Proper Outcomes

How I think 

The Silencers should have ended.

With bonus pics at the end

The penthouse was dark when Gwen let herself in, the city lights casting long shadows across marble floors and sleek furniture. She moved with purpose, her shoulder-length chestnut hair swaying as she surveyed the space. Target confirmed. Marcus Webb. Elite operative. Listed as extremely dangerous.

‘Good,’ she thought. ‘I like a challenge.’

She began her preparations immediately. First, the trail. Her black dress slipped over her head and dropped to the floor near the entrance. Her lace underwear followed, draped over the back of a leather armchair. Her stockings, sheer and teasing, left a deliberate path toward the bedroom. She kept only her white classic pumps, the pointed heels clicking softly as she walked.

In his closet, she found exactly what she needed. A crisp white dress shirt. She slid her arms through the sleeves, the cool cotton a contrast against her bare skin. She didn't button it past her sternum. The fabric strained across her chest, the buttons pulling slightly at the fullest curve of her breasts. The hem just grazed the tops of her thighs, barely covering her. When she moved, glimpses of her body flashed beneath, the shirt riding up to reveal the curve of her ass. The tailored cut clung to her figure like a second skin, accentuating the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips.

‘Perfect.’

She settled at his vanity and opened her clutch. The knife came first—small, elegant, wickedly sharp. She slipped it into her hair at the nape of her neck, the handle hidden beneath her chestnut waves. Then she retrieved her nail file. The abrasive surface was special, designed to hone her natural nails to a razor's edge. She worked methodically, shaping each nail into perfect almonds, the tips fine enough to slice paper. She inspected her work.

Satisfied, she painted each nail with careful strokes. Light pink. Innocent. Deadly. The polish contained compounds that would seep through skin on contact.

She capped the polish and reached for the final piece. The lipstick was a soft rose pink, the tube unremarkable. The formula inside was anything but. Poisonous Pink Peony. Two kisses to deliver a fatal dose. The toxins absorbed through mucous membranes, accumulating with contact. A third kiss was merely theatrical. Insurance.

She twisted the tube and leaned toward the mirror. Her full lips parted slightly as she traced the curve of her upper lip, then the lower. She pressed them together, smoothing the color, watching her own reflection with cool calculation. The pink was seductive, making her mouth look soft, inviting, kissable.

The lipstick joined the polish back in her clutch. She was ready.

The front door opened.

Gwen turned from the mirror, positioning herself so the light caught the length of her legs. She heard him before she saw him—the heavy click of a lock disengaging, the sweep of the door. Footsteps. Then silence as he spotted her.

Marcus Webb stood in the doorway, his hand still on the grip of his key. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired. His eyes swept up her body slowly, starting at the pointed white pumps, traveling along the long expanse of thigh visible beneath his shirt, catching on the stretch of fabric across her breasts, finally meeting her gaze.

She turned fully, letting him see the front of her, the way the shirt barely contained her. 

"Hello," she said. Her voice was low, throaty, designed to vibrate in a man's chest.

His expression didn't change. "Who the hell are you?"

"Your new partner." She smiled, letting warmth touch her features. "My credentials are on the bar. I've been assigned to work with you on the Vargas op. I thought I'd come early. Get to know you." She moved toward him, each step deliberate, her hips swaying. "Personally."

Her arms lifted, sliding around his neck. She pressed close, close enough that she could feel the tension in his body, the wariness coiled in his muscles. She tilted her face up, lips parting.

He pulled back.

"I work alone," he said, his voice flat. He stepped around her and headed toward the bar, his stride purposeful. "Don't need a partner. Don't want one."

Gwen smiled to herself and followed. Her heels clicked against the terracotta floor, the sound bright in the quiet penthouse. She watched him check her ID then reach for a bottle, the muscles in his back shifting beneath his shirt.

She pressed herself against him from behind. Her breasts flattened against his shoulder blades, her hands coming to rest on his waist. She felt him stiffen—not just his posture.

"You should reconsider," she murmured against the back of his neck. Her breath hot against his skin as she spoke. "A partner knows things. Can do things." Her hands slid down his front, fingertips tracing the line of his belt. "Can keep you warm in unfamiliar territory." One hand drifted lower, palm pressing against the front of his trousers. "Can provide... relief when the pressure builds."

She felt him harden beneath her touch. Her fingers traced the length of him through the fabric, stroking slowly. "Can take the edge off before a mission." She nuzzled the spot behind his ear, her warm breath stirring his hair. "Can make sure you're focused. Sharp. Ready."

"Christ," he muttered.

"Can be very, very persuasive." She squeezed gently, feeling him twitch in her grip. "Benefits, Mr. Webb. Think of the benefits."

He turned.

Gwen expected the embrace, expected his arms to reach for her. When they did, she deflected smoothly, catching his wrists and guiding them to her waist instead. She stepped into him, eliminating the distance between their bodies. The shirt rode up, exposing the curve of her ass as she pressed against him.

"Benefit one," she whispered, and kissed him.

It was brief, a tease. Her pink lips brushed his, soft and warm. She pulled back just enough to see the hunger in his eyes.

He responded. His hands tightened on her waist, pulling her flush against him. His mouth found hers again, harder this time, more demanding. She opened for him, letting his tongue slide past her lips, tasting him as he tasted her. She kissed him back with equal fervor, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Her hand moved to the nape of her neck.

The knife slipped free, cold and sharp. She drew it back, angling for the soft spot below his ear.

His hand caught her wrist.

The blade stopped a hair's breadth from his skin. His grip was iron, his eyes suddenly clear and hard.

Gwen smiled. "You can't blame a girl for trying."

He twisted the knife from her grasp and tossed it across the room. It clattered against the far wall. His hand came up to his forehead, pressing against his temple.

"Something the matter?" she asked, her voice sly.

He blinked. Swayed slightly.

"The knife was merely a weapon," she continued, stepping back from him. "A good femme always has a backup plan. In this case, two." She held up her hands, displaying her nails. "My nails, sharpened with a special file. Very fine edge. And the polish? Rather poisonous if I scratch you." She turned her hand over, examining her pink nails with satisfaction. "Which I didn't."

He stumbled toward her.

She stepped aside, watching him catch himself on the back of a chair. "Feeling the effects of my Poisonous Pink Peony lipstick," she mocked.

He stared at her, his pupils dilating.

"Takes a couple of kisses to deliver my fatal frosting," she explained, her tone conversational. "You've had two. Plus the nips in between." She touched a finger to her lips. "Very effective."

He lunged. She sidestepped easily, watching him stagger past her.

"Don't exert yourself," she cautioned. "The poison works faster with an elevated heart rate. And yours..." She smiled. "Well. I got you pretty worked up, didn't I?"

He tried again. She dodged, laughing softly as he stumbled into the coffee table, catching himself on the edge.

"Stubborn," she murmured. "I like that."

He made it to his feet once more, his breathing ragged. His eyes never left her.

"That's it," she whispered. "Come to me."

He reached for her. This time, she let him catch her, let his heavy hands fall on her shoulders. She used his momentum, twisting, guiding him down onto the sofa behind him. He fell back against the cushions, and she followed, straddling his lap, her thighs bracketing his hips.

His hands found her waist again, but his grip was weakening, his fingers barely able to close around her.

"Shh," she soothed, stroking his face. "Let me give you one more."

She leaned down and kissed him. Long. Slow. Thorough. Her lips moved against his, pressing the poison deep. She felt him shudder beneath her, felt the last of his strength fade. His hands slipped from her waist, falling to the sofa cushions.

When she finally pulled back, his eyes were glassy, unfocused.

"Goodbye, baby," she whispered.

She watched the light fade from his eyes, her own expression cool. Then she reached for the phone on the side table, dialing the number from memory.

"Target eliminated," she said when the line connected. She glanced down at Marcus Webb's still form beneath her, a trace of pink lipstick smeared across his lips. "Send cleanup."

She ended the call and rose from the sofa, smoothing down the white shirt. As she passed the vanity, she caught her reflection in the mirror—flushed, disheveled, her pink lips curved in a satisfied smile.