The Acts of Gods
She came here to drop off some files, and then she stayed and talked about work for a bit, because we're supposed to be working on getting along. That's the mature thing to do, `get along'. It's hard, though, even talking about something benign like work with the woman who's sleeping with the man you're in love with. Unless you're drunk. So I drank a lot of beer, and she drank a little beer, and we talked about things that aren't Vaughn.
She's stretched out on the couch with her head in my lap, sort of like I'm her shrink and she's my patient. My hands have started playing with her hair and she's looking at me curiously. I'm drunker than she is, if she's even drunk at all, and we barely even like each other. In fact, I don't like her at all. But I'm not telling her to leave, either. I don't know what I'm doing.
"My hair was blonde like that for a while," I say. She smiles at me, showing a few teeth, and takes another sip of her beer.
"I know. I saw pictures." Somehow, that doesn't ring true in my mind, but I'm really beyond caring. I'm feeling pretty damn okay just running my fingers through her hair and not thinking too much.
"I really hate your accent, you know," I tell her, and then start giggling. She just smiles at me serenely and I realize that I'm wasted like I was that time with Will, and the ice-cream, and oh. I struggle up a bit and she shifts her head and looks at me.
"Why am I still here, Sydney?" she asks. I don't really know an answer to that, so I shrug.
"Because it makes about as much sense as anything else does." She seems to mull that over for a minute, or maybe she's thinking about something else entirely. I don't know.
"Do you love him?" I hate asking it. I hate myself for thinking about him at all. She smiles again. She's smiling a lot tonight, and I don't know if it's because I'm not making much sense or because I'm running my fingers along her arm.
"Would I be here if I did?" I smile at that.
"No games tonight. God, it's been so long since there've been no games." She bites her lip for a moment and then reaches up to brush some hair out of my face. Her fingertips are like feathers; I can only barely feel them ghost across my cheek.
"There can be games if you want." She sits up, licking at her lips, and then tilts her head a little. I have no idea what she's talking about. Or maybe I do, but I just don't want to think about her suggestion.
"Since we're being honest and all... who do you work for, Lauren?" She laughs and takes the beer from my hand and puts it on my coffee table.
"What do you mean?" There's this mischievous glint in her eyes that tells me that I'm right, even if I have nothing that could prove it.
"I mean that you know how to handle a car chase a little too well for an NSA desk agent." She looks at me and shakes her head, laughing, and then suddenly straddles my thighs, until her face is only inches from mine.
"If I told you, would you feel better?" she whispers. I look at her smiling, pouting, questioning mouth and rest my hands on her hips.
"No. Not really."
"So then why ask?" I shrug and lightly trail my fingers up her back. She suppresses a shudder.
"Habit, I guess. Questioning things is what I do for work. And you're the enemy, aren't you?" There are so many ways to interpret those six words, and I wonder if it was smart to say them at all. She doesn't seem to care, though.
"You don't have to be the interrogator tonight. I don't want to ask any questions, and I don't want to answer any questions either." She runs a hand through her hair and shifts a little.
"You're sitting on my lap." I note, and she laughs.
"You don't want me to move."
"Not really, no."
"No more questions," she asserts again, smiling, and then leans in and kisses me. Her lips taste like beer, lip gloss, and most of all, like Michael. I'm so vicariously close to getting what I thought I wanted up until last week. And now, with Lauren writhing on top of me, I realize that I want something else entirely.
I grip her top and slide my fingers under it, clawing at her back a little. She bites down on my lip and her eyes close. "I don't want to hurt you..." I mutter around her lips, and she just pushes against me hard and grinds her hips into mine. She gasps a little.
"Yes, you do, and that's why I'm not grabbing my coat and going home to Michael right now." No games tonight. As the alcohol and the taste of her spins around in my head I cup the back of hers and deepen the kiss. Her fingers snake between us towards my blouse and she unbuttons it from the bottom to the top. I shiver as her hands – cold, cold from the beer bottles, as mine must be – land on my stomach and then slowly slide upwards. She breaks off the kiss and stares at me. She's kind of like Sark. So charming and so lethal. But she's prettier than he is, maybe, and her hands are currently covering my breasts and she's looking at my face without blinking as I try not to moan.
Her lips are on my neck, traveling upward fast and she bites down on my earlobe. Her hands, there must be about twelve of them, they're just everywhere. "Take charge," she breathes in my ear, and for a moment I don't even know what she's talking about. And then it comes back, all of it, especially how much I hate her for having what's mine, and I flip her over and tear through her shirt and cup her breasts roughly. That serene little smile is back on her lips, and my god, I have no idea what I'm doing here. Before I can sober up and panic about that, though, she pulls me back down and kisses me roughly, smearing her lipstick and mine all over my face.
We make out for a few minutes, and that's not really the right word for it, because I'm almost trying to devour her and she's not doing anything to stop me. When she grabs my hand away from her breasts and yanks it down, I groan because I know exactly what to expect and yet I don't at all. Her fly pops open easily and then my hand is there, and I want to know if she's really a blonde because I'm not, and what does that mean, but there's no time to look as she digs her nails into my shoulder and starts pushing up against my hand. Her eyes never leave mine, and when she brings a hand up to my mouth, sliding her fingers between my lips, I see her wedding ring. I'll later wonder if she confronted me with it on purpose, but it doesn't matter. It's enough to yank me out of the illusion that this could ever be sweet.
I lift her up into a seated position and yank at her pants, and with her free hand she helps me push them down. I don't take them off, because lying there with her slacks and panties around her ankles and her stiletto heels digging into my couch, she looks incredibly cheap and delicious, and I bet Vaughn never leaves her looking like a second-rate whore, which makes it even better. Her eyes are big and round, almost innocent if not for that gleam and the way her lips are sort of curving upwards.
"Spread them," I snap at her, and she complies. She has me right where she wants me, and she knows it. Hate, hate, hate her. I hate her so much at this moment that I don't want to waste any time finding out if she's ready, but the way she's been setting up this whole night I think she's been ready for me for nine months, or three years, and maybe even her entire life. I back my hand up with my thigh and push three fingers in her at once. Her mouth falls open into a little "O", as if she didn't think I was actually going to do it. Her nails dig into my sides and I ram into her harder and harder, hoping that it really hurts, knowing that her husband will never be able to do this for her in spite of how much she needs it, and delighting in both. When her eyes fall shut, I twist her nipple.
"Look at me." She does, and beads of sweat stand out on her neck. She can't say anything, just bites her lip in concentration and meets me stroke for stroke. I hate how she's not falling apart in my hands, how she's so clearly stronger than I am. I'll probably hate having done this at all tomorrow, but right now it feels like the only thing in the world I should be doing.
Her breath hitches for a moment, and I think she's done, but when I try to pull back she grabs my hand and shakes her head. "More," she pants, and that one word turns me on in a way I haven't been at all tonight. I'm not drunk anymore. Just wet and angry, thinking too much about what I'm doing and barely thinking at all. I pinch her clit and bite down on her neck. She cries out sharply, in pain or in pleasure, or most likely, a lot of both.
My life is too crazy for words. So I push in another finger and she keens, pushing up at me and arching her back. And then she's done, and I get up and look at her properly fucked form, spread out on my sofa. She's still panting and her eyes are following me, falling shut every so often but then focusing again. I grab the empty bottles of beer from the table and walk towards the kitchen.
"I'm going to go take a shower. Be gone when I get back." She got what she wanted. And I got the satisfaction of learning that Mrs. Michael Vaughn can only get what she wants from me.