaguely with the gun while she runs a gentle hand up his inner thigh.
“No,” he says.
She pistol-whips him once, twice.
He spits blood. “Still no,” he tells her, breathing faster.
She's breathing faster herself, shaking with rage and something else, something she hasn't felt in years—though maybe it's been years since she felt anything at all. “Off,” she says, standing, “all of it, now, or I put you down and move on to--” She brandishes the receipt she filched from his coat pocket. “The Erie. To make this a Two-Fer. Sam would have had his kit off by now,” she adds. “Between you and me, I think he's got a bit of a crush.”
Dean's mouth opens and closes. He eyes the gun, clenches his teeth, shrugs off his jacket and flannel. The white tee gets skinned off next, exposing a pale breadth of compact muscle and a truly mouthwatering assortment of scars.
Bela twitches the gun. “Keep going, hunter boy.”
One last shuddering breath and he bends to unlace his boots. Down come the jeans, then finally the boxer briefs, in a soft tangle of fabric at his feet. He starts to pull off his white socks and Bela says, “Oh, you can leave those on.”
“Kinky,” he mutters, and has the effrontery to lean back, arms strutted at a careless angle and legs sprawled casually apart. “Is this what it takes to get you off?” he says, and his harsh tone betrays every bit of tension and fear he's plastered over with the screw-you posture. “You're so hard up you have to strip a guy at gunpoint?”
“Funny choice of words, 'hard up',” Bela says, eyes dragging up and down the bare, prone length of him, lingering for a moment on his flushed erection. “I see you've got no standing objection to a little rough and tumble, yourself. Dean, Dean,” she breathes. “If I'd known you wanted to be taken this badly, we'd have done this months ago.”
“I swear to god, I will make you pay for this, Bela!”
“More than the $10,000 I've already laid out?” she demands. “And you call me greedy!”
“That was for saving your life, you ungrateful bitch!” he growls, outraged.
“A service you typically perform for no more than a simple 'thank you,'” she reminds him. “What is this, a sliding scale? I'd heard you were a whore but I assumed the term was figurative. How much are you paid for a fuck, anyway?”
“If you think--”
“Shut up,” she raps out, leveling the gun between his eyes. Takes a deep breath, licks her lips. “I'm not done objectifying you. Now, I...want to see you touch yourself.” Silence. “Go ahead. Slowly. Or quickly, whatever you like, just make it good. Make it feel good.”
“What?” His breath hitches and his eyes shutter closed, mortification on full display. “No way. I can't--don't ask me to do that.”
She threads fingers into his hair, jerks his head back. Traces his lips softly with the gun barrel. “Tiger, who's asking? Do it now, show me your stuff. That's right,” she soothes, tightening her grip in his hair as Dean's hand slides reluctantly up his thigh, palming himself, massaging the moisture at the head of his shaft. “That's so good. Show me how you like it. Here, I'll even help.”
Releasing him and leaning back slightly, Bela works her free hand up under her skirt, hitches her hips a little, then stands. Dean's flush deepens and his grip on his cock tightens as her panties slide to the floor. She lifts her foot, gun never wavering, and gathers the pearly scrap. When she caresses the bruise already purpling Dean's cheekbone with the panties, the grey silk—fragrant with Opium and the moisture of her cunt—drags lightly at his stubble.
His eyelashes are fluttering against his cheek, now, hips lifting uncontrollably. He utters a strangled moan. Begins stroking his cock in earnest as Bela watches, rapt.
“I'm gonna...objectify your brains out,” he manages between ragged breaths.
“Promises,” she says. “Lick your hand and go a little faster.”
Incredibly, he does. His cock jerks visibly in his fist and he tries to look away, bites his lip when she turns his face back gently with her silk-wrapped palm.
The last of his resolve crumbles and he falls back, one hand jacking himself in a firm, punishing rhythm, while the other cups his balls, dips to press at his perineum.
“Harder,” Bela commands, voice shaking. “Do it harder. Arch your back—yes, that's a good boy--” It's almost more than she can take, the sight of smug, superior Dean mewling and writhing on the bedspread, hair tousled and hips driving that rigid cock into his own hand again and again, eyes screwed shut against humiliation and the burn of friction that must be killing him, Christ--
Without pausing to think, Bela reels forward and grabs his wrist, pins it to the bed at his hip. He glares at her for a moment, trembling as she drags the cool steel of the gun down his belly. There's a light sheen of sweat covering his body, now; she takes his free hand, licks the salty musk off its fingertips and follows suit across his stomach (muscles fluttering, so sweet), thighs, and—finally, his mouth dropping open on a full-throated cry of shocked pleasure—his cock.
Bela laps him to the root. She's determined to get him as soaked between the legs as she is at the moment, wetness trickling down hot thighs, and she alternates sharp sucks with bobbing dips of tongue, lips wrapped drum-tight around the plummy, leaking head before they plummet down his shaft to nuzzle at his dark-gold tangle of curls.
And he's noisy now, practically shouting his pleasure in hoarse gasps and stuttering groans. So she stuffs the panties in his mouth, muffling the racket, before going back down on him. If he minds this she can't tell from down between his legs: He's got one arm thrown over his head, fist gripping the sheet, and the other pinned demurely where she left it. Cheeks damp, chest heaving. And his penis has grown, if anything, harder since she gagged him with her drawers.
“Oh,” she hisses, coming off him with a wet pop, “you perfect little piece of ass. Just made for this, aren't you? Look at you begging for it, slut. I could make you come like this, with nothing more than my voice and my dirty knickers in your mouth.”
“Fuck,” Dean moans through the silk, trembling. He covers his face with both hands.
“No no, none of that.” She pries his hands away and straddles him, tilts his chin up gently with her fingertips. “Now, you're going to want to relax for this next part,” Bela tells him, deadly quiet. “It'll only hurt for a minute, Dean, and then you're going to come harder than you've ever done in your whole worthless--” she plants a soft kiss on one cheek. “--miserable little life. Just be brave and I'll give you what you need, hm? Yeah, you'll be brave,” she murmurs, staring down the gun sight at his pink cheeks, the anguish in his eyes. “You and me, we know how to bleed for our kicks. Don't we, tiger?”
She sits up slowly, brings the gun to her lips, gives the muzzle a few broad, purposeful licks. Watches his eyes widen as she lowers it between her own legs, wetting it further, before sliding backwards to nestle the gun beneath his balls.
“N-n--!” he begins. Yanks the panties from his mouth in a flash of panic.
“You really don't want to distract me right now,” she says, sharply, from the floor. He makes a strangled noise and falls silent, but he's trembling hard enough to shake the entire bed now. “Shhh,” she coaxes, fingers soft and coaxing at his thigh, the tense muscles of his ass. “That's it, Dean. Give it up. Let go, you might as well.” We're all going to Hell, might as well enjoy the ride. “Just give it up.”
“Fuuuck,” Dean swears again, teetering on the brink. Bela sees the moment when the wire snaps, toppling him over. He falls. He liquefies.
And painfully, in the most profound surrender she's ever seen in any man—especially this man—he does give it up. Spreads his knees and lifts up slightly, bearing down; moans as she licks at his hole, teasing him open with one lacquered fingertip, then two. Swears and arches, heaves for breath while she gentles him like a pony, spilling tenderness and filth. I hate you, she thinks, smoothing his flank. But I could have learned to love this body.
When he's ready--wet with spit and flexing loosely, voluptuously around three fingers--she doesn't hesitate. Just licks the tip of the gun barrel one more time and coaxes it in, startled at the ease with which Dean's ass receives it. He keens like an animal at the sensation, the cool metal so much less yielding than her skin. Undulates, fingers clenched in the tangle of bedclothes, and meets her eyes, all humiliation forgotten in this moment of abandon.
To see him, to feel him like this is...shocking. Literally shocking, as though some low-grade electrical impulse were being transmitted from his skin to hers. She tightens at nipple and throat, wanting more, and leans in pitilessly to take it.
She feeds him the gun barrel centimeter by centimeter, easing in, pulling back. She shifts one muscular leg over her shoulder, opens him wider; slides the irregular chrome into and out of his body. Already he's rocking into it, panting and begging for more—no words, just a series of rhythmic, breathy little moans that make her wish for a voice recorder. Finally, when he's taken the length of it, she stands up—leg still draped over her shoulder—and leans over him, planting one hand in the center of his chest while the other begins a series of smooth, powerful thrusts between his legs.
“Is it good?” she asks, fucking him relentlessly.
Dean's beyond words now, can only arch and whine, wracked by whole-body shudders of pleasure, arms flung over his head once more as though pinned. He cants his hips to meet her thrusts as best he can with little leverage, cock dripping, balls tightening where they rub against the thigh she has propped up on the bed. His whole body is being driven, filled by the piston in his ass. She starts a corkscrewing motion with her wrist, which draws a new volley of groans, a new spasm of precome slicking his tip; she imagines mounting him, spitting herself on that fullness, riding him to bring herself off while she forces him to orgasm with the gun--
She takes a steadying breath, slides her hand down and fondles his cock. “Give it up,” she says again, giving him tight, slippery strokes in time with her quickening thrusts.
Which Dean does, so obediently--bows up with a final cry, spurting again and again into her fist while she milks him through it. Bela watches, fascinated, still giving him lazy thrusts with the gun, each prod eliciting one last spasm of his cock and dribble of semen. After a minute or so he collapses, stretching and dragging a hand through the mess on his belly.
“No more,” he says, completely hoarse. Fucked-out, Bela thinks. He's tired enough to beg. They definitely should have done this months ago. She drawls the pistol gently from his body, gives it an absent sniff. Flicks the safety on.
Dean is frowning up at her from the bedspread. “You, uh. You didn't--”
“No, nor would I, not with you.” She gives him a cool, disdainful smile. “Not if today were my last day on earth.”
Something hardens in his face and she watches it turn, that wild openness, the piece of himself he'd chosen to reveal. She's sorry to see it go, but also relieved. His old supercilious mask is back in place. And she knows, she just knows from the pi, priggish scowl on his face that he's forming some particularly juicy moral indictment of her character and sexual hygiene.
“You can't tell me this doesn't change anything,” he sniffs. Green eyes luminous with tragedy, good lord. “So...what now?”
“I'm thinking marriage,” she says. “Maybe a couple of kids and a Range Rover, a little duplex in Stamford with a pied-à-terre on East Hampton for the weekends.” She pauses. “Of course you'll need to put your pants back on first. Stupid bastard.”