Try: Mike Durate x Reader
The knife was at Duarte’s throat before he had a chance to speak. His back slammed against the flimsy wall of the cheap apartment as the blade bit into his skin, scrapping across the salt and pepper stubble. He ground his teeth together, hissing as your forearm rammed into his chest.
“Honey, why don’t you quit playing?” he uttered. “We both know you don’t have it in you to kill me.”
“Says the man who broke into my apartment.” You snapped before relinquishing your hold on him. “What are you doing here Mike?”
His palm rubbed across jawline, his fingertips seeking out the nick in his flesh. It stung like crazy, citrus seeping into it from the limes you had been slicing before he’d gained entry through the fire escape.
“You need to get better locks on that window.” He said instead of answering your question, following you into the tiny kitchenette. You gestured for him to take a seat at the minuscule kitchen table. He shook his head, instead crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the doorframe. His eyes wandered throughout the space, taking in the damp stain spreading across the ceiling. “This is quite a little shit hole they’ve got you shacked up in.”
“You never told me why you were here.” You said, reaching up into the cabinet and removing a second glass before placing it alongside yours. You picked up the bottle of whiskey, tilting it from side to side before he nodded. You dropped a slice of lime into each of your glasses before pouring the amber liquid over it.
“You need my help.” He said, taking the glass from your hand when offered it.
“That’s funny, the last time we spoke I remember saying I didn’t want anything from you.” You reminded him, leaning against the Formica work surface.
“A lot has changed in three years.” He said with a shrug of his shoulders.
It looked like he certainly had. He looked more put together these days. His dark hair clean, freshly washed, the stubble on his cheeks leading into neatly trimmed goatee. His face was fuller, more defined instead of the gaunt sharp angles you had seen on him last time. He’d filled out a little more, definitely muscle, you wondered when he had started taking care of himself.
“I’m not that desperate.” You murmured, swilling the liquid in your glass.
He looked away and you could see the muscle in his jaw twitching, a tell-tale sign that this ran far deeper than he wanted to express.
“You want me to get on my knees and beg?” he snarled.
“You used to look so pretty when you did.” You mocked.
He gave you that look, that dark intense stare that lit a fire somewhere deep inside of you. You remembered nights spent underneath him, fingertips digging into his skin as he whispered to you in Spanish. Beautiful, sinful things as he fucked you to the very precipice of your sanity. He set his glass down on the chipped table, his hands coming to rest on either side of the work surface as he stared into your eyes.
“How long has it been since someone cared about you hm?” he asked, the back of his hand trailing across your cheekbone. “Since someone kissed you? Loved you?”
You said nothing, your gaze lowered to lips as his hips slotted perfectly against yours.
“I know who you are.” He told you, his forehead pressed against yours, his thumb smoothing over the blush of your cheek. “I have mourned your losses and celebrated your triumphs and I have loved you with every single inch of my heart.”
“I know.” You whispered as his lips brushed over yours.
“Then why did you let them do this to you?” He asked in a hushed whisper. “Why did you let them put you so deep undercover that you can barely see the sun?”
“When they came for you, they came for me too.” You told him softly. “They had enough to bury you and I… I couldn’t let that happen. It was take this assignment or let you drown.”
“So, you saved me…” he murmured, his breath ghosting over your lips. “I thought it was me. I thought you wanted out.”
“Never.” You told him. “I never wanted to leave.”
He kissed you and it was fire and passion ripping through your soul, burning you up inside until there was nothing but the sensation of his mouth on yours. His fingers tangled in your hair, drawing you closer, his muscular form pressing against yours. Fuck, it had been too long since he had touched you, the yearning flooded through your veins like a narcotic, stripping you of all your armour.
“Will you let me help you?” he asked, cradling your face between his hands and looking into your eyes. You could see everything inside of them, his grief, his anger and his love. That immense, precious feeling that he had tried to bury in the time you’d been away. It spilled over the edges, bleeding colour into his world and he knew he couldn’t let this happen, couldn’t let you slip away from him a second time.
“Will you at least let me try?”
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