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You know, despite all that crap people spout about ‘adventure’ and ‘living every day like your last’, people really like routine. We just love consistency. When you think about it, the web of threads that form our day to day lives — threads we’re normally hardly aware of — really change very little. Day after day, we do the same things, visit the same places, see the same people, maybe even drink our coffee from the very same cup. For most of us, our lives are a work of cosy monotony; we sleepwalk through the weeks, not really realising just how delicate those threads upon which we balance our entire lives really are. But they are delicate. Every day, we balance everything we know and love on a tightrope made of spider’s silk.
And we only learn that we needed to tread carefully once it’s already broken.
I was vaguely aware of the sound rain beating against the office’s tall windows. It lashed down, obscuring the city with wave after wave of grey water. It was only then that I realised that my clothes were soaked through. I’d barely been aware of the terrible weather on my way here; I’d been too caught up in my head. It’s hard to pay attention to your surroundings when ninety nine percent of your concentration is spent on suppressing memories of things too terrible for you to even articulate. And I can’t think about what happened, what I did, because if I did that then I’d have to face up to some ugly truths that I’m not quite ready for, not yet.
I needed a distraction.
Gentleman Johnny Marcone drummed the fingertips against smooth wood of his desk. He may as well have sighed and pointedly looked at his watch.
“You’ve been drinking,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.
I snorted, feigning my typical bravado. “And?”
“And I think you made a mistake coming here, Dresden.” Those money green eyes locked on mine. “If you think starting something with me is going to make you feel any better, you’re wrong.”
I gave him a lopsided grin, all teeth and no mirth. “Oh, I don’t know about that, John. Some things always put a smile on my face.”
John’s desk was pretty big, I noted. Good. It would provide plenty of room for what I had in mind.
Credit to Marcone, he didn’t flinch when I slunk around the desk to loom over him. He simply followed my movements with those green eyes of his, fingers steepled before him. I thought I saw his fingers twitch — probably longing for one of those knives undoubtedly had on him — but he thought better of it. What use would a knife be, anyway?
I leaned down, one arm braced on the back of his chair to whisper in his ear. The scent of his cologne - normally so faint - was rich and warm. My mouth curved up in a smile.
“I know why you want to put a collar on me, why you want me on a leash, why you want me trained up like one of your prize attack dogs,” I purred, feeling a thrill of pleasure at the man’s sudden intake of breath at my words. “Did you really think I’d never work it out?”
The man remained stock still. “I have no idea what you are referring to, Dresden.”
I laughed gently and pressed a kiss to the delicate shell of his ear - the one torn by the Denarians - and his skin was warm against my lips. Who knew, the guy wasn’t made of stone after all... “I know that — despite your games with Chicago, despite it all — none of it really excites you. You want what you can’t have.”
The man stirred, but I went on before he could speak. “You want what you can’t have. Until now.”
There was a pause.
“Until now,” he finally repeated, tone unreadable.
I placed a hand on his shoulder to sensuously draw it down the front of his shirt. I let it stop teasingly at his belt buckle. “Lucky for you, I’m feeling pretty generous today.”
The sound of the rain filled the subsequent silence. It was the kind of rain that seemed like it would never end, just go on and on and on indefinitely. I drummed my fingertips against his belt and traced the line of his neck with my lips, breathing him in. Fuck playing cat and mouse. Fuck restraint. I wanted to take all those barriers we’d built up between us over the years and tear them all down. I wanted to step into the tiger’s den, put my neck between the beast’s jaws and feel it bite down. And John, gods, John wanted it too. Despite the man’s poker face, I could feel his racing pulse beneath my lips, heard his breath hitch just before he got it under control...
He wanted me. I practically hummed in pleasure at the thought.
But... nothing is ever easy with Gentleman Johnny Marcone.
His next words hit me like a punch in the gut: “This is this about what happened in Chichen Itza, isn’t it?”
My body went rigid and - before I even noticed what I was doing - I yanked myself back from the man. “For fuck’s sake, John!” I snarled, my voice coming out loud and harsh. “Can’t you read the fucking mood?”
He tilted his head slightly, expression mildly amused, and I belatedly realised that my outburst was all the answer he needed. Damn him, the sly bastard...
Marcone — a least on the outside — remained cool and composed, the polar opposite of myself. “If you came to me looking for comfort, Dresden, you should have known better. Giving you a shoulder to cry on isn’t in my job description.”
“Comfort? Screw you!” I snapped. “What I want is something only a heartless bastard like you can provide.”
Marcone stood. He raised a hand to my cheek and I had to suppress the instinct to flinch back from him, anticipating a strike that never came. Hells bells, what a pair we made. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to kiss the man or start throwing punches, maybe both. But...his palm was very warm against me. He was so close that I could see the darker flecks of green in his eyes, breathe in the scent of him.
“Is that what you think I am?”
His murmured words pulled me from my trance. “W-what?”
He laughed and slipping his hand to loosely grip my hair, pulled me down into a heated kiss. His mouth was hot and insistent against my own. It wasn’t like kissing Su— It wasn’t like kissing a woman. This was all hardness and heat, demanding and dizzying. His tongue pushing into my mouth, the hand slipping around my waist to pull me against him; Marcone did all this as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
He pulled back for a moment, wrapping his arms around my neck in a loose embrace. “Heartless,” he breathed. “Is that what you think I am?”
My head span and my pulse thudded heavy in my ears, but I still met his money coloured eyes. “Isn’t it?”
His expression was inscrutable for a moment before his lips curved up into a shark’s smile: all teeth and no joy. His eyes revealed nothing. “You do realise this isn’t going to help anything?”
I was about to reply, but Marcone ground slowly against me, peppering the side of my neck with kisses that burned. I took a deep, shuddering breath — almost a sob — and relaxed into his embrace. Oh, this was the distraction I needed. Succumbing to this, to him, escaping into sensuality, this would quiet the storm.
Marcone, a predator sensing victory, laughed with what seemed like genuine mirth. Those empty green eyes of his both captivated and frightened me.
He moved closer to whisper in my ear, breath feathering against me: “Let me show you just how heartless I can be.”