Music filled the air. Jazz, perhaps.
His breathing picked up the tempo. Hers joined in as his nails -- all sharp, jagged edges -- broke her skin through the thin shirt's barrier.
The music wasn't cohesive, nor was she, flying apart at his touch. He was already shattered -- assymetrical and torn. A fake arm would be too real in this moment when her worst enemy pressed her against a brick wall and tore her to pieces with feral teeth and rabid passion.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I am fucking Krycek senseless, and good God I love it.
The humid night-haze made the scene unreal. Green eyes flashed lust as he inhaled her silk shirt. She tugged at their clothes before sinking down on him with the force of a sax hitting low e-flat.
The far-off singer's voice became a siren wail as the not-quite-lovers climaxed.
The club's patrons applauded. Scully laughed and caught her breath.
Word has weird counting methods -- if this is technically NOT 157 words, well, I did my best.