On the other side of town

[ms-tique.livejournal.com]

Some things never change.

Ramon lights up another cigarette. Half a dozen butts litter the street by his feet.

He knew the minute he saw Issac's body. The additional data Mr. Lensherr sent along only confirmed it. This shouldn't be possible. Isaac's killer has been dead for over twenty years.

Ramon stares at the juggling rooster on the Cock and Balls bar sign. He doesn't have to do this. He could send in Mortimer or Dominic instead. They've never met the man.

He doubts they'd survive.

The broken glass outside the window, layers of peeling paint on the badly repaired doorsill, and strong stench of whiskey and cigar smoke are like a set piece from the worst part of his past. They should've stayed in Europe. America is too cold, too hard.

He takes one last drag on the cigarette and lets it fall to the ground. Time to go to work.

Comments

[canadiansixpack.livejournal.com]

His arm around her waist is cinched close to his own as they sweep out of the seedy bar. Maybe for the same reasons.

Good thing these Lincoln town cars are big on space. Their exchange is now measured solely in inarticulate sounds and movement, weighing heavy with time lost and years of desire lain fallow.

[ms-tique.livejournal.com]

The car's too far away. She pushes him up against a wall. Her hands rip open his shirt. The sound of mingled heavy breathing is punctuated by buttons falling to the pavement. Fingers twine in his dense pelt of chest hair.

She nibbles a path to his ear. "Anyone else here?" she trusts his senses.

[canadiansixpack.livejournal.com]

It should theoretically be impossible for his voice to get any lower, but it does. No immediate scents or sounds that tip him off to any witnesses. "No." A hand is pressed hard against her breast as he turns his face to catch her mouth in another dense, charged kiss.

Bone claws, partially unsheathed, scrape across her backside.

[ms-tique.livejournal.com]

She maintains the illusion of clothing. A shrug and her blouse appears to slide down one shoulder, held in place only by his hand on her breast. Her own hands sink into his back trouser pockets, squeezing his ass and pulling him tighter against her.

[canadiansixpack.livejournal.com]

Enough with the foreplay. It's been too damn long. He turns them around, slamming her against the limewashed brick, hitching her legs up around his waist.

Teeth clamp down on skin.

[ms-tique.livejournal.com]

She's been a pitcher so long she's forgotton how good it feels to play reciever. Her arms slide around his back, one hooked on his shoulder, the other pulling him deeper into her.

His open shirt is still on, pants pooled around his ankles, hat fallen to their feet. The cool, hard brick against her back is a stark contrast to the sweaty heat of him pressed against her.

[canadiansixpack.livejournal.com]

There's no delicacy in his movement, no restraint in his attentions. His teeth rake her neck, claws sink into flesh as he drinks her in and falls into her, her sweat and his mingling in their exertion. Twenty-three years are compressed into frenzied, unmitigated minutes.

[ms-tique.livejournal.com]

Her head slams back against the bricks. One hand is buried in his hair, pulling his mouth down to her breast. The other rakes the length of his spine. Her back arches to meet each pounding thrust with her own hungry intensity.

[canadiansixpack.livejournal.com]

The challenge is met, and set again, and met; each ragged breath a milestone, every touch a memory reawakened, its zenith marked by a hoarse declaration to the skies.

[ms-tique.livejournal.com]

She moans in ragged, heavily accented German - hands digging in, holding on, riding it out, gasping with the intensity before her body finally shudders to a finish.

Her hands stroke his face. She's still amazed. This shouldn't be real. He's supposed to be dead.

"Mein Tierchen." She plants a slow, languid kiss on him.

[canadiansixpack.livejournal.com]

He's holding on to her still, like his life depends on it.

Maybe it does.