Weekly Poll #5 - OC / Chun-Li {Story 10}
The silence in the hotel room in Vilnius was a physical weight, a thick, suffocating blanket broken only by the low, monotonous hum of the air conditioning and the dull, throbbing ache that radiated from Allan's chest and hip. He sat on the edge of the bed, his back pressed against the cold wall, trying to get some leverage on the bandages wrapped around his torso. They were a cage, tight and unforgiving, restricting his breathing with every shallow inhale. A necessary evil to hold together the damage from the ambush in the Baltics. The scar on his left hip ran up toward his pec, a jagged white line that looked like lightning caught in amber—a permanent souvenir from his first big bust that had almost cost him his career and, for a moment, his life.
He adjusted his gray glasses, the dark lenses a shield, a deliberate anonymity. They were dark enough to hide the blue eyes beneath, a feature so striking it felt like a liability in his line of work. In most other situations, he wore contacts, a deliberate choice to blend in, to dissolve into the background and look like a million other tired, middle-aged men. He was average, lean, 5'10", but right now, he felt like a wreck, a collection of bruises and broken parts held together by nothing but sheer stubbornness. The human trafficking hideout in Lithuania had been a trap, a perfectly sprung snare, and his three-man cell had been wiped out in a hail of gunfire. He was the only one left, and the adrenaline that had kept him moving, kept him alive, was finally wearing off, leaving the pain in its place, a sharp, insistent companion that throbbed in time with his heart.
He heard it then—a soft, deliberate knock on the door. *Rap. Rap.*
Allan's hand moved to the gun holstered at his hip before his brain could even process the sound. The motion was pure instinct, a reflex honed by years in the field. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the cage of his bones. It could be Interpol backup. It could be the cartel, coming to finish the job. He stayed perfectly still, his breath held in his lungs, listening to the hallway beyond the thin wood door. Another knock. Light, but firm. Confident.
He pushed himself up, a hiss of pain escaping his lips as the bandages pulled at his ribs. He crept toward the door, his movements slow and deliberate, the gun a cold, heavy weight in his hand. He peered through the peephole, the distorted fisheye view giving him a sliver of the hallway.
He froze.
Standing there was a woman who looked like she didn't belong in a hallway, let alone in a city like Vilnius. Chun Li. She was a vision of lethal power, her posture straight as an arrow, her long black hair pulled back in a severe, high ponytail that swayed with the slightest movement. But it was the body that made Allan's mouth go dry, his throat suddenly tight. She was built like a warrior goddess, a breathtaking contradiction of softness and steel. Her outfit was a tactical flight suit, but it was tight, clinging to every curve, the fabric struggling to contain the sheer magnitude of her assets. Her breasts were massive, heavy and round, straining against the material, while her waist was impossibly small, tapering down to hips that flared out into a truly ridiculous, perfect ass. Every muscle in her legs was defined, powerful, a roadmap of strength, yet she moved with a grace that was terrifying.
Allan blinked, adjusting his glasses, sure he was hallucinating from the pain, from the exhaustion, from the grief. He leaned closer to the peephole, his eye pressed against the cool plastic, needing to be sure. He whispered a code—a series of numbers and letters specific to their handler, a key only another agent would know.
"Sector 4, Alpha, Echo," Allan said quietly, his voice raspy, barely audible through the door.
The woman smiled, a knowing, confident curve of her lips. "Delta, November, Kilo," she replied instantly, her voice clear and strong.
Allan let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, the air rushing out of him in a whoosh. It was her. He fumbled with the lock, his hands shaking slightly, and pulled the door open.
Chun Li stepped inside, and the air in the room changed. The scent of jasmine and something metallic, like the clean, sharp smell of ozone after a lightning strike, followed her. She was tall, even without heels, and she filled the doorway, her presence overwhelming the small space. She looked him up and down, her eyes sharp and assessing, taking in the gun in his hand and the bandages wrapped around his chest.
"You're late," Allan said, trying to sound like his old self, the Interpol agent who never blinked, who never showed weakness. He kept his eyes on her face, deliberately avoiding looking at the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, the way her powerful thighs pressed together as she walked.
"Traffic was a nightmare," Chun Li said, her voice smooth and melodic, with a hint of an accent he couldn't quite place. She didn't reach for her own weapon, which told him she trusted him, or that she didn't think she needed one. She walked into the room, her eyes lingering on his bandages, a flicker of concern in their depths. "How bad is it?"
Allan turned his back on her, walking slowly toward the worn armchair near the window. Every step was a battle. The bandages were tight, and the movement pulled at the wound on his hip, a sharp, stabbing pain with every stride. He gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead, and sank into the chair, the worn springs groaning in protest. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, trying to hide the wince of pain that twisted his features.
"I've had worse," Allan said, his voice strained. He gestured vaguely at his chest. "They got me pretty good. But I'll survive. Surveillance is the main activity for now anyway."
Chun Li walked over to him, stopping just a few feet away. She looked down at him, her expression unreadable, a mask of professional calm. "You're lying," she said softly, her voice cutting through his facade. "You're in pain."
Allan looked up at her, his blue eyes hidden behind the dark lenses of his glasses. "I'm a professional, Chun Li. I don't complain."
She laughed, a low, throaty sound that seemed to vibrate in the air, a warm, resonant hum that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. "You're Interpol, Allan. You're supposed to be the best. But you look like you're about to fall apart."
She reached out, her hand hovering over his bandages, her fingers long and slender, her nails perfectly manicured. "Can I see?"
Allan hesitated, a flicker of defiance in his eyes, but then he nodded, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He reached up and peeled back the gauze on his shoulder. The skin underneath was angry, red and swollen, the edges of the wound puckered and raw. Chun Li's fingers were cool as she traced the edge of the injury, her touch gentle, almost reverent. "You took a bullet here," she said, her voice low. "And here."
She moved her hand down to his hip, her fingers brushing against the jagged scar. "This is from an old assignment?"
Allan flinched slightly as her touch grazed the sensitive skin, a jolt of electricity shooting through him. "Yeah. Almost made me quit."
Chun Li looked up at him, her eyes locking with his. "You didn't quit. You're still here. That makes you stronger than most."
She stepped closer, her body heat radiating toward him, a palpable warmth that seeped into his cold skin. She was so close he could feel the power in her thighs, the sheer physical dominance she exuded. She looked down at him, her gaze drifting over his face, his glasses, his bandaged chest. She knew he was looking at her, too, struggling to keep his composure, to maintain the fragile wall between them.
"You're lucky I'm here," she said, her voice dropping an octave, a low, intimate rumble that sent a shiver down his spine. "Someone has to make sure you don't die on me."
Allan swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "I can handle myself."
"I know you can," Chun Li said. She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, her fingers digging in slightly, a firm, possessive grip. "But sometimes, even the best agents need a little help. Especially when they're dealing with a situation like this."
She leaned in closer, her breath hot on his face, the scent of jasmine filling his senses. "And sometimes, they need to be taken care of."
Allan looked at her, his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic, chaotic rhythm. He knew she was right. He was tired, he was hurt, and he was alone. But he was also an agent, and he knew how to handle a situation, how to read people, how to maintain control. He looked up at her, his eyes hidden behind his glasses, and offered a small, tired smile.
"Maybe," he said. "But first, I need a drink."
He reached into his cooler and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, the glass cool against his skin. He set it on the small table next to the chair, the sound of it hitting the wood loud in the quiet room. He poured two glasses, the amber liquid catching the light, a warm, golden glow in the dimness. He handed one to her, her fingers brushing against his, a fleeting, electric touch.
"To survival," she said, her voice soft, her eyes locked on his.
"To survival," Allan said, raising his glass.
They clinked glasses, the sound sharp in the quiet room, a small, defiant chime against the backdrop of the city's hum. Allan took a sip, the burn of the whiskey doing little to numb the pain, but it warmed him from the inside out, a slow, creeping heat that loosened the knots in his shoulders. He looked at Chun Li, her eyes locked on his, her body radiating power and promise, a dangerous, intoxicating combination.
The first glass went down too fast. The second followed, a blur of amber liquid and quiet conversation that skirted the edges of their reality. They talked about nothing—the shoddy locks on the hotel door, the terrible food in the minibar, the perpetual drizzle outside the window. It was a strange, brittle normalcy, a fragile truce in the middle of a war zone. Allan found himself talking more than he had in weeks, the words flowing from him with an ease that felt foreign. The whiskey was a lubricant, sanding down the rough edges of his grief and his pain, leaving behind a smooth, warm numbness.
The whiskey bottle sat empty on the coaster, the amber liquid long gone from the glasses. The silence in the room stretched, thick and electric, charged with the unspoken tension that had been building since she stepped through the door. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine and ozone, a heady, intoxicating mix that seemed to seep into his pores.
Chun Li set her glass down with a deliberate click against the wood. She didn't drink it all, leaving a small pool at the bottom. She leaned forward, her hands braced on her thighs, looming over him. The scent of jasmine was overwhelming now, a thick, cloying perfume that filled his senses, mixed with the metallic tang of ozone she always seemed to carry. He was drunk, he realized, the room tilting slightly, the edges of his vision blurring. He was drunk, and he was staring.
He couldn't help it. His eyes kept drifting down, drawn to the way her flight suit strained against her chest, the fabric pulling tight across the heavy, round swell of her breasts. He watched the way her throat moved as she swallowed, the delicate column of muscle and bone. He was mesmerized, a moth drawn to a flame, and he knew he was being obvious, but he couldn't stop himself.
"You're staring, Allan," she said softly, her voice dropping an octave lower than before. "It's distracting."
"I'm just admiring the view," he rasped, his throat dry. He couldn't help it. The whiskey had loosened his tongue, and the adrenaline was still buzzing under his skin. She was a fucking vision, a woman carved from muscle and power, and he was a broken man in a cheap hotel room. It was a dangerous combination.
Chun Li smirked, a dark, dangerous thing that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "Is that so?"
She reached out, her fingers cool against his burning skin, and tapped the center of his chest. "You're in pain. You're hurt. And you're lonely. You need to stop lying to yourself."
She stepped closer, invading his personal space until she was practically sitting in his lap. The heat radiating from her body was intense, a furnace that threatened to melt his resolve, turning his blood to liquid. She reached up, her long fingers curling around the dark frames of his glasses, her touch cool against his flushed skin. With a deliberate, agonizing slowness, she slid them down his nose and set them gently on the table.
Without the lenses, his blue eyes were exposed—vivid, piercing, and devastatingly clear. They were an arresting shade of azure, flecked with gray around the iris, holding his gaze with an intensity that made the air between them feel thin. He wasn't hiding anymore. He was looking right at her, unmasked and wide open.
"Better," she murmured.
She leaned down, her lips hovering just inches from his. "I told you someone needed to make sure you didn't die on me. But I didn't say I wouldn't enjoy the process."
She kissed him. It wasn't a gentle peck. It was a collision of lips and teeth, a desperate, hungry thing that tasted of whiskey and jasmine. Her mouth was soft, but her tongue was demanding, pushing past his lips to explore the interior of his mouth with a ferocity that took his breath away. She tasted like mint and danger.
Allan groaned, his hands coming up to grab her waist. Her muscles were rock hard beneath the fabric of her outfit, straining against his grip. He could feel the power in her, the sheer density of her strength, and it made his cock throb painfully against his pants.
She pulled back slightly, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Stand up, Allan," she commanded.
He tried to obey, but his legs were weak. He wobbled, his hand going out to steady himself on her shoulder. She caught him, her grip like a vice. "Easy," she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. "I've got you."
She guided him, her hands firm on his lower back, forcing him to step away from the chair. He stood before her, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on her. She looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on the bulge in his pants, a smirk playing on her lips.
"You're hard," she stated, not a question. "For me."
"Yes," he admitted, his voice husky.
Chun Li laughed, a low, throaty sound that seemed to vibrate through her entire body. "Good."
She reached out, her fingers deftly working the buttons of his shirt. She didn't bother to be gentle. She ripped the buttons free, sending them clattering across the floor. The fabric parted, revealing his chest, the bandages wrapped tight around his ribs.
She ran her hands over his chest, her fingers tracing the lines of the bandages, her touch electric. "Does this hurt?" she asked, her fingers pressing down on the angry red skin over his heart.
"A little," he gritted out, his head falling back.
"Good," she said again. "Let it hurt."
She moved lower, her hands tracing the line of his abdominal muscles, down to the bandage on his hip. She pressed her palm against the injury, and he hissed, a sharp intake of breath.
"Sensitive," she observed. She began to massage the area, her fingers working deep into the muscle, applying pressure that was equal parts painful and pleasurable. It was a strange sensation, a mix of agony and ecstasy that made his knees weak.
She stepped closer, her body pressing against his. He could feel the hardness of her against his hip, and the sheer size of her was intimidating. She was built like a fighter, a machine of pure muscle and power, and he was a mere mortal.
She reached down, her fingers hooking into the waistband of his pants. "I'm going to take care of you, Allan," she whispered. "But you're going to have to trust me."
She pulled him closer, her lips brushing against his ear. "And you're going to do exactly as I say."
She pushed him backward, forcing him to sit back on the edge of the bed. He landed heavily, the mattress springs groaning under his weight. She stood before him, her hands on her hips, looking down at him with a predatory gaze.
The zipper of her flight suit hissed—a sharp, intimate sound in the quiet room. Chun Li didn't rush. Her fingers hooked into the fabric, pulling the suit down over her shoulders, letting gravity take the weight of it. The black material pooled around her ankles, pooling on the floor like spilled ink, and she stepped out of it, kicking it aside with a careless flick of her foot. She was left in a black sports bra and tight athletic shorts that clung to her like a second skin, outlining every ridge of muscle.
Allan stared, his mouth hanging open, his throat clicking as he swallowed hard. The air in the room seemed to thin, sucked out by her sheer presence. She was a physical specimen that defied biology, a powerhouse of dense muscle and feminine curves. Her breasts were heavy, full, and round, straining against the thin black fabric of the bra, the fabric pulling tight across the dark, erect nipples. They moved with a slow, heavy sway as she shifted her weight. Her waist was impossibly narrow, tapering down to hips that flared out into a truly magnificent ass, cheeks firm and high. Every muscle in her legs was defined, a roadmap of power, the definition of her calves and thighs plain to see even in the dim light. She looked like she could bench press a car.
She stepped closer, her heels clicking on the cheap carpet. She stopped between his spread legs, her hands resting on his knees, her thumbs pressing into the denim. She pushed his legs apart, forcing them wider, and climbed onto the bed, straddling his lap. The weight of her was incredible—a heavy, warm blanket of pure muscle and female heat that settled over him, crushing him gently. He felt the solid thud of her thighs against his, the heat radiating from her center soaking through his pants.
She leaned down, her chest pressing against his. The sensation of her soft, warm skin against the rough bandages on his chest was agonizing and wonderful, a friction that stung and soothed at the same time. She captured his mouth again, her lips crashing against his, her tongue sliding in to demand entry. It was a desperate, hungry kiss, tasting of whiskey and mint. His hands roamed up her back, fingers digging into the hard, corded muscle of her shoulders, feeling the power in her, the sheer force of her. She was a force of nature, and he was just a man caught in her path, bleeding and broken.
She broke the kiss, her lips trailing down his jaw to his neck. She bit down gently on his earlobe, the sharp sting sending a jolt of electricity through his body. She moved lower, her lips tracing a path down his chest, her tongue flicking out to taste the skin over his heart. She reached the bandage on his hip, pulling it aside to expose the raw, red flesh underneath. She pressed her tongue against the wound, the cool wetness contrasting with the heat of his skin. He gasped, his hips bucking off the mattress involuntarily.
"Chun Li," he groaned, his hands tangling in her hair, pulling her closer.
She smiled against his skin, the vibration of the smile sending shivers down his spine. She moved lower still, her lips wrapping around the head of his cock. She took him deep, her mouth hot and wet, her tongue swirling around the sensitive flesh. The suction was incredible, pulling at him like a vacuum, a wet, hungry suction that made his toes curl in his shoes.
He groaned, the sound tearing from his throat, his head falling back against the pillows, eyes rolling up. She was an expert, her mouth working him with a skill that was almost frightening. She bobbed her head, taking him deeper and deeper, her throat muscles massaging his shaft as she swallowed him whole, fighting the gag reflex that made her eyes water. The wet, sloppy sounds of her mouth filled the room, echoing off the walls—*slurp, gulp, choke*—a lewd symphony of pleasure.
He looked down, watching the way her head bobbed, the way her black hair cascaded over her face, hiding her expression. She looked like an angel, a warrior angel, and he was the lucky sinner who got to worship her. The sight of her taking him, looking up at him with those dark, dilated eyes, was enough to make his head spin.
She pulled back, her lips glistening with saliva, thick strings of it connecting her mouth to the tip of his cock, snapping and breaking in the air. "God, you're thick," she said, her voice husky and breathless, laced with a hint of awe. She looked up at him, her eyes dark and hungry. "I haven't seen anything like this in a long time."
She stood up, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight, and turned her back to him. The black sports bra strained against her shoulders as she reached behind her, grabbing the waistband of her shorts and pulling them down with a fluid motion. She bent over at the waist, her spine arching into a deep, graceful curve, her ass hanging in the air, legs wide apart to give him complete access. The muscles in her back rippled under the skin, a landscape of power and tension.
She reached back, her fingers wrapping around his shaft, guiding the swollen head to her slick entrance. The anticipation was electric, a buzzing static that crackled between them.
"Fuck me, Allan," she commanded, her voice dropping to a growl, heavy with need. "Show me what you've got. Don't hold back."
He didn't need to be told twice. He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into the soft, yielding flesh of her ass, feeling the hard muscle beneath. He thrust forward, burying himself deep inside her in one smooth, brutal stroke.
She cried out, a sharp, piercing sound that was half-moan, half-gasp. She was impossibly tight, hot and wet, clamping down on him like a vice. He felt like he was splitting her in two, the friction searing hot as he bottomed out, his balls slapping against her slick folds.
"You're so big," she gasped, her head falling forward as she adjusted to the fullness. "God, yes... just like that."
He didn't give her time to adjust. He pulled back, his hips slapping against her ass with a loud, wet smack, and drove back in again. The sound echoed through the room, raw and carnal. He pounded into her, a relentless rhythm that had her breasts bouncing with every impact, the black fabric of the bra riding up to reveal the dark, erect peaks.
She was a machine, a warrior goddess who could take anything he could give her. He grabbed her hair, pulling her head back, forcing her to arch her back, her neck stretching out like a bowstring. She moaned, a throaty, broken sound, meeting his thrusts with her own, her hips undulating to match his rhythm.
He looked down, watching the way her body moved, the way her muscles clenched and released with every thrust. She was magnificent, a sight to behold, and he felt the familiar sensation building in his balls, the familiar pressure that signaled his release.
"You feel so good," he grunted, sweat dripping from his nose onto her back. "So fucking tight."
"Give it to me, Allan," she begged, her voice trembling. "Fill me up. I want to feel it."
He slammed into her one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go, his hips grinding against her ass. He groaned, his body shuddering as he came, his hot seed shooting deep inside her, filling her to the brim. He felt her body clamping down on him, milking him for every drop, her internal muscles rippling around his spent cock.
She gasped, her body going limp, collapsing forward onto the mattress, her body spent and trembling. He rolled off her, landing on the mattress beside her, his chest heaving, his body covered in sweat.
He looked at her, watching the rise and fall of her back. She turned her head to look at him, a satisfied smile playing on her lips, her eyes half-lidded and glazed with pleasure.
"That," she said, her voice weak and breathless, "was exactly what I needed."
"Not done yet," she whispered, her voice a low rasp that seemed to vibrate right through his chest. She pulled herself off him with a wet, lewd sound, the sudden absence of her heat making him groan in frustration. She didn't give him time to recover, though. She grabbed his shoulders, pushing him back against the pillows until his head hit the headboard. He was a dead weight in her grip, his body humming with residual adrenaline and exhaustion, but she didn't care. She was a machine that hadn't been turned off.
She climbed off the bed, her bare feet finding purchase on the carpet. She turned back to him, looming over him like a dark cloud. "Up," she commanded, her eyes locking onto his.
He struggled to sit up, his muscles trembling, the bandages on his ribs pulling tight with every movement. She reached down, her hands firm on his waist, and hoisted him up. She maneuvered him until his legs dangled off the edge of the mattress. Then, she stepped between his knees, her strong thighs pressing against his.
She reached back, her fingers curling around his shaft, slick and hard. She guided him to her entrance again, but this time, she didn't lower herself down immediately. Instead, she stood tall, her powerful legs straining as she lifted her right leg. She draped it over his left shoulder, her heel digging into the mattress for leverage. The angle changed everything, opening her up, exposing her deepest, most intimate self to him.
She looked down at him, a predator toying with her prey. "Look at me, Allan," she said, her voice dripping with a dark, commanding promise. "Don't look away."
She sank down onto him slowly, the friction agonizingly hot. He gasped, his back arching off the mattress as he filled her completely. She was tight, tighter than before, the angle stretching her in ways that made her moan, a low, guttural sound that he felt in his bones. She held herself there for a moment, her hands braced on his chest, her fingers digging into the bandages.
"You're so deep," she breathed, her eyes fluttering shut for a second before snapping back open. "I can feel you everywhere."
She began to move. It wasn't the frantic, pounding rhythm of before. It was a slow, deliberate grind, her hips rolling against his, her inner muscles rippling and clenching around him. The sound of her skin slapping against his thighs filled the room, a wet, sticky rhythm that was obscene and intoxicating. She was a warrior goddess in full display, her powerful legs flexing as she rode him, the definition of her calves and thighs stark against the dim light.
He reached up, his hands grabbing her thighs, his fingers digging into the hard, corded muscle. He could feel the power in her, the sheer force of her. He pulled her down, forcing her to meet him halfway, his hips bucking up to meet her downward strokes.
"Yes," she hissed, her head falling back, her black ponytail swinging. "Like that. Use your strength, Allan."
He grabbed her hips, his grip bruising, and thrust up hard. She cried out, her body shuddering, her internal muscles clamping down on him like a vice. He felt the familiar pressure building in his balls again, a warning that he was dangerously close.
"You're going to come for me again," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I can feel it. You're going to explode inside me."
She leaned forward, her hands bracing on the headboard above his head, her body arching over him. Her breasts hung heavy in front of his face, swaying with her movements. He reached up, his tongue flicking out to capture one dark, erect nipple. She gasped, her body shuddering, her hips grinding down harder.
"God, yes," she moaned, her voice thick with pleasure. "Suck it. Make me scream."
He obeyed, his mouth closing around her breast, his tongue swirling around the sensitive tip. She threw her head back, a cry tearing from her throat, her body going rigid as she came, her internal muscles milking him with violent spasms.
The sensation was too much. He groaned, his back arching off the mattress, his hips bucking up one last time. He felt his cock swell, the pressure becoming unbearable, and he flooded her with his seed, his hot cum shooting deep inside her in pulses that seemed to last forever. She collapsed forward onto him, her body shaking with the aftershocks of her orgasm, her chest heaving against his.
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight, burying his face in her neck. She smelled like jasmine and sweat and sex, a heady, intoxicating combination.
The silence in the room stretched, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the ragged, synchronized rhythm of their breathing. Chun Li lay atop him, her weight a comforting pressure, her chest rising and falling against his. He could feel the thud of her heart against his ribs, steady and powerful. But as the haze of pleasure began to fade, replaced by the lingering sting of pain and the cold, hard reality of his situation, a thought wormed its way into the back of his mind.
He looked up at her profile. The sharp angle of her jaw, the way her long black hair spilled across his chest like ink. She was a legend. The Dragon Lady of Interpol. A woman who moved through the world like a ghost, leaving destruction in her wake. He was just Allan. The guy with the scar, the glasses, the mediocre record.
*What's the catch?* the thought nagged at him. *Is this some kind of spy game? A trap? Why would she really be here?*
He gripped her shoulders, his fingers digging into the soft skin, needing something solid to ground him. The paranoia was irrational, he knew that. She was Interpol. They were on the same side. But in the wake of an ambush that had wiped out his team, trust was a luxury he couldn't afford.
"Chun Li," he rasped, his voice sounding rusty and unused. He cleared his throat, trying to find his voice. "Wait."
She looked down at him, her dark eyes unreadable, her expression calm despite the aftermath of passion. "Hmm?"
He stared at her, searching for a crack in the armor, a sign that she was just playing him. "You're... you're the best. You don't need to be wasting your time with a guy like me. A guy who's barely holding it together."
He took a breath, the question hanging in the air between them, heavy and stupid. "Why are you really here? What's the angle?"
Chun Li smiled, a slow, lazy curve of her lips that didn't reach her eyes. She leaned down, pressing a kiss to the center of his forehead. "I'm not playing you, Allan. I'm here because I want to be."
She propped herself up on her elbows, her hair cascading down around his face like a curtain. The scent of jasmine and ozone was intoxicating. "You think I'm too good for you? Is that it?"
He let out a short, incredulous laugh, the sound rusty and dry. "God, yes. Look at you. And look at me. I'm just... I'm average."
"Average," she repeated, testing the word. She shook her head, a playful glint returning to her eyes. "That's what you think?"
"Tell me," he said, his voice losing some of its edge, replaced by a weary curiosity. "Why me? Why now?"
Chun Li traced a line down his cheek with her thumb, her touch gentle, almost reverent. "I've been watching you for a long time, Allan."
He blinked, his eyes widening behind his glasses. "Watching me?"
She nodded. "Years. I remember a mission in Belarus. You were covering our six when we got pinned down. You held that position for three hours while the rest of us regrouped. You didn't know it was my team, did you?"
He frowned, trying to dig through the fog of his memories. "Belarus... yeah. I remember. The cold. The snow. Some guys were shooting at us. I just kept shooting back."
"You saved my life," she said softly. "You didn't even know it. You just did your job."
He shook his head, still not quite believing it. "You're kidding."
"I'm not," she said, her voice dropping an octave. "I've been following your cases ever since. I've read your reports. I've looked at your files. And I have to say... I'm impressed."
She leaned in closer, her lips brushing against his ear. "I'm an admirer, Allan."
The absurdity of it hit him all at once. The Dragon Lady. The woman who could kick down a door and break a man's arm with a single strike. She was a secret admirer. It was ridiculous.
He let out a laugh, a genuine, shaking laugh that turned into a groan as his ribs protested. "You? An admirer? Of me?"
She laughed with him, a low, throaty sound that vibrated through her chest and into his. "Yeah. Me. So don't look at me like I'm crazy."
She kissed him then, a slow, lingering kiss that tasted of sweat and jasmine. It was incredibly sensual, a deep, probing exploration of her mouth that made his head spin. His hands moved up to the back of her neck, pulling her down, deepening the kiss. He forgot about the ambush. He forgot about the pain. He forgot about the fact that she was a legend and he was just a guy with a scar. All he knew was the heat of her mouth and the weight of her body on his.
They kissed for a long time, the world outside the window fading away until there was nothing left but the two of them, tangled together in the dark, quiet room.
{aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n.}