The Winner Takes it All

Her thoughts are abruptly interrupted as the boat runs aground. The unexpected jolt makes her stumble slightly into Jack. He catches her. She regains her balance and helps Jack to his feet.

"Bottoms up Jack. Time for a change of transportation."


Episode 3- Playing with Fire

Two hours later, they are again airborne. Jack has been allowed to change out of his wet clothes.

Everything fit like it had been custom made for his body. Nice fit, even if everything was black.

They are aboard a mid-sized jet, it is apparent no expense has been spared for comfort.

The pilot and Irina's men are in the cockpit. He strains to hear what they are saying, but it is useless.

He turns his attention to his immediate surroundings. He is seated comfortably in an oversized seat.

Might as well take advantage of a few minutes peace.

He hears her approach and opens his eyes. He holds out his hands.

"Are these really necessary?"

She takes a seat beside him. The scent of her freshly shampooed hair surrounds him. She looks relaxed, serene even.


"Can I count on you to be a good boy?"

"Are we really working together to find Sydney?"

She frowns, a streak of worry.

"I think we've got some time. Sloane won't hurt her."

Physically at least, who knew what that demented bastard would do to her emotionally. Killing Sloane was something she planned on savoring.

"You seem certain of that."

He shared the same opinion but no point revealing that.

"I am. He needs her, and even if he knows why, and I'm not certain that he has progressed that far yet, we've still got time on our side."

Time to go fishing and with any luck set a hook.

"Look at it this way Jack. The CIA thinks I've kidnapped you so my reputation remains unchanged. After we find Sydney you'll 'escape' my evil clutches? she grins knowingly "that is, if you still want to. You can return home, still the hero. It's a win, win for you."

She pauses; he just stares at her, expressionless.

"What possible objection could you have to putting our extraordinary minds together; for Sydney?"

For Sydney, that had almost sounded like an afterthought. Suffering from self-esteem issues certainly wasn't one of Irinas flaws. He had to agree in principal to her twisted logic. It would be exhilarating to hunt Sloane outside the confines of the CIA. Not bound by rules or protocol, not justifying his actions to Kendall. Careful Jack, that kind of thinking long-term could be trouble. But the end would justify the means.

Lost in his thoughts, he focuses, Irina is straddling him, and unlocking his right wrist. She rubs it vigorously to restore full circulation. He holds his other wrist towards her, but she snaps the free cuff to the armrest.

He reaches up with his free and grabs her by the throat, exerting pressure; she drops into his lap. She reaches out for his throat, with both hands.

So easy, even with one hand he could snap her neck like a twig; or draw it out by squeezing harder and restricting the flow of oxygen.

He squeezes harder.

It is in that moment she again surprises him. She drops her hands and goes limp, no struggle, he exerts just a little more pressure; her face is changing color. She does nothing more than look into hies. es. She tilts her head slowly to give him better access to her throat.

Surrender? She was surrendering to him?

Without a conscious thought his lips replace his hands on her neck. Her skin burns against his mouth, his tongue bathes the ugly red marks he had just inflicted.

The sound of her sharp intake of air fills his ears. She stays motionless, but a small moan escapes.

He pulls back, her eyes, there was that flame again.

Minutes tick slowly by, as their eyes stay fixed.

He was getting the control back. She leans in to kiss him but he moves his head sharply. Her mouth connects with his ear. She bites it, leans back and grabs his chin roughly in her hand; she twists his face back towards her.

He could see it all there.

Frustration, anger, desire and something else...need?

"No Irina." His voice reverberates like the sound of crackling ice.

Her eyes blaze.

She hated that word. Wait amend that, she hated that particular combination...'No Irina.'

"No, no what, Jack?" She all but shouts at him.

"No you don't want me? Don't try to sell me that fiction, as I sit here straddling Kliuchevskoi."

Was that a compliment? Kliuchevskoi, think Jack, think. Ah Kliuchevskoi, the most active volcano in Russia. Better ponder that point later, he had bigger problems right now. How big exactly was Kliuchevskoi? Shut up Jack, focus.

"No, I don't want you to kiss me." He says in a voice that leaves no room for argument.

She shifts her weight, eyes locked on his. He is suddenly aware that her hand has snaked underneath his shirt.

Damn she was fast.

Looking like the cat about to swallow the canary in one quick bite she purrs, "Fair enough Jack, I won't kiss you."

She bends her head to his now exposed nipple and clamps her teeth around it. She holds it in her mouth and flicks it with her tongue.

His body shudders.

Of course it does, the body will always betray you given the chance. He was fifty, well fifty something; he had more control than this over his body, dammit!

She drags her teeth over his nipple and releases it, only to increase his torment by sliding her tongue over his chest, hesitating only a second before imprisoning his other nipple. This time his will abandons him and the groan escapes, egging her on, giving her encouragement.

He was losing this round, time to tilt the game.

His shackled hand he discovers can reach her quite easily. He cups her ass and lifts her off his lap, while his other hand give her fatigues a sharp tug.

The fatigues relent and slip down her hips partially exposing her bare ass.

He chokes back a laugh.

Irina, Commando. That was new, definitely an Irina-ism. It was a nice image. Not to mention it served his purposes well.

Before she can wiggle out of his grasp, he slides two fingers into her, hard.

A sharp cry. She settles her weight back on him, and buries her face in his neck.

The game was in his hands. He was in control. Master spy... not to mention master of delusion. I didn't HEAR that.

Her hands knead his shoulders before sliding seductively up his neck and resting in his hair. Her lips were as close to his as they could be without touching. Her eyes dilated and on fire.

His thumb was circling her, driving her wild. She was so wet, so hot; her muscle clamped like a vice on his fingers.

He wondered exactly how that much pressure would feel... counterproductive thinking there old man, back to the mission. Thank you.

Her hands were back on his shoulders, squeezing, the more pressure she applied, the more he applied with his thumb.

Her lipse ste still there, hovering so close to his, but never touching.

So she was capable of honoring their 'old' rules, or at least one of them.

He knew how desperate she was for the kiss. He had always enjoyed this game. Pushing her, seeing how much she could endure. Gauging from the frantic, half-crazed look in her eyes she was near the breaking point.

He grinned.

Good behavior should be rewarded right? How could one little kiss hurt? He was in control now; the game was his.

He kissed her lightly. He watched as her lips quivered, silently pleading for more. Time for her reward. He pushed towards her, lips roughly seeking hers, tongue demanding entrance. She complied with complete abandon.

And the heat hit him. A surge, no a tidal wave.

Somewhere in his head he felt her weight shift, but all his concentration was centered on her mouth so he was helpless to stop her as she expertly, releases his erection from his pants.

His erection,nks nks her. Jack curses himself.

The game tilts again, no the game was lost for him, but oddly at this instant he doesn't give a damn. Her hands and lips are a blur of illicit sensations, an intoxicating mix of pain and pleasure, as only she had ever been able to do for him.

They spin together, no control, no boundaries just the fire that threatens to incinerate them.

Both his hands are free now. He buries one in her hair as he uses the other to remove what is left of her clothes.

He wonders if her touch had simply torched his clothing, because all he can feel is skin on skin.

In a frenzy, they fall into the aisle. The pounding fills them both; there is nothing else.

She is hoarsely whispering encouragement to him in some exotic mix of Russian and English. He is losing his mind.

She cries out his name over and over. He bites his lip so hard he can taste the blood. He wants to cry out too, but that secret little reserve of control prevents it. Stops him from crying out her name.

And then he is empty.