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A hand winds itself into her hair, yanking her head back with gentle force – enough to be felt, but not enough to hurt. Layla gasps as she arches her back, eyes squeezed shut as the stranger’s thrusts pound into her without reprieve. Her legs shake as they struggle to keep her upright against the onslaught, her thighs quivering as she balances on the precipice of an earth shattering orgasm.
There’s a hand clasping her hip tight enough to bruise, and between the cold surface of the bathroom sink against her front and the warm, comfortable, familiar weight of the man against her back she’s rendered immobile. She doesn’t mind, not when there’s a hand consistently pulling her hair while the other snakes from her hip to her front, rough fingers seeking out her clit while the drag of his cock is so good, hitting her in all the right spots. He’s fucking her like he’s desperate, like it’s all he can help but do, like he’ll die if he doesn’t take from her what she’s giving him. He takes and he takes and it’s so damn good -
Layla can’t help but lean back against the body behind her. The smell of him is so achingly familiar, everything about him she knows and responds to, from the harsh pants against the back of her neck to the slap of his thighs against her ass.
“Marc,” she moans – she can’t help it, because everyone fiber of her being is telling her that’s who’s she’s dealing with when she’s not, when she knows it's not, but she doesn’t have another name –
He catches her easily and shifts with her, changing the angle and Layla’s mouth falls open on a silent scream. His lips brush against her nape in a surprisingly tender way. His voice is rough and apologetic when he says, “No, lo siento, mi corazón.”
—
The mission, in itself, had been easy enough. There had been a kidnapping situation, and Layla had called Marc in to assist her – no casualties, no fuss, an in and out job that would take an hour max.
They’d just reunited the little girl with her parents, and Marc had already made the suit disappear, telling Khonshu to “get lost” for the rest of the evening, eyes warmly on Layla as he suggested they’d walk back home and stopping for a bite along the way, when a bullet had appeared out of nowhere, lodging itself neatly in his throat.
Marc fell, his terror-filled eyes locking with Layla’s before the suit reappeared, cutting off the noises of him choking on his own blood.
Layla didn’t wait. She soared up into the sky, easily spotting the sniper who was hastily trying to clean up his rifle and make his escape. She just caught the scales tattoo on his bared wrist.
“Going anywhere?” she spat, her anger unchecked as she pushed him, using all her force.
The assassin flew back with a shout and disappeared over the edge of the roof.
For a second, the thought crossed her mind to let him fall.
She managed to catch him at the last second.
By the time she’d been safely back on the ground, Marc’s suit had already disappeared.
At first, she recognized the cold fury as Marc’s. He stalked closer silently, mouth set thinly and a cold light shining in his eyes.
But then his whole demeanor was off. The set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head. Layla blinked as a gun seemed to appear out of nowhere. She hadn't even realized Marc would've brought a gun. Then it dawned on her that Marc probably hadn't.
With a calmness that felt unnatural, he raised his arm, took aim and shot without hesitation.
Their eyes locked as the frantic pleas for the assassin’s own life were cut short. Layla didn’t look at the gruesome display that comes with being shot in the head, for she couldn’t look away from the calculating look in the stranger’s eyes. He’d been watching her appraisingly, curious to see how’d she’d react.
“You,” Layla said simply, unable to tear her eyes away.
One corner of his mouth ticked up infinitesimally. “Me.”
Even the single word, small as it is, told Layla she definitely wasn’t dealing with Marc. The accent, the timbre of his voice – all little tells that betrayed him. “Where’s Marc?”
Recognition lit up in his face, and for a second, a proud smile appeared. One that said he was impressed she’d managed to tell, and simultaneously telling her he’d not give in. He turned away, walking down the street towards their apartment with an ease that told Layla he’d done it a hundred times before. “Safe.”
Layla hesitated for the smallest second, letting her suit melt away to make place for her everyday clothes, but then she jogged up to him, matching his pace. “Do you have a name?”
He snorted, but didn’t reply. Instead, he kept stealing glances at her, clearly telling her that he’s been noticing her mood, the way she kept ‘accidentally’ bumping into him, subtly checking his body to make sure no permanent damage was done. The further they walked, to longer his gazes seemed to linger, until he was openly eyeing her, his eyes roving over her body. The adrenaline was yet to set and it was still spiking through her blood, and by the time they make it past the front door, the air between them cackles with an energy that’s electric.
Without ceremony, the stranger had grabbed her, kissing her back as roughly as she was kissing him, unnecessary clothing left behind in heaps as he’d steered them towards the bathroom, where he’s unceremoniously shoved down her pants and underwear enough so he’d have access, and had bent her over the bathroom sink.
—
“Please,” Layla pleads, grabbing at the sink with all her might to prevent herself from sliding down to the floor. “Please!”
He bites at the shell of her ear, panting harshly against the side of her face. His fingers are dry and rough against her and he’s unrelenting. “Look.”
With difficulty, Layla manages to open her eyes, staring at herself in the mirror, taking in her disheveled appearance, her ripped-open blouse, the love bite developing on the side of her neck, the teeth marks on her shoulder and the flush starting on her cheeks, working its way down her neck and chest.
Then, her eyes wander to her partner – his hair ruined where Layla had grabbed it earlier, the dark eyes that seem liquid with want in the dim light of the room. The redness of his lips where Layla had been biting at them. Their eyes lock, and his eyebrows pull down. “Close?”
Layla gasps, unable to respond as he shifts behind her again, and the hand that had been holding onto her curls gently curls around her neck instead. He forces her to arch back, her head resting on his shoulder, her body nearly all the way upright but for the angle of her hips, which she’s frantically angling down against his hand, fucking back against him where his thrusts slow down into deep grinds. She can’t even moan, all the air suspended in her chest, her body locking down as her entire point of focus becomes the incoming tide of her orgasm. She shakes and gasps in his hold, clawing against his forearm where his fingers still rub against her clit, and it’s all too much.
The stranger smiles dangerously at her in the mirror and gently takes the sensitive skin of her neck between his teeth, biting down just enough for her to feel the sting. He worries over the bite with his tongue, and then whispers in her ear, “Come.”
Layla collapses forwards, happy for the coolness of the sink to catch her as her orgasm pulses through her body. The man behind her laughs warmly, following her down, blanketing her back with his own upper body, giving them both a moment of reprieve.
His hands relocate as vices to her hips again, and he straightens, fucking into her with a brutal pace.
Layla meets him in the middle as much as she can, hips angling back where his snap forwards. “Tell me your name,” she gasps, pleads.
She meets his gaze in the mirror, holding it as complicated emotions flicker across his face, teeth bared and eyes wild. “I won’t call you Marc. Tell me what you’re named. Please.”
Sweat works its way down his temples and a flush rises up his chest as he chases his release, the snapping of his hips against hers growing erratic. At first, it seems like he won’t say it, that this is a one time thing and he’ll kiss her afterwards and then he’ll disappear again, but then he grunts, bends forwards and hides his face against her shoulder. “Jake,” he says, admits like it’s a secret, voice rough and guttural. “It’s Jake.”
Layla hums, blissed out and victorious. She bends her arm, her fingers taking hold of Jake’s wild curls. She angles her head as best as she can and presses a soft kiss to his temple. “Jake. Let go.”
He shudders against her as he comes – whether it’s from his orgasm or from the way Layla said his name he’ll never tell. And yet, later when they’ve calmed down enough to move, when Layla complains about the mess and Jake cleans them up just enough for them to get redressed and Layla invites him, Jake, specifically for a cup of coffee in the kitchen so they can get properly acquainted, and Jake cracks a joke at that that makes Layla snort loudly, he can’t help but share a secretive, soft smile with her every time she calls him by his name.