Bad Samaritan | Kylo Ren

We're Just Getting Started

"How long?" You snipe, wieseling into your provocative, leather ensemble, pinching the material as it struggles to coast down your thighs.

"Don't know, dear." Cardo elates on a terse breath, arms crossed, frame plastered to the latticed doorframe as he drinks your reflection in. His gaze browses yours—earnest, impenetrable— in the mirror.

"My organs are gonna splurge out," you mutter, cursing sourly, observing your figure as you wriggle tenaciously in your attire for tonight's Hit.

"Estimate it for me." You order assertively, wreathing your hair through your fingers and planting it gingerly at your scalp, casting him an expectant glance.

He sighs, shuffling over to you, balmers chafing the fur rug garnering the marbled floor. "Well," he considers, murmuring, as he cleaves the zipper of your dress up with an incoherent zilch.

His fingers ghost your shoulder heedfully, diligently adjusting the strap. "I'd say we have half an hour, tops." He renders you a reassuring squeeze, hovering there, chest contacting your back as he breathes.

Your eyes spear his dauntingly, a roguish smirk splitting your lips. You unwind the hair you bundled; Cardo watches languidly as it topples graciously to your shoulders— where you'd sheared your locks to remain immersive with your tasks of obliterating the targets your imprisoned husband inquired.

Tonight's quarry was anonymous. You trusted your beloved husbands judgement enough to coddle his injunction, regardless of how wearily you treaded about doing it.

"You know me well enough to know that a little time limit won't be a problem." You implicate softly, pivoting leisurely, disrupting Cardo as he feathered calloused fingers through your disheveledly manicured hair.

His trepidation surged off of him in palpable waves, blatant in the shade of scarlet tainting his cheeks, and the flutter of his slightly-hooded eyes. They were shaped by a distinct expression of imaginative pleasure you always found beguiling.

You plant your hands on his chest, the breadth firm and brawny beneath your palms. You toy with the silk tie cladding his neck, smoothing it over the shirt garbing his frame. Flashing him a delicate smile.

"You'll do fine," you promise, placating him with a comforting stroke upon the cheek, eyes steady, unwavering from his. His nostrils flare, body bristling with uncertainty. "It's not the first time you've made the kill," you quip, as he gifts you a wry huff of both amusement and agreement.

"Hell," you breathe, feigning exasperation, still maintaining a smile. "I'm about one-hundred percent sure you've done worse."

He barks out an airy laugh, shoulders rumbling beneath your palms. "I've never had a four-some, believe it or not," he raises a brow as you glide your hands across his chest appeasingly, clicking your tongue.

"They think we're having a four-some," you correct, snorting. You scan his disposition industriously, eyes flickering across his body. He arranges a strand of coiled hair that keened at your brow, brushing it away absently. Already mastering tonight's deliberated charade.

"I don't doubt you, but I'm not entirely confident in seducing a woman and blowing her brains out at a maximum of thirty minutes," he snickers throatily. You can discern the rueful underlayers of his tone.

"Leave the seducing to me," you grin salaciously, the crimson hue of your lips contrasting drastically with the pearly sheen of your teeth. "I'm the charmer in this marriage, dear husband," you drum his chest for emphasis, as his lips quirk into a scowl.

Tonight, you and Cardo had inherited the roles of Mr. and Mrs. Smith; your real husband, Kylo Ren, begrudgingly conjured the plan for this evenings pernicious events. Yes— he still ordered you around from a cell. He'd assigned the two of you to an assignment that required filthy coaxing and deception. It'd be simple enough; you'd acquired a taste for destruction in the foregoing months of abstinence.