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Sin For Me

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Summary: The hate is a lie and she knows it. (Syd/Sark)

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Television > Alias(Site Founder)JinniFR2113,218147097 Dec 067 Dec 06Yes

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Thanks to my beta - .

Title: Sin For Me
Author: Jinni (jinni.tth@gmail.com)
Rated: NC17
Disclaimer: All things Alias belong to JJ Abrams, et al.
Pairing: Sydney/Sark
Notes: For the 50 Missing Scenes prompts. Someone said I was missing a Sydney/Sark scene. Well, technically I’m missing an entire fic for that one, but I guess I can write just a scene. LoL.
Summary: The hate is a lie and she knows it.
Wordcount: 3164


~*~*~

“I hate you,” she whispers into his lips, too low for any listening devices to pick up. Hands on her hips guide her against his body, aligning them perfectly.

“I know,” comes the response and a quirk of the lips that she can feel in the half-light coming through the curtains. A smirk. Always a smirk with him. Those lips are laughing, mocking, as if he can see through all her very carefully sculpted facades to the truth that lay beneath.

Maybe he can.

The hate is a lie, and she knows it. The gasp that she gives when her body rubs against his erection is very real, though. It is surprise and passion, heat and desire. She wants this even if it’s only an act put on for the cameras they are sure are watching them right at that moment. This is only to make their aliases look more real.

She tells herself that over and over again, wondering when it all became a lie. When the hate she should have felt for this man turned to grudging admiration and respect. He’d said once that they were destined to work together.

Perhaps Julian Sark is more of a prophet than Milo Rambaldi ever was.

His fingertips are on her face, soft pads running over her jaw line as even softer lips move against her mouth. She wishes that desire was a switch that could be flipped on and off when she wanted it to be. Wishes that she didn’t want this like she does – a quick fuck or a way to make their story more believable, instead of the culmination of the heat that she’s felt for him for weeks, her feelings changing so stealthy that she didn’t even realize it until it was too late.

It’s not love, this thing that she feels for him. It’s attraction and nothing more. It’s an admiration for how very good he is at what he does. How he can detach himself from the world that he lives in; to not let anything affect him.

And maybe it’s because the bad guys really are sexier; especially when the only thing that you have to compare them to are the cold, lonely sheets of your bed at home, with no one to hold you in the middle of the night. No one to make you feel alive.

His breath is hot on the side of her face as he kisses his way along the same part of her jaw that his fingers just left. Tiny presses of the lips, open-mouthed and hard against her skin. The scrape of teeth against flesh as he nips at the wet spots his mouth just made. They’d had wine with their dinner, and she can smell it on his breath, the sharp bite reminding her the flirting - foreplay - that they had engaged in at the table, a show for their hosts. A happy married couple, completely adoring. Mr. and Mrs. Marichev. Richly extravagant and very much in love. The cover runs through her mind, quick and fleeting, even as his hands move away from where they’d lain on her shoulders, traveling down over her arms.

Through the silk of her sleeves, she can feel the warmth of his hands. It’s at odds with the coolness of the room, an exquisite counterpoint. St. Petersburg in the winter is colder than hell, and the hotel’s heat isn’t quite up to standard. Or perhaps it’s just that they prefer it this way, the visitors to the hotel, as if to remind themselves where they are. Atmosphere.

His fingers flex against her upper arms, holding her in place as if he thinks she’ll run if she gets a chance. Like she isn’t aware that they’re being watched, that one wrong move might land them both in more trouble than they can handle. They’re good, but not good enough to outwit the security detail that’s hiding in rooms up and down this hall. Their intel for this job could have been better. Should have been better.

Damn faulty intel. It was the intel’s fault, she told herself as she put one hand on Sark’s chest, curling and flexing into the soft material of the dark blue shirt. Armani, she is sure of it, just like the suit and the tie. Sliding to the left, she grabs at that tie, twining it around her hand. She pulls on it, tugging and yanking. And now it’s her holding him in place and not the other way around.

See, she says with her deeds, not her mouth. I’m not going to back out of this.

Sark moans a name, her alias, but in her head Sydney hears it as her own. A breathless ‘Sydney’ amongst the hard breaths and gasps that are coming from his mouth. Or were those noises coming from her mouth? Sydney truly can’t tell right then and there. Everything has been reduced to sight and touch and taste and sound. The feel of Sark’s shirt under her hand, the way that his mouth still tastes of wine and the dessert they shared, the sound of their mixed breathing in the air, and the way that, when she opens her eyes, she can see the gentle curves of his face right there, in front of her.

She pulls away with a playful laugh, and he follows with his mouth. When he dives in for another kiss, she’s ready and waiting, grabbing hold of his bottom lip with her teeth. How many times had she wanted to do that since these twisted feelings of hers started? Bite down on his lip, just like he sometimes does?

Twisted. Dirty. Dark. Wrong. That’s what this attraction is. He’s as wrong for her as wrong can be, and she shouldn’t let herself ever forget that. They’re opposites. Good and bad. No shades of grey. With them there is never a shade of grey.

She doesn’t love him, doesn’t care about him, at least her feelings on that are clear.

This is lust. Want. Desire. Passion. It is heat and burning need.

Nothing more.

Enemies, not lovers, she tells herself as one of his hands leaves her upper arm. His fingertips travel up and over her shoulder, leaving goosebumps in their wake, then down her side. She sucks in a startled breath when those same fingers graze the underside of her breast, catching on the fabric, providing friction and tension. This is heaven and hell. It’s worse than any torture than she’s ever been subjected to and better than anything she’s ever had.

In the background, the heat kicks on finally, just as Sark’s fingers stop teasing, and his hand gently cups her breast. It’s the most tender touch, something she can’t reconcile with who he is. An assassin. A terrorist. A murderer. And yet, he’s touching her body so reverently. Like she’s spun sugar and one wrong move will make her break. He’s not too far off the mark. Her head is spinning and she feels out of control, reckless. One wrong move and she just might break into a thousand razor sharp pieces, shredding anything that comes close enough to her.

She whimpers when he finds her nipple through the fabric. There’s no bra to separate that touch from the hard flesh, and he’s suddenly there, rolling it between his fingers. Soft, then harder. Until she’s moaning his name. Alexei, she reminds herself. Alexei, not Sark. A…le…xei...

Through their clothing Sydney can feel how very much Sark is into this. Can feel his hardness pressing against her body, an answer to the wetness between her thighs. She doesn’t delude herself into thinking that she’s anything other than a soft, pretty body to him. She isn’t Sydney, she’s just a woman.

This means nothing.

Bodies move against one another, gentle pushes and presses, meant to enflame the senses. The rub of body against body. Hard to soft. Heat to heat.

Her movements falter, her clouded mind asserting reason. This is Sark, and as much as her body wants this, she shouldn’t do this. They should find some other way.

“Don’t,” Sark murmurs against her skin, as if he can sense that her will to play this through is faltering. Voice so whisper soft that she can scarcely hear his true accent, which is good, because that means that no one that is listening can hear it, either. No one can hear that he slipped out of that Russian façade that they’re under.

“I –“ she murmurs, by way of explanation.

”Just go with it, Sydney,” another whisper of breath, a sweet nothing in Mrs. Marichev’s ear by Mr. Marichev.

Hearing her name on his lips pushes Sydney over.

Her attack on his mouth is swift, claiming. Her tongue slips past his lips, demanding and hard, and yet he doesn’t respond in kind. If anything his touch becomes more gentle. His hand leaves her breast and then both cup her face, thumbs pressing into her cheeks. Slow down, the touch says. Don’t rush this.

Acquiescence comes in the form of her mouth softening against his, acceding to his wish through gentle flicks of her tongue inside his mouth.

Between them, she flicks at the buttons of his shirt. When two are open she knows that there is enough skin for her to bend her head to his neck, press her lips to that little ‘V’ of space between the cloth. She kisses there, open-mouthed, sucking his skin into her mouth. Marking. Claiming. He’s too fair for it not to leave a reminder of this, and that’s what she wants. If she has to remember this come morning, then so he must also remember.

His head dips back. She can feel the vibrations of his moan as they travel up through his throat, out of his mouth. It’s a low, needy sound. Something she never imagined she’d hear from him, let alone be the cause of. One hand comes up, tangling in her hair, holding her to his skin. She repeats the sucking-biting-licking. Wonders if he’s just enjoying this or if he knows that she’s marking him. She wouldn’t put it past him to know it all. Sark is, if nothing else, extremely intelligent.

And yet, he lets her.

She grins into his skin, the first real smile she’s had on her face since this began. Her fingers work the other buttons, lips going down his chest. So smooth except for the few scars that he’s acquired over the years. Even those don’t detract from the unconscious perfection that he radiates. Dark red fingernails scrape at that perfection, leaving pink lines in their wake. Sark draws in a breath when she stops at his waist line, right above the overpriced belt that he’s wearing. She takes one hand, toys with the buckle, sees more than feels his hips buck towards her.

Knows that she’s in control now, and they could go back to doing this rough and fast like she wanted.

Or they can keep on like this.

She lets him draw her up and away from the buckle. Feels his fingers tremble - tremble - when he takes the edge of her shirt in his hand. The cloth rubs over her face as Sark pulls it up, over her head. It falls in a pile to the floor, forgotten just as soon as it has left his hand.

Now it is his mouth on her chest. Lips trace collarbone, slip-slide down and over her skin. Sydney arched her back, pressing upwards into his kiss when he chooses a path between her breasts, down the center of her chest. He stops there, head between her breasts, and she risks a look down, threading her fingers through his hair. Sark is looking up at her with something in his eyes that is completely new to her where he is concerned.

Desire.

The shirt slides off of his shoulders with a flick of her fingers. It gets as far as his wrists before he has to fumble with it, remove his cuff links, so that it could slide the rest of the way to the floor.

When his mouth takes hers again, it is with their bare chests pressed together. Skin provides sweet friction to her hard nipples, Sark’s hand behind her back holding them together. Sydney moans, and it comes out more feral than she had intended. She wants this, wants him, in a way that’s wrong and yet so undeniable.

Her hands go for his belt buckle again. This time he doesn’t stop her. Teeth clack against teeth, lips mash against lips, and suddenly neither of them is taking this slow anymore. She fumbles with the buckle, lets him take over for her.

”Yes,” his pleasure is hissed as she slips her hand inside of his silk boxers. Black, she knows, even though she doesn’t look down to check. She slides her hand around his hard shaft, and it’s burning hot against her palm. Thick, swollen, and completely rigid in her grasp, he pushes forward into her touch. Demanding. Wanting.

”Yes, what?” she says in Russian, turning on her accent, speaking loud enough for the audio in the room to pick up. Above all else, this is a show for anyone watching. And who would believe that a loving, passionate couple would be so quiet during this of all things?

“Touch… me,” Sark orders between breaths, also in Russian. She’s glad that he’s got his head in the game enough to make this look good.

Not that it wasn’t feeling wonderful.

”Good,” she moans when Sark’s hand finds its way inside of the sleek black of her pants. He slides his hand between her legs, thumb raking over her clit through the simple satin panties. They’re soaked through, and this is the ultimate evidence, she knows, of the fact that he affects her.

She doesn’t consider it begging when her lips part and she rocks into his hand with a simple, “More.” Doesn’t consider it to be asking when she locks eyes with him and shimmies out of her pants, saying, “Now.”

It’s all an act, she tells herself when he backs her towards the bed, hands and mouth all over her. Every inch of skin that he can get to easily, he’s intent on touching and kissing.

He’s memorizing her body, she thinks to herself, knowing that it’s just another lie that she’s telling herself to get through this with her sanity intact. She falls backwards, and he crawls up her body, raining down more kisses with that sinful mouth.

Sark doesn’t want her. He just doesn’t want their cover to be blown. And if it means he gets to fuck her, then so be it. He’s ready, willing, and – as the firm length pressing up between her legs is indicative of – able.

They both cry out when he enters her. One hard stroke that slides his cock inside of her to the hilt. Her hands are on his back, nails dashing over skin. More marks on his flesh, made by her. She hopes they sting when he showers. Hopes that he can’t forget this just as easily as she knows he probably will. Just another part of the job, right?

One hand slides down her chest, squeezing her right breast before moving on. His fingers dig into her hip, holding her steady as he finds a rhythm with his body. Why this feels so good is anyone’s guess, but Sydney guesses that it might have to do with the lure of the forbidden. She shouldn’t want this, so she does. Her body shouldn’t react this strongly to him, so it does.

She shouldn’t want to look into his eyes and search for any meaning.

But she does.

Lust and passion, desire and need so aching that she can taste it on his tongue when he jams his mouth over hers, swallowing her moans deep into his throat. His hand slides down again, releasing her hip, and he’s lifting her leg, one hand behind her thigh. This causes a deeper slide, a harder penetration. She feels him all the way to the very depths of her body and its right and perfect right at that moment. He’s hard and thick, stretching her inside even as her mind is stretching, trying to accommodate this impossible situation. Trying to make sense of everything that’s happening.

And then he shifts the angle of his thrusts, and Sydney isn’t thinking anymore.

Some part of her manages to keep hold on reality and necessity enough that when something passes her lips other than a moan, it’s in the right language, the right inflection. She calls out for Alexei, cries out for more, harder, please, faster, harder, harder, harder.

Even in this, he’s gentle with her. Every thrust is long, lingering. His body rubs against hers with every in stroke, parts from her with every out. It’s the slide of course blond hairs at the base of his cock that creates friction against her clit, makes her keen and cry out.

“God,” Sark murmurs, lost in a moan, when her legs clamp around his waist, her body shuddering beneath him as she comes. Hard. It shakes her through and through, clenching her walls tight around him. He rocks with her, prolonging her pleasure, giving all he’s got in the thrusts that he’s able to make with her body gripping him tight, her legs holding him in place.

She’s just coming down from her orgasm when he stiffens and calls out a name – her alias. For one brief second, as his release pulses within her, his body trembling with climax, she sees the walls come down. His face is completely open. Beautiful, angelic if she didn’t know who and what he is.

When he’s done, he rolls off, pulling her into his arms. This – the cuddling – that’s just part of the act.

“Think we fooled them?” he whispers against her ear a few minutes later when his breathing has evened out. A soft kiss against the curve of her ear.

Just an act.

“Yeah,” Sydney whispers into the darkness.

She was certainly fooled, after all.

In the morning they finish the job, and he’s as cool and collected as ever he was.

They’re on a plane back to SD-6 before noon local.

~*~*~

When she sees him at the debrief the next night, it is as if nothing happened.

It’s just as she knew it would be.

So why does it still hurt like a bitch?

Then Sark moves, and she can see the mark clearly visible. The buttons he deliberately left undone. A purple mark made by her mouth, her teeth.

And when he catches her looking, he smiles in that way that only he can. A lift of the lips so quick that no one else would even have noticed. His eyes sparkle for just a moment, but she understands.

This isn’t over.

END

The End

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