ATAK

If I had him, I’d never let him out,’

‘Goldeneye’.

*

The car headlights shining into the room woke Ashleigh up with a start. Startled she raised her face from where it had been buried in her pillow, and pushed her tangled hair from her eyes. With a sigh of relief she realised she was in her own bed, in her own bedroom, the grey blue walls familiar and comfortable, the light catching the mirror that sat on top of her dressing table. She checked her watch, just past three am, there was plenty of time before she had to get up in the morning, and collapsed back into the pillow, hoping to fall immediately back into sleep.

The sound caught her attention once more. It hadn’t been the car that had woke her up, she was far to used to the sounds of the city to let a single vehicle disturb her slumber. She sat up again, once more alert, instantly awake. There it was again, the creak of floorboards, faint, coming from the back of the house. The kitchen. As quietly as she could, Ashleigh swung her legs over the edge of the bed, untangling herself from the covers until she was free of them. She padded in her bare feet across the room, and opened an unmarked door, her wardrobe, it was so easy to just reach in and pull out a well worn cricket bat. She knew her weapon was safely stored away in the top drawer of her dresser, but it was probably better not to reveal the fact she was armed and dangerous to her next door neighbours. Particularly if they called the police to report shots being fired. The cricket bat was a much safer option.

The door creaked as she pulled it open, and she winced at the sound. The air was cold on her bare legs, the thick carpeting soft under the soles of her feet. It was dark, but this was her home, she knew it like the back of her hand. Three more steps and she would reach the polished wood of the stair case. A thought flickered at the back of her mind; she thought she had walked on carpet all the way down the stairs, not the light wood buffed with vanilla scented polish. She shook her head, clearing the thought from her mind; then she paused and held her breath as there was another noise from the kitchen. Not far to go. A final few steps and she had reached the hallway, lit up from the glazed panels of the dark front door se coe could see down to the slightly ajar kitchen door.

It took only a moment to tighten her hand around the old peeling tape of the cricket bat, the grip smooth with years of use and sweat, it was so easy to lift it, to nudge the door open with her foot, and slip easily into the kitchen.

He was standing by the sink, bent over in pain, his fingers pressed against his side, his thick blond hair silver white in the moonlight, his white dress shirt glowing in the pale light. He turned in surprise as she came in, and raised one hand towards her defensively.

‘Don’t scream,’ he whispered, ‘Please, don’t scream. I won’t hurt you,’

She knew he wouldn’t. But she hadn’t then. She had been unnerved by the stranger in the kitchen then, gnawing on her lip wondering if she should cry for help, or run away. She had stood there in her blue pyjamas, gazing in awe at the injured man, until common sense had prompted her to help him. He saw her, not the young girl she had been thirteen years ago, but the woman she had become. She padded across the kitchen, laying the cricket bat on the sideboard, and gesturing for him to sit upon the counter, so she could examine him by the light coming through the window.

When she had been younger she had blushed as she had asked him to undo his shirt, now she stood before him, her fingers deftly working the dress shirt’s clasps undone, laying each little stud in a neat regimental row upon the cool marble surface. With a small shiver of desire she brushed the thick cotton away from his skin, feeling it catch asstucstuck to the drying blood. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered, hearing him mutter in pain. At thirteen she had stood to one side of his legs, now, she confidently pushed them apart, feeling his muscled thighs on either side of her, warm and solid, as she pressed herself as close as she could get to him.

He murmured with pleasure as her fingers lightly stroked across his chest, exploring the lines of his ribcage, trying to concentrate as his hands slid around the silk of her waist, she was nearly naked, all she wore was a tiny pair of silk shorts, and a camisole, and the touch of his hands reminded her how close she was to being naked in front of him. Her arousal was growing as his hands traced the curves of her hips, bowing his head he dropped a kiss upon the nape of her neck, the line of her shoulder, getting closer to her mouth until she deftly moved out of his reach, trying to concentrate upon his injury.

She examined her ‘patient’, seeing the smooth pale skin, the flat muscled stomach with the line of dark blond hair trailing south, she resisted the urge to curl her fingers into it, fighting not to bend her head and brush her lips against the muscles of his chest. She thought he had a broken rib or two, something had been hit with force into his side. It had scraped the skin away, and left a gash that was bleeding steadily into the white cotton of his shirt. She wondered how it had happened, a jealous husband perhaps?

With a smooth movement she reached for a cloth that lay upon the counter, and drenched it with water, hoping to numb the pain and staunch the bleeding. Pulling his shirttails away, she pressed it firmly against his ribs.

He gasped his back arching at the sudden coldness against his warm skin. ‘It’s cold,’ he panted. She could resist no longer, leaning forward she ran her tongue along the groove in the centre of his chest, tasting him, the sweet salt of his sweat, she could feel the heat coming off him. Looking up, she stared into the dark depths of his eyes, and lost herself in them. Wrapping a pale arm nd hnd his neck, she pulled his sleek head down to hers, whispering just before her lips met hisut Iut I’m not.’

His kiss was as hungry as hers, his fingers tangling in her hair, or sliding down to slip under the silk of her camisole to stroke her lower back, teasing her with warm fingers, and gently caresses. Sliding down off the counter, he pressed her back until she was resting against the large butcher block.

‘I’ve missed you, Ash,’ he whispered against her lips as he lifted her so she was sitting on the table, her pale legs lightly wrapped around his legs, her dark eyes filled with lust. Her arms were now locked around his neck, her lips never far from his as she relished the opportunity to kiss him again, loving the way his hand came up to press against the back of her head, to hold her closer to him. He was possessive of her, and she didn’t care, she was his, she would always be his. She had belonged to him from the moment she had first laid eyes upon him as a girl, and from the moment he had first taken her to his bed that first night in St Petersburg, she had known she would always belong to him and him alone. He kissed her fiercely, claiming her, laying her back; he let his hands run over the front of her camisole, his fingers teasing her hardened nipples underneath the silk until she shivered. Bending his head, he traced one of the sensitive nubs with his tongue, hearing her sigh with pleasure as little shivers of excitement coursed through her. She wanted this, nothing more than this. Her hands pushed the shirt from his body, losing herself in the sensations of his warm skin next to hers. Running her hand over the front of her trousers she could feel his arousal, his erection straining at the material, hard and hot beneath her hand. His fingers slid up her thighs, pushing aside the soft material of her shorts to test her wetness, lightly teasing her clit until she pressed back against his hand, impatient with desire, wanting him now, but still wanting to delay the moment. His finger slipped between her slick folds, sliding deep inside her, feeling her muscles clench around him, so warm, so wet, she shuddered beneath him, arching her back so silk brushed against his skin. Once more she kissed him deeply as he reached for his belt, her tongue delving into his mouth, distracting him, her hands holding his stubbled jaw, demanding, insistent. He kissed her hard as he tugged her across the smooth surface of the table, ready for her, covering her body with his, he once more pushed her shorts aside, and found her centre, sliding deeply, firmly, into her tightness, feeling her surround him, crying out against his mouth, finally they were complete.

They both knew the age old rhythm, knew each other, smoothly Alec thrust deeply into her, grinding against her, her legs wrapped securely around him, leaning back on her hands to support herself, meeting each thrust with a passion to match his, his hands were on her hips, pulling her closer, they were both so close, and finally Ashleigh was lost as her need overwhelmed her, feeling the familiar ache of pleasure fill her, she gave into it, crying out as she peaked…

With a strangled gasp Ashleigh woke, tearing at the covers that were wrapped round her, for a moment still lost within the dream, not recognising the Russian hotel room. She sat there, panting, letting her eyes get back into focus, feeling the sweat that soaked her skin drying in the night air. Her head pounded, still groggy from her accident, but it fought for precedence with the other sensations flooding through her. Her traitorous body recalled his every touch, touch that she had rejected, refused, but now came back to haunt her.

She could still remember the incident in the kitchen, the innocent incident when was was thirteen years old, she had come downstairs to get a drink and found a much younger Alec standing in her kitchen, evidently injured. She had tentatively helped him, giving him the cloth to staunch the blood, finding painkillers and water to help him, and her reward had been a gentle kiss on the cheek, and a shy smile from the man. She had been standing there blushing when her father had burst in, seen his colleague there, and immediately dismissed her back to bed. As she had slowly climbed the stairs, she had heard Alec defending her, explaining how she had helped him. Her father had never mentioned the incident ever again; in fact, she hadn’t given it much thought, until tonight.

Running a shaky hand over her face she collapsed back onto her pillow, unsure of what exactly she was feeling. She had rejected Alec, but apparently her subconscious was not going to let go of him so easily. She tried to push the thoughts from her mind, but the memory of his lips upon hers kept creeping back to her. With an irritated sigh she closed her eyes, and tried to sleep. But her rest was some time coming.