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

Liz’s lips connect with yours, her need slamming you against the wall with enough force to shudder the still-open front door. She doesn’t bother with formalities or small talk; she knows (or thinks she knows) why you insisted on meeting her 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.

Her 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.

Liz, however, doesn’t oblige your hopes. When has she ever been obliging? Her 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. She won’t allow you to forget this bad decision, her marks proving your compromised integrity for all to see.

It’s as exhilarating as it is humiliating.

Seducing her 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 Liz, it’s too laden with guilt and recrimination to be labeled something as tepid as “enjoyment.” The glide of her hands moving beneath your shirt too rough and hurried, the way she kisses you too angry and selfish. Liz’s touch isn’t enjoyable; it’s intoxicating.

Addictive.

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

“Be gentle,” you beg.

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

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

She’s also hot as hell.

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

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

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

Unlikely.

No, there is nothing redeemable in Liz’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 she grabs you by the jaw. Sick, to be unable to resist grinding against the leg she forces between your own.

You must be broken to want her to break you.

Liz seizes both your wrists, pinning them to the wall against your sides. “Just once, to get you the fuck out of my system,” she 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 Liz snarls and tightens her grip on your wrists.

“Agreed?” she repeats.

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

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

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

Her next kiss is savage and as bitter as her words.

You put your hands on her shoulders and press, needing space to think, to stop. To your surprise, Liz actually concedes and takes a step back, her 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?” she demands, voice hoarse. “What do you—”

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

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

Her stream of profanities and insults fades as Kenna wrestles her 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 that hints at the fact that Liz just left you a quivering mess. “Everything went perfectly according to plan. Elizabeth Guerra can now stand trial for her 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.”