Title: The Oldest Trick in the Book
Word Count: um, like 1,800 or something.
Summary: Stole my money, took my car.
Download, thirty-seven percent complete.
Jensen tugged at his tie, watched as the code scrolled slowly down the computer screen and kept his ears pricked for any sound from the other side of the door. He couldn't make heads or tails of the information he was stealing and he preferred it that way. The less he knew about the job the better, no sticky judgment calls and convoluted grey shades of morality. He kept it simple: easy in and easy out. Be invisible, or if not invisible, at least forgettable.
At any other time, Jensen might have been impressed with the room, even if he wasn't particularly impressed with the outdated security system that had been almost offensively effortless to crack. A cushy, Italian leather sofa, large mahogany desk, an original Jackson Pollock that took up the majority of one wall. Behind him, a huge window looked out over the nighttime sky and the entirety of this man's kingdom.
The bar at the bottom of the screen crept forward. Forty-two percent. This was ridiculous.
Jensen tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk, then froze when he heard a soft click and the door opened a fraction. There was nowhere to hide and exactly one way out, and right now someone was coming through it. Things were about to get messy. Jensen hated it when things got messy. A bolt of adrenaline shot through Jensen's veins and he was on his feet and had closed half the distance to the door by the time a tall form slipped past the opening.
"There you are," the man said with a soft chuckle, then stepped into the blue light cast by the computer screen. "I've been wondering where you got off to."
"Misha," Jensen said with a small snarl. He took a few backward steps and lowered his guard by a notch. A very tiny notch.
It was a cat and mouse game that they'd played across a dozen cities on three continents. A contract thief, Misha made it known that he worked for the highest bidder, but seemed hell-bent on trying to one-up Jensen whenever he was given the slightest chance. Jensen was the best, but had to respect the fact that Misha was a damn close second. It did make things interesting, kept Jensen on his toes. Misha was a giant thorn in Jensen side, but relatively harmless. Conniving and deceptive, maybe, but so was Jensen, and when you got right down to it, neither of them would never do anything to cause any real harm to the other. Misha wouldn't throw Jensen into any sort of hot water too deep to swim out of. It was a matter of professional courtesy, after all. Honor amongst thieves.
"The one and only," Misha said, spreading his arms wide and lowering his head in a mock bow.
"I locked that door," Jensen told him, then dropped back into the chair. Fifty-three percent. He was going to have to listen to Misha for another five minutes at least.
"There's no such thing as a locked door, you should know that," Misha teased.
"Don't you clean up well," Jensen said, waving toward him. Misha was dressed for the black-tie affair that was taking place on the lower floor. Unless Jensen was mistaken, the suit was a Stuart Hughes, tailored to a tee, and the gold watch on his wrist was probably a Rolex.
"I have you to thank for it," Misha said with a grin that set Jensen's teeth on edge.
The payment for Jensen's last mission had never made it to his bank account, regardless of his employer's claims that it had been delivered to the appointed place at the appointed time.
"I should have known that was you," Jensen said.
"Child's play, really. And payback for that stunt you pulled in Tangier last month."
Now it was Jensen's turn to smile. "Tangier was payback for the one you pulled in London the month before that."
Misha moved to walk behind him, feet silent on the polished wooden floor, and Jensen punched the switch on the screen, turning it off and throwing the room into darkness.
"No you don't," Jensen said. He thought that Misha wouldn't be able to decipher the code any better than he could, but wasn't willing to take the risk. Misha was cagey, brilliant, and had an ego the size of the great state of Texas. In Jensen's weaker moments, he admitted to himself that the combination was sexy as all hell. Professionally speaking, of course.
"That's not what I'm after," Misha said, coming to a stop at Jensen's back and trailing a hand along Jensen's shoulder.
Jensen suppressed a shiver and thought about the last time he'd been face-to-face with the guy. What a fresh piece of hell that had been, a mission gone south and a hit man snapping at their heels, but what stuck in Jensen's mind most clearly was the way that Misha had palmed the back of his neck and had told him to be careful right before they'd split up, and the way that it had seemed like he'd meant it, and those startling few seconds when Misha might have been about to kiss him, and Jensen might have been about to let it happen.
Swallowing past the sudden dryness in his throat, Jensen said carefully, "Alright, so what are you after?"
Misha leaned down, the roughness of his jaw scraping against Jensen's temple. "I thought that was obvious." He spun Jensen in his chair, stepped between his widespread knees, placed two fingers between his chin and tipped Jensen's face upward.
"How did you know I was here, if you aren't in it for the job?" Jensen asked.
"I keep my ear low to the ground. Lower still, when it has your name on it. How much is left?" Misha flicked his eyes toward the screen.
"Forty percent, give or take," Jensen answered.
"Then it looks like you've got some time to kill." Misha pressed in close and brushed their mouths together, there then gone in an instant, as teasing and maddening as everything else about him.
"If you're gonna do it, do it right," Jensen told him, grabbed him by the back of his neck and pulled him down, nipped at Misha's lips until Misha opened up for him, tongue pliant and slicking along his own.
Without breaking the kiss, Jensen made a move to stand, but Misha held him in place with a hand squarely in the center of Jensen's chest. "Stay there," Misha said, and licked his lips, as if he was testing the taste of Jensen and finding it to his liking. "I've got you exactly where I want you." With that, he sunk to his knees, pushing Jensen's legs further apart with his body, then worked open Jensen's belt and fly so neatly that Jensen had to snicker. It shouldn't have been a surprise that Misha had the nimble fingers of a thief.
"Watch the suit," Jensen warned him. "That thing had to have cost a cool fifteen grand."
"Twenty, actually," Misha corrected. "But I'm not worried. If I ruin this one, you'll just buy me another."
"You little fucker," Jensen said.
"I know." Misha buried his face in Jensen's crotch, nuzzled at his balls through his boxers and mouthed at his hardening cock, soaking the fabric. "God, you smell good," he said. His voice was growing deeper, raspy.
Misha pulled Jensen's cock free, jacked it twice from base to tip, smearing Jensen's precome all along the length of it, then licked a slow path along the underside. He suckled at the head of Jensen's cock, his tongue working small miracles as it dipped into his slit, making Jensen's senses spin and his heart pick up its pace. With his fingers wrapped around the base of Jensen's cock, Misha swallowed him down, jaw stretching wide as he took him in deep, throat closing down around the width of him and choking a little.
The warmth of Misha's mouth, the slickness of it and the seal of his lips made Jensen's back curl into a steep arch, his dick pulsing with his amped up heartbeat. Jensen reached out to touch the back of Misha's head, wanting to feel the smooth curve of skull and the shift of his muscles as he worked his lips up and down, going deeper and deeper each time.
Jensen lost track of time, his head fallen backward against the back of the chair, so wrapped up in the feel of Misha’s tongue taking him apart. Vaguely, distantly, he heard the quiet beep from the hard drive letting him know that the download had finished. He bit hard on his bottom lip and forced himself to raise his head and look down at Misha.
Misha's lashes were dark against the hollows beneath his eyes, a flush was spreading across his cheekbones, and his mouth stretched around Jensen so wide and tight and pretty, spit slicking the way and slipping out past Misha's lips and making his chin damp. Jensen lost his tenuous thread of control as Misha finally opened his eyes and fixed him with a dark stare, and thrust up into Misha's mouth as far as he could go, his thighs trembling and a moan trapped behind his teeth.
Jensen allowed himself a quiet groan, toes curling in his shoes and fingers scrabbling at the arms of the chair as his orgasm hit, the noise from the party below drowning out in a rush of white noise. His hips moved in tiny jabs, cock sliding through the mess of spit and come on Misha's lips as he came down in increments, Misha still sucking him through the aftershocks.
Misha sat back on his haunches, frowned at a drop of come that marred the lapel of his jacket, picked it up with his finger and licked it off. He stood and straightened his suit. "That was better than I'd thought it would be, and trust me when I tell you that I thought it would be very, very good." He patted Jensen's cheek and began to turn away.
"Not so fast," Jensen said, hooking a finger in the waistband of Misha's pants. Jensen shifted, slipped his hand in Misha's pocket and was sure to let his knuckles graze along the hard length of Misha's cock on the way back out. He held the thumb drive between his first and second fingers before sliding it safe and sound into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Jensen rolled his eyes and said, "It's the oldest goddamn trick in the book, Misha. Sloppy, and kinda disappointing."
Misha grinned at him, spun on his heel and started toward the door. "Eh," he said over his shoulder, "it was worth a shot." He held up his hand, and Jensen groaned when he saw the key to his car dangling from the ring hooked over Misha's thumb. "But good luck getting a ride home."