Summary: It's not because he wants to…
Author's Note: It's because thekayla and sparrowinsky drove him to it. XD
It's not because he wants to, he tells himself as he slams her against the wall, her mouth moving hot on his own. He's under orders. This has nothing to do with him. He's just a replacement, a stand-in for somebody dead or almost dead she knew once upon a time. And if his hands are shaking as he tears at the buckles to her armor, well, it's probably the med-x. It's not because he can't remember the last time a woman needed him more than she needed to breathe or the look in her eyes as she gasps his name, begging, desperate. He's a solider. He does what he's told without question.
It's not because he wants to that he traces patterns on sensitive skin with the pads of roughened fingers, whispering dirty, beautiful things into her ear. This is who he is. Who he became when the fires burned out and the scars finally faded. He is who his employer needs him to be. And if that means painting gentle bruises on her skin, so be it. It isn't the first time an employer has taken him to bed.
Of course, the first time was long before the bombs fell, but it isn't because this woman—this kid—reminds him so damn much of her that he's trailing kisses from breast to jaw and back again. And it's not because he's just a little in love with her that he carries her off to bed instead of fucking her against the wall. She'll be sore in the morning as it is, he tells himself, he doesn't want to hinder her from fighting.
It's not because he wants her more than he wants that goddamned contract back in his hand that he's sweet and gentle, whispering her name as he eases himself inside. And when she groans and bucks her hips, it's not the feel of her nails raking his back that makes him lose control.
It's the heat, he tells himself. It's the stress of fighting to stay alive. It's the fear of dying, of never accomplishing anything, of never making a change. It's the way she looks at him, the way she moves, the way she never lords her power over him. The way she owns him utterly without ever trying. The way she crushes her lips to his as she clenches around him, his name hanging like a prayer in the slim space between them. It's the way she laughs when he finishes, pushes a lock of sweat-slick hair from his eyes and whispers her thanks.
It's not because he wants to.
It's because he needs to.