Barry Eisler - Fault line

“Someone made a call tonight,” he said. Keeping the gun on her suddenly felt silly. And at this range, and in her agitated state, there was even a risk of an accident. He slipped it back into the holster. “Someone who knew I was going to Alex's house. There was no one else but you.”

“What are you talking about? I didn't know you were going to Alex's house. I didn't know where the hell you were going. All you said was you had something to do.”

“You could have figured it out.” As soon as he said it, it sounded weak. Christ, had that really been all he was going on? No, the guy asked where Alex was, too. But… could that have been because they didn't care about the girl? Alex was the primary, that was obvious. In fact, they might not even have known the girl had gone into hiding. Whoever they were, their resources weren't unlimited. They might have been saving Sarah for later, if they gave a shit at all.

“So this person you say you tortured tonight,” she said. “What did he tell you? Nothing, that's what. You're making this up. Making it up to scare me.”

He hadn't said he'd tortured anyone, exactly, although he'd hoped the idea would frighten her. Regardless, something wasn't right here. Or rather, something wasn't wrong. She was alone in the room, unarmed, asleep or at a minimum doing a nice job of pretending. It didn't make sense.

“Why did you leave the adjoining door open?” he said.

“I felt like it.”

Yeah, he knew she was up to something. “Why?”

“None of your fucking business!” she said. She went to poke him in the chest again, and he snatched her finger in his fist.

“I asked you a question,” he said, squeezing hard and backing her up against the wall.

“Go ahead,” she said, grimacing. “Break it. Break my fingers. Waterboard me. Isn't that what you do? You torture people until they tell you whatever you want to hear?”

Why had she left that door open? It had to be because she wanted to make it easy for him to come in that way. But then why wasn't there anyone waiting in ambush, why wasn't she armed? What was the point? Why would she want him to be able to Oh, you idiot.

It all fit. It was all obvious. It was embarrassingly simple, and you'd have to be blind or, let's face it, fixated to have missed it.

He looked down, aware for the first time of how little she was wearing, how little was covering her. The shape of her breasts beneath the sheer material of the camisole, the smooth, caramel skin of her belly above her panties…

He let go of her finger and put his palm on the wall, next to her head. “Why did you leave the door open?” he said.

“I told you, none of your fucking business.”

God, she was beautiful. He thought he'd noticed before, but he hadn't. Not like this.

“Why?” he said again, his voice lower.

“I'm not going to tell you,” she said. She tried to go around him and he put his other hand against the wall next to her, boxing her in on both sides.

“I want you to tell me,” he said.

“No.”

Was she breathing harder now? He knew he was. He could see her nipples, hard through the fabric of the camisole.

He took a step closer and inclined his head so that his lips were only a few inches from her cheek.

“Maybe I already know,” he said.

“You don't know anything about me.”

“I know something,” he said, moving closer.

She looked at him, her gaze angry, defiant, her lips parted, her breath whistling in and out from between them. He felt his heart pounding, heard it in his ears.

He leaned closer and she turned her head sharply away. His cheek was against hers now, the sound of her breathing loud in his ear. He could smell her hair, her skin. He moved in closer still and pressed against her, and the soft, full warmth of her breasts against him was a kind of madness.

He took one hand from the wall and put it on her hip, then let it glide up, caressing her ribs, the swell of her breast, her neck, her cheek. He eased her head inward. She resisted for a moment, then turned with a strange sound, half growl, half cry, and met his lips, her mouth open, her tongue on his.

He took her head in both hands and kissed her hard, his heart pounding, a buzzing in his ears. He felt unmoored, as though he ‘d lost his hold on something and was rushing away through the dark. He was still pressed against her and now she was pressing back. He was so hard it actually hurt.

He wasn't thinking anymore, he just needed her naked, needed it. Nothing else mattered, nothing else was real. He took hold of the top of the camisole with both hands and pulled hard in opposite directions. The sound of the fabric tearing filled his ears, and then her breasts were in his hands, and they were beautiful, she was beautiful.

She put her fingers through the gaps in the front of his shirt and pulled, and the buttons popped off with a machine gun cadence. A part of his mind thought, Shouldn't be surprised, look at the way she patted you down at Vesuvio, tit for tat, and then she was leaning forward, her mouth on his neck, her fingers working at his buckle. He dropped the holster as she was pulling his belt free. She fumbled with his zipper while he shrugged off his jacket and shirt, and then fuck it, he couldn't stand it anymore, he couldn't wait, he got his own pants open and stepped out of them. He kicked them aside and took her in his arms again. She wrapped a hand around him and squeezed and he felt it all the way through his abdomen.

He put his arms under her ass and lifted her. She gave a cry of surprise and wrapped her legs around his waist. He spun around, took two steps from the wall, and lowered her to the floor. He kissed her again, kissed her neck, her breasts, then broke away. Her panties were stretched taut across her hips and he wrapped his fingers through the fabric and pulled, tearing one side, then the other, then tossed them aside, watching her, looking in her eyes, seeing the hunger in them, the want, and then he was touching her, making her groan, making her writhe, and she was so wet this had to be real, it had to be, no one could be this kind of actress. He brought his knees forward, spreading her legs, then lowered himself onto her, wanting to fuck her so badly it obliterated everything else in his mind.

And then he was inside her, and thank God, there was nothing more, there was nothing better, he was like a drowning man gulping down mouthful after mouthful of lifesaving air. She gasped and moved against him, her ankles coming together behind his back, her hands on his face, pulling him to her, kissing him. They moved that way for a while and he willed himself to try to slow down, to be more gentle, and then he couldn't anymore, and he reached down with both hands and took hold of her ass and brought her up against him while he moved more deeply inside her, again and again and again. He closed his eyes and saw swirling colors, black and violet and green, heard her moaning and felt her hands in his hair and on his face and the heat of her body everywhere. Her legs tightened and she moved against him more urgently and she cried out into his mouth and he could feel her coming, coming under and all around him, and then he was coming, too, all the danger and uncertainty and insanity of the day tightening around him like a vise and then suddenly, miraculously, bursting open and letting everything go.

Slowly, carefully, he let go of her ass and brought his arms up, taking some of his weight on his elbows. She said, “No, I want to feel you,” and he let himself relax a little. She circled her arms around his neck, her legs still around his back, and he could feel a sound coming with each of her panting breaths that was almost a purr. They lay like that, his heart slowing, his breathing coming back to normal.