An Assassin's Weakness

She rubbed her bud harder, more quickly as she felt herself coming close to the edge. The hand at her soft breast squeezing and massaging moved lower, skimmed over her abdomen and lower, softly caressing her bare mound and still lower, over the fingers that drove her to the brink until she was slipping a finger inside of herself, testing the dampness that had accumulated there while she thought of him, of his strong, male body, of what she wanted him to do to her. She cried out softly, turning her head into the pillow to muffle the sounds of her orgasm that tore heartily from her throat. Her body went rigid, letting the pressure build until she felt the muscles of her pussy milking the finger that pressed inside of her. Wave after delicious wave of pleasure racked her body from head to toe as she panted on his bed. As the tumult died away she lay quietly, recovering. She stayed that way for what seemed eternity. At last she let her hands fall away from her body as she basked in the afterglow of her orgasm. She only came that hard when she thought of him. She gasped for air, trying to catch her breath as she realized that she must have been holding it while the climax came, only exhaling as she cried out.

“Oh, Mark…”

Had she called out his name? She could have sworn that she heard it. Then she heard music, the artist that she had always told him she loved. She wasn’t imagining this. He must have turned on the CD player. He had returned early, hadn’t he? Or had she been fantasizing about him for longer than she thought? She heard his laughter, accompanied by the throaty laugh of a woman. She sat straight up, instantly reaching for the knife that lay next to the bed. She reached for her clothing, but there wasn’t enough time. The laughter was getting closer. She kicked her leather suit under the bed and ran for the door that led to the bathroom. She looked around quickly, searching for a place to hide. She hadn’t thought he’d bring anyone home with him.

Damn. Her coat was still draped over the edge of the sofa, her shoes next to her coat, and the drapes were closed. Perhaps they wouldn’t notice. She laughed at the absurdity and cursed for getting herself into this situation. She’d have to wait until the woman left. Kayd climbed into the cream-tiled shower, a large bath adjoining it, and softly slid the frosted glass door closed. She prayed it wasn’t loud enough for them to hear over the music. She lay down against the cold porcelain lest someone come in. They wouldn’t be able to see the shadow of her body behind the glass if she lay beneath the high edge of the tub. She set the knife on her torso; afraid it might clink against the tub if she held it at her side, clenched in the fist that wouldn’t ease its grip. The laughter became softer, sexier. Overcome by the sounds of a woman moaning wafting into the bathroom, filling her ears as a tinge of jealousy raked her nude flesh Kayd clenched her teeth. She was hoping against hopes that it was merely a meaningless conquest; she knew he had many of those. She had convinced herself she was one of those. She was afraid to believe that she meant more to him. She was afraid to give him her heart.

The moaning became louder, they must have moved into the bedroom. God, she hoped that the sheets weren’t still warm from her flesh and damp with her juices. She heard his laughter again, then a sharp intake of breath. The woman must have taken him by surprise, perhaps taking his manhood in her hands, rubbing him through his pants. She wanted to be that woman, wanted to feel him in her hands, to feel him getting hard beneath her touch, to be the cause of his desire. She felt enough jealousy that she would be able to slit the woman’s throat happily, much less without remorse. The sting in her heart felt as though he was cheating on her, even though she knew he wasn’t a man who could stand by only one woman for long. It would make it that much more painless to complete this hit. Perhaps she should scare the woman into leaving, threaten her with the knife, and force Mark to make love to her before she killed him. She wanted him so much that she could feel the heat building again. She was afraid that if he took her just once, it wouldn’t be enough to quench her thirst for him. She needed to feel him inside of her over and over. She needed to share with him the baring of her soul. She could hear their voices, soft and muffled, the sounds of rustling fabric and the creak of the bed, giving under the weight of a body, or both bodies. She heard a louder moan escape the woman, a low, wanton moan that signaled need from a lover. She heard a gasp and then the drawn out sigh of Mark as he slid into the woman’s pussy. The bed creaked and groaned under the weight in time to the thrusts; slow at first, then picking up speed as their moans became more frequent and louder. Kayd lifted her hands to her ears, trying desperately to block out the sounds, even though the wetness that was gathering between her legs demanded a touch, a wandering hand to ease its need. She had forgotten about the knife clenched in her hand and it clinked against the side of the tub loudly as it simultaneously grazed her cheek. She froze, listening for sounds. The moaning and creaks of the bed had ceased. She could feel a trickle of warm blood running down her face towards her ear. She heard the woman protesting as Mark eased himself away from her and off of the bed, still engorged, thick, and hard with longing.

“I’m sorry,…” he muttered after a curse. “You’ll have to go.”

“What?” asked the woman incredulously. “Are you kidding?”

“Just go.” He hissed at her.

Kayd felt relief and anxiety welling in her closing throat. She was relieved that his female companion was leaving, but fear raced through her head as she came up with reasons as to why. Had he heard her? Had he noticed that the shades were shut? Did he discover her suit under the bed, the coat in the office? Her thoughts battled uncontrollably for attention as she distantly heard the scuffle of clothing and a few muttered obscenities. The music stopped. She heard a door click as it shut in the next room, making it seem very far away. She held her breath, listening for even the slightest sound, a hint of his presence while all she could hear was her heartbeat rushing, roaring through her veins, out of control, threatening to consume her. She lay still for several agonizing minutes. She heard nothing coming from outside her panic-packed mind. He had left with the companion. Perhaps he had known that there was a contract out on his life, had seen the evidence that she had left for him. She was giving him an out. Didn’t he see that?

Kayd slowly sat up, her muscles screaming for movement as she listened for sounds other than her own. She stood gradually and slid the glass door open, letting the swooshing sound give anyone present the hint that indeed she was there. She climbed over the high wall of the tub and stepped onto the cold tile floor. Walking towards the door, she saw dim, watery light filtering through. He had lit the candles. Kayd inhaled the scent and gripped her knife to her side as she walked closer to the door. The flame from the candles made it hard for her to see past them, behind them in the shadows. She stepped into the light, letting its golden warmth flicker against her naked body. She shivered, fear was slipping into her mind like a snake. She still heard no noise, no indication that anyone was with her. She slithered into the room, nervously eyeing the candles. The flames were licking highly at the air, giving off the intoxicating smell of warm rain. She walked around the bed and peered into the dark office. Nothing. Not a sound, not a piece of evidence that he had been there. Her coat still lay limply on the back of the couch; her boots still set against the edge of the smooth material. The shades were still shut. She stood in the middle of the room, her knife lowering to her side, miffed.

She brought her hand up to her cheek, where a shallow trail of blood had trekked. She looked at the gold stiletto knife in her hand. It was her trademark, the only way she killed, her mark of distinction. She had pulled it off of the first man she had killed. He was an international terrorist working two sides of the war. She hadn’t been assigned to him, but had stumbled upon him. The blood groove of the knife had glinted while she was breaking into a hotel room, catching her attention. The glint was red, the color of blood. Like a starving junkie she was instantly attracted to something that was so familiar to her. He had lunged at her, the knife high in the air, descending upon her and ultimately plunging into her shoulder as she turned away from him, trying to move his aim away from her heart. She had pulled the knife out of her shoulder and slashed his throat from ear to ear as deeply as she could. Rage had swallowed her sensibility and she had fought like a demon, newly unleashed from Hell. From that point on, a gun seemed senseless, hypocritical, impersonal. Death became an intimate thing, a precious deed needing delicate attention. She would not kill like a coward.

Kayd had followed in her mother’s footsteps after her failed relationship, joining a terrorist cell in Iran, devoting her life to numbness and proof; proof to herself that she could withstand anything, anyone. She became a leader because she showed no alarm, no concern for life and death. She became an emblem to the cause and the heart of their revenge. She administered the sentence through her weapon, the blood on her knife was the trial, and the screams in the night were the pleas of the guilty. She was the calm in the eye of the storm.

Numbness exuded from her, oozed from her wounds unnoticed until she had looked down to see a young woman lying limply at her feet; the woman she was protecting. Her target had shot her in the back with a silenced pistol, piercing her young heart. The woman’s eyes were cold and glossed. She stared into her lifeless face, sensing her life, the young victim’s vitality seeping into the maternal predator’s lifeless veins, reawakening the pain and misery that she had tried to purge. An instant later she felt a sharp pain in her stomach that crippled her. She toppled to the ground, falling on the woman’s limp body. Kayd realized in a moment of pure panic that she had lost not only the life of her ward, but also the life of the child she was nurturing in her womb.

She returned to the states two months later, after spending the better part of the spring healing. Life was no longer numb, but raw, like a wound that kept rupturing only to have it bleed her dry until it closed again while it waited for her to regain her strength. She had too much notoriety to hide for long from the vultures that wanted her skill. She was poor, having left all of her monetary values with the people that had become her family. So she accepted a charge, a small job. After that, her popularity with the underground grew into gradual wealth. She had stability, a life. But pain remained.

A small, muffled sound wrenched her into the present. She was standing in the center of the room, vulnerable and silent. If only he would lunge at her and damn her to the Hell she knew was waiting for her. She clenched her teeth at the thought. She had lost her edge. She wasn’t sure if she was losing her nerve, if it was only this assignment, or if she didn’t have the stomach for any of it. So many faces, so much death rallying in her mind. Death was so much a part of her, every day, every night, she looked it in its blackened, bloodied face, in its unresponsive eyes, its slack mouth. Was she even alive? Would they kill Megan if she just disappeared without explanation? They might think she had been killed in self-defense. Killed in action. No one would be able to identify her. She had no identification; she was no one to the people who wanted to see her in prison the most. It wouldn’t make the news; she’d do it in some back alley, in a river. Make it look like an accident, like a heart attack. She had the means. She had decided. Poison. The result resembled a massive coronary.

She slipped back into the dimly-lit bedchamber and fell to her knees beside the bed, grappling for her suit. It wasn’t there. Chills ran down her back, blood rushed to her head and her heart pounded. The metallic taste of panic filled her mouth. She whipped her head around in time to see a hand come down, covering her mouth. The other hand slid down her arm, grasping the knife that she fought to hold on to, and threw it across the room. She brought her arm around, intending to backhand her attacker. It was caught in a vice grip; she turned it in his grasp, trying to slip her slender wrist free. The hand that covered her mouth moved to her back and shoved her into the carpet face first. She threw her hands against the carpet to catch herself. Mark took advantage of it; her gorgeous, firm ass was high in the air, his rigid dick aimed at her soft pussy lips. He grabbed her hips in his hand and pulled her back against him, impaling her in one stroke on his erection. He was long and thick, but slipped inside painlessly. She was wet, as if she was waiting for his invasion. He could feel her muscles milking him, taking him deeper. God, he’d never felt anything so incredible. He wanted to drive deeper, to be consumed by her flesh, to die willingly in search of fusing his soul with hers, into this beautiful creature. Plunging into her cavern felt like driving into hot silk. The need to empty himself into her became an obsession, a single-minded need to make her his own, to own her, to enslave her. He grabbed her shapely hips and pulled her roughly towards the junction of his thighs, plunging himself deeply into her wet warmth, feeling his balls tickling her clit with each slapping thrust. She pushed her hips back against him willingly, wanting to feel his manhood at the gates of her womb, wanting to feel life where she dying. He moved his hands to the front of her milky thighs, pulling her knees closer to his so that she was forced to spread her legs farther, bringing her closer to the edge with each thrust, closer to the infinite pleasure he could give her. He could heal her. God she wanted this, she wanted to feel him pulse and thicken inside of her, to feel him swelling to fill her, to fill the void that she could never satisfy, to give her his seed to nurture, to give her his love. She was consumed by the need, each driving thrust another swallow of her very existence slipping, meshing into his. The incinerating abyss inched closer, she felt his hand skimming her stomach, moving lower until she felt his fingers pressing against the bud of pure pleasure that made her a woman, made her a creature of delirious lust on the edge of orgasm. He leaned into her, his hand at her breast, filling his palm with her soft globe while he continued the torturous pursuit of making her climax with his fingers while he thrust his cock in and out of her, pumping like a man overcome with lust. She could feel his hot breath against her neck, his lips caressing her sensitive skin, nibbling at the supple flesh, suckling at her earlobe. She was falling into the abyss, plunging down towards the well of being. She cried out, a noise that came from the recesses of her heart and shattered in a sound close to a sobbing scream. She plunged into the deepness, overcome by sensation as her vision blurred. He was there to catch her, to hold her against him as she surfaced again. She threw her head back and cried out his name as he moaned his pleasure and assurance into her ear, groaning and gasping, spilling his seed deep inside of her as she milked him, convulsed around his cock as if she had her fingers around him, squeezing his cock like a pair of luscious lips, like a mouth around his cock swallowing furiously. He sighed heavily at the pleasure she was giving him and wrapped his arms around her as he pulled her up against his chest, trying to keep himself from taking her again as they both recovered. Her mouth was open, inhaling the sex-sweetened air, sweat making her skin glisten in the candlelight. He grabbed her jaw with one hand and made her face him as he took her mouth, plundering the soft crevices, exploring her mouth thoroughly, as if in search of something only she could give him. She moaned into his mouth as he captured the sound and echoed one of his own. He thought that she had just given him her soul. She pulled her mouth away, her lips swollen and red. She turned away from him. He continued to hold her, smoothing her hair away from her cheek and neck as he placed soft kisses along her cheekbone, neck, and shoulder. His other hand rubbed the underside of her breast, stroking it lightly as his cock begged for more inside of her. He moved against her slightly. Relishing the feel of her wet cavern sheathing his manhood.

She pulled his hand free and lunged for the bed. He was so shocked by her sudden rejection of his touch that he didn’t reach out to claim her again. She stood up and walked over to the window, never looking back at him. His skin was slick with sweat, and she looked like an apparition in the dim light. She walked into the moonlight, casting her shadow against the floor. The city light below twinkled and winked at her as she thought about what she had just done. She wouldn’t let him see her face, he had kept his eyes closed when he kissed her. He wouldn’t recognize her, she’d changed so much, she was so thin, so hollow, so merciless. She put her clammy palms against the cold glass, willing it to infuse her with the frigidness she needed. She clenched her eyes shut, fighting the frightened girl that wanted to escape the hard woman she had become. She leaned her forehead against the window.

She heard him behind her, as the sound of soft muffled steps came closer. He reached out and she felt his hands rubbing up and down her arms. They offered comfort. She imagined that he must realize she was tormented. She wished he would walk away from her and disappear. He kissed her shoulder, her neck, her ear. She could see his dim, shadowy reflection in the glass, though she wouldn’t raise her face so that he could see hers. He left her momentarily and she thought to make her escape, but she couldn’t muster the courage to leave him… again.

Abruptly she felt him once more, his arms wrapping around her, and moving up towards her tender, hypersensitive bosoms, up to her shoulders until she felt his hands on either side of her head. He held a white blindfold in front of her eyes, quickly tying it at the back of her head, careful as not to catch her tangled hair in the knot. She tried to struggle, a weak attempt, but he used his body to trap her against the window. The cold felt good against her overheated skin. She moved her hand to her face, but he grabbed both of her wrists and pinned them against the glass. He held her like that for several minutes, feasting his eyes on her delectable body.

He noticed a pale scar then, a short thick line on her shoulder, a stab wound. He backed himself away from her, though she remained where she was, not moving. He kept his hands on her, grazing her delicate skin, softly touching it as he surveyed her. She had several more scars, he discovered. Three on her back, between her shoulder blades, long thin lines that paralleled each other, perhaps from a cat whip. Another on her lower back, a large, circular pink scar, as if it hadn’t healed more than a month ago. It was an exit wound. He felt sick. How could anyone do this to her, to this amazing creature? He suddenly felt rage, wanting to seek out her attackers, until he heard her whimper. She was crying. A tear streaked the side of her cheek. Her blindfold was dampening. He turned her away from the window and into his arms. He pulled her into his steely embrace, lifting her and carrying her towards the bed. She put an arm around his neck, seeking comfort in his grip as she turned her face into his neck and inhaled his scent. He lowered her onto the cool sheets and pulled the blankets off and threw them to the floor. He knelt beside her on the bed as she scooted away, making room for him. She felt him move, a brush of his hand and a slight breeze. She felt his mouth then, at her stomach. He was kissing the scar there, the entry wound of the single bullet that stole her numbing paradise. He licked the glossed scar, and then rubbed his open mouth against it. His lips felt wonderful along her skin, warm, giving, and tender. He moved lower, dipping his tongue into her navel, licking around the indentation, making her stomach muscles flutter beneath his touch. His hands roved over her ribcage and thigh, holding her on the bed as she made involuntary movements of lust with her hips. She could feel the intensity swelling again, the fire he had built in her that threatened to singe her if she dared to turn away from it now. She tangled her fingers in his thick hair, trying to pull his lips up to her mouth. He denied her and moved lower, caressing the soft rise of her bare pussy. She almost came off of the bed, but his hands held her down, massaging, reassuring. She had never let anyone kiss her there. Suddenly she was unnaturally self-conscious.