MB Saucy Side: Unredeemable (Featuring Andy) (Patreon)

Andy’s lips connect with yours, his need slamming you against the wall with enough force to shudder the still-open front door. He doesn’t bother with formalities or small talk; he knows (or thinks he knows) why you insisted on meeting him at an off-the-grid motel over two-hundred miles outside Chicago’s city limits, and it wasn’t for something so civilized as exchanging pleasantries and observations about the rainy weather.

His tongue muffles your gasp—tomorrow, your back will bear bruised proof of today’s encounter. With luck, you’ll be able to hide the evidence beneath your shirt.

Andy, however, doesn’t oblige your hopes. When has he ever been obliging? His mouth abandons yours, lips tasting downwards to the small hollow at the side of your neck, sucking and nipping with callous disregard towards your intentions to pretend that this never happened. He won’t allow you to forget this bad decision, his marks proving your compromised integrity for all to see.

It’s as exhilarating as it is humiliating.

Seducing him had always been part of the plan, but you didn’t expect to enjoy it. No, you’re not enjoying this. Enjoyment is innocent and pure, the tingle of delight that comes from having lunch with friends or cuddling with a crush. Whatever it is you feel towards Andy, it’s too laden with guilt and recrimination to be labeled something as tepid as “enjoyment.” The glide of his hands moving beneath your shirt too rough and hurried, the way he kisses you too angry and selfish. Andy’s touch isn’t enjoyable; it’s intoxicating.

Addictive.

Your fingers thread helplessly through his thick, dark hair, yet you’re unwilling to pull him off. The heat of his lips feels too good, too sinful, against your skin. A little painful, perhaps—Andy doesn’t care enough to be gentle—but that’s part of the illicit pleasure. Your absolute need for each other is twisted and black and all-consuming to the point of being a dark cliché, but at least Andy’s scowl indicates that he’s as enraged by the connection as you.

“Be gentle,” you beg.

Andy bites down. Not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to hurt and force a startled cry from your lips. He withdraws a few inches, examines the faint teeth marks imprinted above your collarbone, and smirks.

Andrew Guerra is, you acknowledge as he finally kicks close the front door, a terrible human being.

He’s also hot as hell.

Perhaps it’s the asymmetry of his face. Andy may have escaped being arrested, but he’s undeniably arresting. You stare back into his hungry gaze, his pupils dilated so as to render his brown eyes almost black. None of Andy’s features are soft or apologetic. In a rare case where the exterior reflects inner character, he’s composed harsh lines and sharp, jagged angles.  His heavy dark brows are smugly opinionated, the left arching naturally higher than his right, and his lips curve in a perpetual smirk as if he’s stolen a secret never meant to be shared.

Or perhaps Andy is sexy simply because he shouldn’t be. Andy is a criminal prone to violent outbursts and petty cruelty, and his past threats upon your life have ranged from slyly implied to brutally explicit. He's the bigoted sycophant of a terrorist leader, a man who gleans mean satisfaction from dominating others while simultaneously being too cowardly to seize control over Vengeance for himself.

Or perhaps he retains a semblance of soul and was thus unwilling to be the one making those final bloody calls?

Unlikely.

No, there is nothing redeemable in Andy’s nature.

The wrongness of your mutual craving, therefore, presents what might be termed a “moral dilemma” (although Sally would likely claim that the existence of any internal struggle to be an indicator that you should seek further therapy). You must be insane to whimper so plaintively as he grabs you by the jaw. Sick, to be unable to resist grinding against the leg he forces between your own.

You must be broken to want him to break you.

Andy seizes your wrists, pinning them to the wall above your head. “Just once, to get you the fuck out of my system,” he growls. “Then we forget each other, agreed?”

You nod silently, confused by your inability to discern the difference between your fear and your arousal—the two emotions are irrevocably entangled, both peaking yet higher as Andy snarls and tightens his grip on your wrists.

“Agreed?” he repeats.

“Agreed,” you whisper, momentarily forgetting that it’s all a lie.

Your soft compliance shatters Andy’s last vestige of self-restraint. His body presses against yours, insistent and unyielding, forcing you to feel all of his desire and hatred. You’re torn between pride and revulsion at being the reason behind such desperation. Does he loathe how much he craves your touch? In addition to need, his every groan is laced with pain and anger. He despises you, he needs you, he despises himself for needing you. In that, at least, you two claim common ground.

“I hate you,” Andy swears between claiming to your lips. “Reese is in jail because of you. Everything is ruined.” He wraps a hand around your throat, almost tight enough to cut off your air, and glares into your eyes. “Fucking . . . hate . . . you.”

His next kiss is savage and as bitter as his words.

You put your hands on his shoulders and press, needing space to think, to stop. To your surprise, Andy actually concedes and takes a step back, his gaze still furious but also quizzical, a hint—just a hint—of vulnerability lurking beneath the rage and  desire.

“Why did you even call me here?” he demands, voice hoarse. “What do you—”

The door slams open, cutting off his words. Kent barges into the motel room, his hands immediately grabbing Andy’s arms and wrestling him onto the bed. Gray enters after, moving towards you with a concerned expression once he’s confirmed that Kent has successfully handcuffed Andy.

“This was a fucking trap?” Andy screams, thrashing wildly beneath Kent. “You’re fucked, Wiseman! I will ruin you, you—”

His stream of profanities and insults fades as Kent wrestles him out the door and into the waiting transport van.

“Are you okay?” Gray asks. “We were waiting for your signal, but Sally . . .” His cheeks redden, and he avoids meeting your gaze. “She said we should probably enter before, uh, you got in trouble.”

“I had everything under control,” you lie, trying to project cool competence and not do anything to hint at the fact that Andy just left you a quivering mess. “Everything went perfectly according to plan. Andrew Guerra can now stand trial for his crimes, and I . . .”

“Can finally put it all behind you?” Gray suggests gently.

You laugh. “And I can avoid my brother until this is all a distant memory.”