Check Please
Title: Check Please
Genre: Roswell/Supernatural Crossover
Pairing: Drifter
Rating: Mature Adult or NC17
Warning: Situations of an extremely adult nature.
Setting: Post Roswell Canon. Anytime after Supernatural Pilot.
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Roswell or Supernatural.
“Care if I sit here?”
The question was redundant. Dean wouldn’t take no for an answer. Beautiful girl. Alone. Well past two in the morning. She was his best chance for getting laid that night. And getting laid? Well, it ranked pretty high on his priority list. More than high, it obliterated every other thought. He was horny, and he needed sex. Stat.
He slid into the booth, ignoring his brother’s angry gaze burning at his back. So Sam didn’t approve, what else was new? Dean was done convincing his little brother sex wasn’t equivalent to love. Sex was…well, sex. Fucking. Plain. Simple. No strings attached. It wouldn’t hurt his brother to get a little tail. Maybe getting laid would dislodge the stick from Sam’s butt. Something needed to, soon, or Dean was going to go all ninja on his ass.
Brief contemplation of a painful confrontation with Sam returned the smile to Dean’s lips. Was it wrong to look forward to kicking the shit out of his brother? Did he care?
No. Not really. Sam had it coming. With his bitching and his moaning and his whining… Yeah, his little brother wouldn’t know what hit him.
Brown eyes flicked up, capturing Dean’s, and Sam was forgotten in an instant. Beautiful girl. Right.
Amused, wary, but not surprised, not in the least. Dean’s eyelids narrowed with confusion, premonition; she had known he would take the seat across from her. Had he been that obvious when they’d entered the diner? He didn’t think so. Maybe it happened to her a lot, a strange man invading her privacy, striking up a conversation. Yeah, that was probably it. She was pretty. Not gorgeous, but someone who would turn a few heads no matter where she went.
Still, something about the woman didn’t set right in his gut. Something was definitely off-with him, with her, he didn’t know. She had his senses in chaos.
Not that it mattered. He had too much adrenaline rushing through his blood. The thrill of the hunt, the success of the kill always gave him a high. It was better than drugs, than alcohol. Exhilarated. Randy. And the best method he’d found for burning excess energy? One supercharged night of marathon sex with a hot woman. Mystery girl definitely fit the profile.
“Thanks.” Dean set his coffee cup on the formica tabletop. “This place is packed tonight.”
He grinned, the motion crinkling the corners of his eyes. Dean was lying; they both knew it. Neither appeared to care. His attention drifted across the diner, lighting on each of the empty seats. Other than the woman, Sam, the man behind the counter, a couple making out in the corner, and himself the place was empty. His brother snorted, and Dean knew, if he looked up, he would see Sam’s eyes rolling.
Quiet settled over the table, the stranger yet to speak. Dean frowned at her hair, her head bent over a book and shadowing her eyes. He studied her, the way the florescent light shimmered off her dark locks, the soft glow of umber skin peeking out from beneath faded denim. The line of her shoulders was relaxed, her posture at ease. Her hands were small, dainty; nails clipped short and neat, clean of polish and color. Not a girly-girl. Practical. Intelligent.
Voice lowering, rumbling from his chest, he held out his hand. “I’m Dean.”
Smooth, slow movements of her fingers closed the book, placing a thin ribbon between the pages. She pushed it aside, and propped her elbows on the table, cradling her cheeks between her palms and ignoring the outstretched appendage. Her eyes were large, the deepest of mahoganies, intense. His hand fell to the table, forgotten. Tiny flecks of gold danced and shone in her irises. Swirling. Mesmerizing. Dean struggled to keep contact, to hold her eyes, to not look away. It was difficult. There was a weight to her gaze, knowledge.
She nodded, her hair falling forward, obscuring her face. “Of course you are.”
The words were soft, a husky whisper of breath. Dean leaned closer to hear them, his upper body halfway across the distance before he realized what he had done. He carefully shifted the line of his back into the bench, folding his hands around the hot coffee. His fingers tapped against the ceramic cup, tracing the handle, rotating it back and forth. It was a not so conscious tell; he was nervous. Uncharacteristic. Girls did not unnerve Dean Winchester. No exceptions.
Grimacing, Dean looked down, away from her penetrating gaze. It was easier to breath, to think, to forget she had unsettled him without so much as a smile. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Whatever you want it to.”
This time she purred, a low seductive intonation that prickled the hair covering his flesh. Static erupted; heat searing, overwhelming. His palms were slick with sweat, damp. He released the cup, slipping his hands to his thighs and scouring the moisture into his jeans. She was forward, very direct.
“Um…yeah.” Dean nodded. He sought out Sam, but his brother wasn’t paying attention. “So…”
“So…” she repeated. A grin split the woman’s lips exposing a row of straight, white teeth. She was beautiful when she smiled. “You don’t have to be scared of me.”
“You don’t scare me.”
Dean threw an arm across the back of the booth, relaxing into his seat. She followed the movement, her gaze lingering on his fingertips. He wriggled his digits, smirking as her eyes glazed. Parlor tricks. It was careful engineering to insure a playmate for the night. Draw attention to the hands, to the mouth, make her think about all the things he could do to her, for her. He’d scored using less; she’d give in to him.
Her tongue darted out, wetting the red plumpness of her lips. He sucked in a shaky breath, studied the moisture glistening on the woman’s mouth. Seemed she had some experience with the game.
“You want me to?”
Muscles tightened, tension coiling in his groin. A question. A promise. Arousal spilled through him, the blood in his veins warming, igniting. The conversation was moving too quickly, even for him. Their chemistry had sparked instantaneously, a match to kindling. It was surprising and rare; usually it took more time, more effort, more of a show. Not with this one.
Leaning towards her, Dean tugged her hand into his, stroking the soft skin with his thumb. “You wanna get out of here?”
She laughed, the sound warm and light, and squeezed his fingers. “I can’t leave.”
His forehead wrinkled, not comprehending. He was getting the ‘fuck me’ vibes. Why didn’t she want to leave? Confusing. Irritating. He wanted to covet her properly, without the diner’s watchful eyes. It wasn’t the sort of town that would be amicable to exhibition acts, even if he could teach the locals a thing or two. Maybe she was teasing him, trying to humiliate him, never intending for their contact to be more than passing. Cruel.
Tempting, to cut his losses and retire for the night. Drag Sam away from his fifth cup of coffee and slice of apple pie to some local dive and sleep. A piece of ass wasn’t that important.
But he was horny…
Dean’s eyes skated over the woman, drinking in the deeply tanned flesh, the tight curves barely hidden under her clothing. She was small, dainty, but there was a hardness about her, a strength, a wild aura. He was enthralled by a chance to fuck her. They’d be explosive in bed, he knew, and that knowledge was near impossible to pass up.
“Why not?” He bit his lip, giving his best wounded look.
It was a simple and straightforward answer, despite the bemused eye rolling. “I’m waiting.”
“Waiting?” Dean looked around the small café. “For what?”
Face tensing, her mouth pulled into a straight, thin line. Her fingernails bit ever so slightly into the flesh of his palm. “How is that your concern?”
Oooo. Touchy. Dean knew he had hit a nerve although he had no idea how or why. She was waiting, but she wasn’t happy about it. Great. She was probably waiting for someone-a large, beefy male who could bend him double.
The nails retracted, and she pulled away, hands disappearing beneath the table. It was probably best for his sex life if he let it go. Let the subject drop.
“Just curious.” He shrugged good-naturedly, twirling his cup and glancing into the oily, black liquid. Of course, Dean had never been one for self-preservation when it came to sex. “Husband supposed to meet you?”
Demeanor wilting, she sipped from a cup. “Don’t have one.”
Good.
“Boyfriend?”
She squinted at him over her coffee, her eyes thoughtful. “Nope.”
Better.
“Girlfriend? Please let it be a girlfriend.”
His face lit with the possibility. She was interested in him. Maybe she could bring more to their bed. A friend would be the perfect ending to his night. He hadn’t shared a bed with two girls in years, not since-
She choked on her drink, spitting the coffee back into the mug. His daydream evaporated, his hopes smashed.
“No.” Shaky hands settled the cup onto the table. She was laughing, her head tossing gently from side-to-side. “I’m straight.”
Dean sighed, disappointed. Lingering images teased his thoughts. It would’ve been beautiful-him, her, an as yet unidentified woman. “What a shame.”
“What was that?”
His head jerked up, his lips fixed in a devious smirk. Oh. He’d said the last part out loud. “I said, ‘Good.’”
She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling playfully. “Uh-huh.”
At least she wasn’t angry. Or she hid it very well. Dean wasn’t going to dwell over which. He had a goal. Dazzle her. Lure her to a motel room. Fuck her silly. Send her packing in the morning. Pretty clear-cut as far as plans went.
“So what’re you reading?”
His fingers danced across the table, playing with the discarded book. He rotated it until the title was legible: The Collected Works of Robert Frost. Wonderful. Intellectual female, he’d known that, but there was no way he could fake a conversation about poetry. Dean fingered the tattered pages, noting the hard creased spine. The book fell open without prompting, one poem marked by wear and time, words nearly faded into obscurity.
“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but I have promises to keep.” He paused, frowning at the lines. “And miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.”
The woman’s face darkened, her lashes lowering, but not before Dean saw the sorrow pooling in her eyes. They glistened, drops of water shimmering before they were blinked away. So much pain from so little. Words, that was all. Just words.
“Stop.” Her breath hitched as she reached across the table, plucking the ragged copy from his grasp. It disappeared into the inner sanctity of her jacket.
Dean wondered at the change, if he should address it. It had been unintentional, but he had provoked her, caused something to resurface. His fault, and that troubled him. He didn’t want tears or sadness; he wanted sweat and rapture. He wanted sticky bodies, moving in tandem, driving the other to the pinnacle of mind numbing bliss. Maybe he could fuck away the tears? He was more than willing to give it the old college try. It would be such a sacrifice, putting a smile on a pretty girl’s face with his cock.
Yeah. Right. A sacrifice. He was a self-serving bastard sometimes. Time to duck and run. Her lip trembled, and he sighed.
“What?” Dean swallowed a long pull of his coffee, grimacing at the taste. Terrible. “You can’t leave.” He caught her eyes, knew he’d regret his next words. “And I’m not going anywhere. We’ve gotta talk about something.”
She settled back into the booth, folding her hands on the tabletop. Apparently the weak moment had passed, she was herself again. Or, really, the self Dean recognized. Pity, he’d been enjoying the side trip into her consciousness, getting to know her. He didn’t think her façade cracked often, not with strangers, not with friends. She had exposed herself to him, shown a piece he knew she kept hidden. It had been brief, but real, human, and it enthralled him.
The realization was sudden, scary, and jerked Dean back from the path he’d unintentionally pursued. He did not care about the inner workings of her mind, only the tightness of her cunt as he worked in and out of her body. She was a piece of ass; anything else was trouble.
Flinty, but amused, she drew Dean back into discussion. “And you’re interested in Robert Frost?”
“No, but it’s conversation.” A little honesty never hurt, chicks dug that shtick. Dean pulled at a string on his sleeve, smoothed it down. He did not feel guilty. He did not feel guilty. “You don’t strike me as a guns and ammo type of girl, so topics are limited.”
“And you think you could hold a conversation about American poetry?” Her eyes lit, a good-natured gleam filling her gaze as she traced the lines of his face, his chest, hovering over his abdomen. “Can’t say you fit the intellectual mold.”
Dean smiled, but knew the action was forced. She had inadvertently insulted his pride. So what if he didn’t know dick about poetry? He wasn’t an idiot. A pretty face and killer bod did not automatically equate with moron. He wagered he knew a lot more about the seedy underside of life than she ever would. Knew about it, and could fight it. What could she do? Bat her eyelashes? Flash some skin? Battling the supernatural took a lot more brains than brawn. He-
Wait. He cocked his head to the side, bit the inside of his cheek. Why was he irritated? She wanted him for his body not his mind. Wasn’t that the exact reason he’d settled into the seat across from her?
Right. Dean rolled his eyes. Time to get the convo back on track. “I’m more of a doer than a reader.”
Eyes trailed up his torso, sparking as they lingered on his mouth. “I bet.”
Whoa, Nelly. Dean shifted, tugging uncomfortably at his jeans. Biting venom or sultry come-ons, his cock really didn’t discriminate. It was all foreplay.
Fingers settled on his knee, gripping ever so slightly. Warmth spread across the inside of his thigh, her palm sliding up his denim-clad leg. The breath caught in Dean’s throat, and he swallowed thickly. So he hadn’t misread her interest, that was-
“Fuck.”
He inhaled slowly, shakily, all too aware of the fingertips tracing the line of his zipper, fluttering along the rigid length of his erection. Good God. Thick denim, cotton boxers, and he could still feel every twitch of her wrist, the faint, arousing pressure of each touch. His senses were in overload, his hands gripping weakly at the edge of the table.
How had they passed from innuendo to second base so quickly?
Hell, he still didn’t know her name. Which, really, was becoming less of a problem the longer her hands caressed his cock.
“Shh.” Her lips puckered, her cheeks flushing.
She leaned forward, t-shirt gaping, exposing the tops of her breasts. Dean’s eyes glazed, riveted to the glimpse of red satin, to the soft flesh undulating with her every movement. He barely registered the fly of his jeans opening, the zipper sliding down with audible snicks. His hips shifted of their own accord, grinding into the damp heat surging through the thin layer of his underwear. Nails…oh God…her nails… And her palm…pressing, squeezing, flesh teasing him through the slit of his boxers.
And then it wasn’t. The contact broke off, heat and pressure gone.
“Wahh…?”
Relaxed, grinning, she rested against the back of her bench, arms folded across her stomach. Dean blinked, more than a little confused. A mirage? Had he imagined it? A quick glance to his lap confirmed otherwise-his dick jutted proudly from the opening in his boxers. Speaking of which-he dropped a napkin across his groin.
So, to recap: It had happened. The strange woman had felt him up, in public. She had then proceeded to unfasten the closure of his jeans and extract his penis from said jeans under the pretense of giving him a hand job. (That’d earned her some brownie points.) Finally, she had gotten him all sorts of horny and had stopped before-
“Shit.”
Feet worked nimbly up his calves, over his hamstrings, dipping under his waistband. Toes grazed his arousal, and Dean sucked heavily at the air. Cool. Rough. They rubbed his length, kneaded the tender head of his penis, tickled the tightening skin of his balls. His body shuddered, jolting off the cushion, reveling at the unexpected friction. Jesus. She knew what she was doing.
“Ahh. Ahh.”
Dean caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Sam. His brother was pushing away from the counter, turning towards their table. The apprehension was unmistakable, the surge of fear almost palpable. Dean would’ve laughed, if he could spare the energy. Instead, he focused all his willpower into frantic shakes of his head. The motion came out jerky, and, he was certain, less than convincing. At least it didn’t keep Sam from stalking in his direction.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice was concerned. “You okay?”
Fucking A-OK. Dean grimaced; he didn’t have the vocals to speak the words aloud. Fuck. Strange woman or not, she clearly played by her own rules. Skipping bases, sneaking around the umpire, running straight towards home. Baseball analogies aside, she’d stolen all logical thought. He was going to come, all over her foot, with his brother looking on. Not the climax he’d anticipated.
So much for his rule about PDA. Well, it was more of a guideline than a rule, but Dean was certain the foot job crossed some line he’d forged in his mind. Leaped over, really. Blasted the rule to bits. A woman with a fetish for sexual acts in public places-Christ, she’d probably kill him.
But he’d die a very happy man.
“Dean?”
Oh, yeah, the brother. Dean needed to do something about that. Fast. Sam was about to get an eyeful.
As much as it pained him to do so, Dean doubled over, trembling fingers capturing the woman’s foot in his hand. He succeeded in trapping the ankle, but the toes… The toes…
Dean gave up, his mind escaping to a distant, contented place. His hand grew slack, clenched, pulling more so than pushing. Encouraging. Damn it. He couldn’t stop what was happening, couldn’t stop his balls from tightening, couldn’t stop his pelvis from its jerky spasms. Her toes curled, and he twitched against them, white halos infringing on his vision. Teeth gritted, hands balled into fists, he fought the orgasm threatening to ride his body. To no avail, his will wasn’t strong enough. It washed over him in a blaze of molten fire, lava rushing through his veins.
Holy. Fucking. G-
A series of loud explosions rocked the diner, slamming Dean’s back into the bench. He was stunned, dazed but not impervious to the pandemonium erupting around him. Something had gone wrong. Something had intruded upon his lusty romp. It was the glass that gave it away-it had shattered inwards, shards raining on the table, a fine dust glittering with refracted light-and the chips of formica imbedded in the side of his face. It was the cold stillness that enveloped him, cemented every muscle in his body. It was the choked screams and squealing tires. Something was off.
It was a long moment before the weapon registered, the rapid succession of dispelled ammunition. A machine gun, something automatic anyway. The noise had dulled Dean’s hearing, had numbed all his senses, but he was certain of his recognition and all that implied. Someone had fired though the diner’s window, blasting-
His eyes snapped to where Sam had been sitting. The countertop was shattered, riddled with bullet holes, irreparable; the red, vinyl stool ripped and freshly scarred. No brother. Dean’s gaze plummeted to the floor, found nothing. It was then he remembered Sam had been coming towards him, not sitting. Sure enough, his brother squatted below the counter, fingers searching out the gun Dean knew was nestled in the small of his back. Sammy’s face was tight, tense, but not with pain. It was his game face, knowing harm might befall the people occupying the diner. Untouched.
Sam could take care of himself. Apparently his sense of self-preservation was kicking in much faster than Dean’s. Damn. Get a little…action and his instincts went haywire.
Silently, he cursed himself and slid low in the bench, under the line of the windows. Dean stuffed his cock back in his pants and tugged the zipper into place. He forgot the button, forgot everything, really. He’d almost died, and it was the only thought concerning him. Well, that, and making sure the deliverer of one of his most intense orgasms ever hadn’t gotten herself shot up.
Gaze roving, Dean found the woman where he had left her. She hadn’t moved, not at the play of gunfire, not in the general bedlam of the diner. Cool, calm, unaffected. Dark eyes blinked at him, sparkling brightly. He stared, his jaw dropping. Was that awe? Admiration? Was he registering an emotion other than hunger?
Impossible.
Dean folded his body under the table, and scrambled blindly to capture the woman’s hand. She batted him away, but he held fast and pulled. And she resisted, he’d known she would.
“Get down,” he growled. Dean glared at her, willing her to cooperate. “They could come back.”
Shrugging, she patted his hand and tried to ease from his grip. “They’re not coming back.”
His hold tightened, impressing nails into the flesh of her palm. He wasn’t taking no for an answer. “Humor me.”
She huffed and rolled her eyes, but allowed herself to be dragged beside him, or, rather, on top of him. Her tight little ass wedged into his thigh, her legs splayed across his lap. She turned into him, and Dean was only too aware of the proximity of her lips, of the perfume of her hair, of the damp pants of her breath against his cheek.
“This isn’t comfortable.”
Despite the fact she was right-the space was confining, cramped, and Dean had to keep his head bent at an awkward angle to avoid bashing his skull on the table-he found her attitude disconcerting. Weren’t girls supposed to get all…girly in dire situations? Cry into his shoulder? Press her soft body as close to his as possible? Scream?
Oh, right, this girl wasn’t the clingy type. Which, he found, was seriously turning him on.
“You almost die, could still die, and…” She wriggled and his train of thought meandered off course, veered straight to unholy acts of adultery. Certain parts of his anatomy responded. Uh oh. “Stop that.”
She grimaced, and rubbed at her arm. “Your gun is jabbing me.”
“Honey,” he drawled, “that’s not a gun.”
Hands flattened against his chest, fingers plucking the lapel of his jacket. Dean glanced down, sighting cold, black steel peeking out from under his arm. Huh.
Face smoothed, tightened, finally settling on a sheepish grin. “Oh, well, maybe that is a gun.”
“You think, Hotshot?”
Irritation colored her voice, but she was impossible to read. Was that a smile? What the hell was wrong with her? And why the fuck wasn’t she just a teensy-weensy bit worried?
Dean frowned and planted his hands on her hips, helping her shift into a better position, away from his…um…gun. Crap. Movement only complicated things. There was the friction and, oh yeah, the fact she was straddling him. Yup. Uh-huh. Legs to either side of his thighs. Arms trapped against his chest. Face resting intimately in the crook of his neck. Her…heat was everywhere. If it had been any other situation…
He would what? See what color panties she wore?
Actually, that wasn’t a half bad idea. Maybe she didn’t wear panties. Maybe all that separated him from touching her was a layer of denim.
Hmmm.
The woman pulled away, perching as far back on his thighs as she could manage. “You mind?”
“Huh?” His head jerked up, following the line of the woman’s grimace. Curious, seemed his hands were planted on the rounded contours of her ass. The flesh felt really good, too. Firm. Dean flexed his fingers, smirking at the flush that crept across her face.
Did he mind? No, not really.
“You’ve got an incredible ass.”
Dean shrugged, the movement upsetting the woman’s precarious position and spilling her into the center of his chest. She pushed against him, warm palms heating his flesh through his t-shirt. His nipples hardened with her struggle, with the constant friction applied to them, and she froze. She gave up, her body relaxing into his, the line of her torso flush with his.
She whispered into his neck, teeth grazing his skin. “You’ve never seen my ass.”
A shiver raced up Dean’s spine, his back bowing in pleasure. He gripped the girl tighter, his hands convulsing around her ass, shifting her closer. It was strange and wonderful, his body’s reaction to the tiny brunette. One touch and he was ready for anything, everything. Of course, it really wasn’t one touch; it was more a vertical aligning of bodies. Sex with clothes on. All that lovely friction without the slippery slick of arousal and sweat. God, how he wanted to get naked and rut. Rut and rut and rut and rut.
Lungs quickening, Dean dropped his mouth to her ear, nuzzling his nose into her dark tresses. Dark and husky, his lips brushed the shell of her ear. “Well, it feels good.”
She hesitated then pressed impossibly closer, so close the heat of her sex seared through two layers of denim. “I can tell.”
“About that…” Dean rocked his hips off the floor, teasing. Teasing who? He just didn’t know. “Wanna go back to my place and fuck?”
He could hear the smile in her voice and in the slight tremors vibrating her body. “Subtle much?”
“Sorry.” His tongue darted out, flattening against the skin in the hollow of her ear. He licked her hard and slow. “Would you like to accompany me to the hotel where I’ll be staying the night so we can engage in tawdry deeds of a horizontal variety?”
Fingers curled, nails biting into the swell of his pectorals. Wholly affected by in ministrations, hot little body completely taken by a swipe of his tongue. She really had to suck at poker, ‘cuz he knew she was fighting hard not to react to him. But the little tells… The tightening of muscles in her legs. The surprised intake of breath. The sudden scent of her arousal. Hard to ignore. She wanted to fuck him blue.
“Sorry, don’t speak jackass.” Dean gave her a few more points for keeping her voice to a breathy rasp.
“Again, sorry.” He smirked, sucking her lobe into his mouth and releasing it with a wet smack. She was so his. “Would you like to join me for a drink? In my room? Under the sheets? With all of your clothes off?”
Her head tilted back, and Dean stared into her eyes. Something swirled in the dark depths, something cautious but wanting. Crimson filled her cheeks, her lips slack and dry. So very taken, by him, by insinuated acts, by his erection pressed so intimately against her crotch. It was difficult to watch her expression harden, to know what she would say.
“Can’t. I’ve gotta go.” For a moment, she looked worried, almost frantic, but it passed. “Places to be and all that.”
Dean’s hands drifted up her spine, slipping beneath the edge of her shirt to smooth circles into the small of her back. He wasn’t letting her go. “Can’t go, there’s an armed assailant outside.”
Heat flashed in her eyes, anger, but she didn’t bolt from his touch. An improvement. “And I told you they were gone.”
Gaze narrowing, Dean traced the lines of the girl’s face, searching for sign of her confidence. It was the second time she’d made the statement, and she meant it. The gunners weren’t coming back. How could she be sure? Hell, maybe it was a drive-by, but she couldn’t know for certain. No one could.
“How do you know they aren’t waiting for everyone inside to be outside?” He frowned. “So they can finish the job properly?”
A troubled smile spread across her face, and she looked away. “I’d know if they were.”
“So not only do you jack strangers off in out-of-the-way diners, but you’re psychic?”
Oops. Dean flinched at the words, at the sharp tilt of her chin, at the flames dancing wildly in her eyes. He hadn’t meant to say that part aloud. Well, yeah, maybe he had, but she wasn’t giving him the reaction he’d expected. She was supposed to laugh. It was supposed to break the tension that had sprung up around them. The atmosphere was damn near suffocating.
He sighed, shifting gears. “Why?”
Forehead crinkling, she looked at him. “Why what?”
“Why do you have to leave?” And why did it physically pain him to think about her exodus? “Why can’t you just come with me? I promise I won’t bite.” Despite himself, the words brought crystal clear imagery. The smile was immediate and unstoppable. “Unless you want me to.”
The corners of her lips twitched, and she averted her gaze. Answer enough for him. “Do you want me to?” He cupped her cheek, drew her eyes back to his. “’Cuz I can do that. My mouth is at your service. I’ll-”
“Stop.” She pressed a finger to his lips, let her hand slide to curl behind his ear. “I have to leave because I broke a rule.”
He thought back to her hands, to her touch. “I think we both did, sweetheart.”
A tongue. Lips. Heat infused cheeks. Fluttering fringe of eyelashes. Dark, glistening irises. His eyes raked over her face, his fingers snarling in her hair, dragging her mouth to him. Want, he wanted to taste her, to dip his tongue inside her mouth and taste her sweet saliva. He nudged her nose with his, tilting her head to the side to inhale the scent of her soft skin. Tender flesh. Smooth. His mouth hovered over hers, breath mingling, hesitant, savoring. The first brush of those soft lips would be his undoing. Hers. He could feel it.
“Dean, you okay?”
The words were unwelcome, interruptive. She jerked away, out of his hands, as far as she could retreat and still be seated in his lap. So…not far, but the division was definite, shattering.
“Great, Sam.” He grunted, scowling at the face peeking beneath the tabletop. “Go away.”
Miracle of all miracles, his brother listened. No arguments. Nothing. Must’ve been the frustrated anger infusing Dean’s face. He could’ve murdered Sam at that moment, and felt no remorse. Well, a little remorse-he didn’t relish cleaning Sam’s blood out of his clothes. It was probably just as stubborn.
Deep breath. Sigh. Pick up the pieces. She had reasons for resistance; maybe he should find them out before launching another assault. Assault: Such a pretty word for what he was actually doing…begging, for sex. If she wasn’t so hot, he would have been ashamed.
“Out of curiosity, what rule?”
There, that wasn’t so hard. He could be sensitive, inquisitive man, ready to lend a shoulder-really, any part of his body-for comfort. She’d broken some law she lived by, and that was always painful to accept. It was disruptive enough to her that she refused the solace of his bed. Must be something huge, something-
“Never get involved with a job.” Her face tightened, closed up, all shaded eyes and thin lips.
Funny, it was quite the opposite for him. Dean never turned down a little ‘Thank You’ sex, a little ‘We’re Both Hot and Might Die So We Better Fuck’ sex. In fact-
“Job?”
What? Dean’s heart tripped, spilling into his throat. His fingers curled into fists, his nails cutting through the flesh of his palm. A job? What did that mean? She was paid to have sex with him?
His mouth gaped, sputtering before he found words. “I was a job?”
She softened, her features regaining fullness, color. “Not you, not directly.”
Not him? What then? The gunfire…
“Sam?” Dean jolted, his head slamming into the table. If there was pain, he didn’t feel it. “Sam was the job?”
Hands lashed out, securing the upper arms of the woman. He squeezed, more tightly than he’d intended because her face skewed with pain. For the moment, it didn’t matter; he didn’t relent. She was a threat to his brother’s safety and that did matter.
“What?” Dean grimaced, his words hard and crisp. “You were hired to kill him? Is that why you know the gunners are gone?”
“No. God no.” She jerked back, revulsion sliding into her expression. “I don’t kill people. The opposite, really.”
A flash of memory was the only way to describe it-Sam looking at him, standing, walking away from the counter. It had been very timely, her public display of…hand dexterity. But that was impossible and impractical. There were much easier ways to warn someone, less exhibition, more, more…
“The plan was for me to call Sam over to the table, not to…” She rolled her eyes and he eased his grip, feeling the truth in her words. “Apparently, you’re irresistible.”
Irresistible. Yes, that was easy to believe. No woman held out for long when he turned the charm on. But the rest…get Sam to move?
Oh. Dean’s eyes widened, careened to hers. “If you hadn’t…”
She nodded, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. “He would’ve died.”
The breath left Dean’s body. Realization a sharp blow to his sternum. The woman had known about the gunfire, had known and come to the diner anyway. She’d been there to stop Sam from a bullet, to keep him alive. He should be grateful-and he was-but the knowledge seriously pissed him off.
“How could you possibly know that?”
Arms folded over her chest, protective, defensive, warding him away. “You’re not the only one in the business of helping people, Dean.”
Evasion, to be expected. Too bad he wouldn’t take no as an answer. The anger simmering within him cooled, became some controllable thing. She wouldn’t respond to threat, he knew that much about her.
“How?”
“Do we have to talk about this?” Her eyes grew wide, lids quivering. “I saved your brother’s life. Isn’t that enough?”
It was a plea, and Dean felt something within him crack. Her reasons for shielding weren’t selfish. She was protecting something, someone. Her? He didn’t think so, at least not totally. He had experience with secrets, with the pain and destruction they could cause. And her secret…it was big. In his business, though, a secret could kill. They were too involved for him to allow her safe passage. He was too involved.
“Enough?” Dean snorted. “What in the hell makes you think that’s enough?” He lowered his voice, leaned into her personal space. “Was it the perplexed expression? The slight glazing of my eyes? My grinding jaws?” He reached for her shoulder then thought better of it and dropped his hand to his side. “You owe me an answer.”
Refusal was on the tip of her tongue, in the wrinkling of her eyes, in the stiffness of her muscles. Yet, she relaxed, her shoulders drooping, a sigh spilling from her lips. “I’m a precog.”
Precog? As in receiving visions of the future? Pretty plain secret to be holding so dearly. Dean knew a lot of psychics who flaunted their otherness, ones with a lot less potential than she suggested. She had known when and where the attack would happen, not just an impression of danger. She had known a little about him, a little about his brother, not just pictures. No, she was hiding something else, something a lot more mysterious, a lot more hazardous.
He wanted to ask her, to be blunt and demand more answers, but what came out of his mouth was a lot less invasive. “Oh.”
“That’s it?” She stared at him, suspicion one of the more recognizable emotions crossing her face. “Oh?”
Yeah, he’d been right. She wasn’t ready to spill everything to him. That’d take time, patience, and some mind-blowing orgasms. Huh. He’d found a woman who held his interest longer than it took to unzip his jeans. What next? Flying pigs?
“I’ve heard crazier.” He shrugged. “Hell, I’ve seen crazier.”
“Great.” She exhaled, unfolding her arms to brace her hands on her thighs. “Now I’m crazy.”
“No.” Dean snagged her hands, entwining their fingers. His thumbs stroked the seam of her jeans. “Now I owe you.”
Her breath caught, her body swaying towards his. “That’s not why I do this.”
“Oh?” He released her hands, sliding his palms up to grip her hips. “So you jacked me off for what? The greater good of humanity?”
“I saved a random girl from a night of meaningless sex and morning-after remorse.” Her eyes glazed, her tongue licking the lower swell of her lip. “So, yeah, I’d say it was for the greater good-“
“Not some random girl.” Dean tugged her, hauling her into his chest. God, he’d missed her heat. “You. You saved yourself from a night of meaningless sex.”
Rigidity lined her spine, her entire body coiling with tension. He studied her face, the black abyss of dilated pupils, the soft flaring of her nostrils. She was in over her head, trapped. She wanted him, wanted every part of him, but she was a fighter, not given to whim or fancy.
“Sex isn’t meaningless for me.”
He nuzzled her neck, wet lips sliding along her collarbone. “Yet you made me come.”
She shuddered, a low moan working free from her throat. “Lapse in judgment.”
“Lapse or not, doesn’t change what you did.” He purred into her ear, flicking his tongue over the fleshy lobe. “Doesn’t change what you want.”
“And what do I want?”
“I thought you could see the future.” He laughed, a deep rumble that spilled from his chest. “You want me to take you home. To throw you on the bed. To rip off your clothes. To run my tongue over your hot, damp body. To slip my fingers inside your cunt. To rub you in all the places that make you scream.”
Breaking. Giving in. “And…you…what do you want?”
“I want to sink my cock inside you. To stretch you. To drive into you. To make you writhe and yell my name. To feel your nails digging into my back. To feel your calves tighten around my ass. To feel your body clench and spasm. To fuck you until you’re too weak to move, too hoarse to cry out.”
They both breathed heavily, panting at the air. Dean’s body was warm, but not nearly as much as hers. She was heat, flames licking through every layer of denim, cotton, leather. His arms wound around her back, forcing her closer, into him.
She sighed into his cheek, her tongue tasting his jaw. “Thought you didn’t do poetry.”
Dean’s hand fisted in her hair, tugging her head back and exposing her neck. He whispered into her skin, his breath a caress of moist air. “Poetry isn’t just pretty words.”
She trembled and writhed in his lap. Pushing closer. Pushing farther away. He couldn’t tell, didn’t think there was a difference. It was undeniable, their attraction. Inevitable. The heat between them would bind them or destroy them. Either way, he couldn’t bring himself to care. For this…whatever it was, he would put everything on the line. Sacrifice. Surrender.
Damp, wet, lips moved almost silently against the stubble on his cheek. “I’m not that kind of girl.”
Breathing, coaxing a hand to twine in her hair, Dean relished her release, her capitulation. “I think you want to be.”
“I think you’ll say anything to get what you want.” The words were teasing, mocking, but she made no motion to escape, to leave his embrace.
Dean kneaded the base of her scalp, threads of satin slipping through his fingers. “And what is that?”
“Random, meaningless sex.”
He inhaled deeply, shakily, voicing what he knew to be true in his heart. “We’ve moved beyond meaningless.”
Her breath caught, her body stilling. Cautious. Hopeful? “To what?”
“The fuck if I know.” Dean smirked, withdrawing to meet her eyes. Shining and black, mesmerizing. “I’m just going with it.”
A flicker of a smile quirked her lips, and she touched her hand to his jaw. “With what, exactly?”
Flutter of his heart, pounding of his pulse. He was honest with himself, to her. “The feeling in my gut.”
“Do that often?” She glanced down the line of his body, skimming his abdomen before returning his gaze. Steady. Not looking away. “Follow your gut?”
“It’s never led me wrong.” He cocked his head to the side, frowned. “Of course, it’s almost gotten me killed a few times.”
Her head shook from side-to-side, dark hair spilling about her shoulders, framing her face. Amused and bemused. Wary. “That’s reassuring.”
“So are you gonna come with me or not?” Dean waggled his eyebrows, allowing his fingers to drift down her neck, dip beneath her collar. “Cuz I’ve gotta ditch Sam if you are.”
She arched an eyebrow, and rested a hand against his chest. Her flesh burned through cotton, flamed his smoldering arousal. “And here I thought you got off on voyeurism.”
“Special occasion, Babe.” He released her neck, tapped the hand covering his heart. “I’m a one man show.”
A giggle. So girly. Out of place, but not. He loved it. “Then why do you need me?”
Dean widened his eyes, pursing his lips. His own way of saying ‘Are you kidding?’ Like his hand and his memories were the only stimulus he would need. He was nearly positive that after her ‘debut’ self-flagellation was just not going to do it for him. Ever.
Pause. The only sound the harsh pants of air exiting lungs. It allowed him time to think, to breathe, to adjust. Everything had spiraled out so quickly-the night, the girl, the attraction, the lust. It was weirdly strange and a bit unsettling. He’d been looking for a quick score, another notch on his belt, and he’d found something else. Something he didn’t quite know how to handle. Something that could be very, very good.
“Can I kiss you?”
“You’re asking?” Her nose wrinkled and she blinked dazedly at him. “I thought you just took what-“
Right. He did. Dean’s lips crashed to hers, drowning out complaints, thought, breath. He swallowed her, his mouth demanding, hard, fusing, plying. She was sweeter, softer, wetter than he had imagined. More, just more. She melted into his mouth, lips parting, hands curling into the fabric of his shirt. Tugged closer, hands lost in the silky locks of her hair. She was his air, his being, his life. Tongues and teeth. The perfect mix of heat and desire. Ravenous. It was so easy to give himself away, to her. To take and take and take.
Dean forced himself back, tore his mouth from the delicate petals of hers. Disoriented. Adrift in her…everything. So easy… So easy…
“Why’d you stop?”
He panted, his forehead resting against hers. “If we’re gonna do this, I need you to tell me one thing.”
Hesitant, a trace of fear. “Yeah?”
There were many things he could ask, many answers he could demand, but only one was important. “What’s your name?”
A sigh of relief, reassurance. “Elizabeth, but you can call me Liz.”
“Well, Liz…” Dean gripped her chin, planting a noisy kiss to her mouth. “Wanna fuck?”
Liz scowled, curling her mouth petulantly. “I don’t fuck. I make love.”
It was all one in the same for him. Sex was fucking. Love was fucking. Fuck, fucking was fucking. Two people driven to each other, bodies twined, plundering. Him inside her, that was it. “The difference?”
Again, Liz sighed, her face falling. He could feel her pulling away, withdrawing emotionally. “You’ll still be there in the morning.”
Dean thought about the distinction, mused over it for a millisecond. Fucking was two bodies moving in tandem seeking that ethereal glow. Lovemaking was more involved, more than one night. Would he still be there in the morning? One look, one touch, one breath of Liz and the answer was obvious.
“Yeah, I will.”
********
The End
Genre: Roswell/Supernatural Crossover
Pairing: Drifter
Rating: Mature Adult or NC17
Warning: Situations of an extremely adult nature.
Setting: Post Roswell Canon. Anytime after Supernatural Pilot.
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Roswell or Supernatural.
“Care if I sit here?”
The question was redundant. Dean wouldn’t take no for an answer. Beautiful girl. Alone. Well past two in the morning. She was his best chance for getting laid that night. And getting laid? Well, it ranked pretty high on his priority list. More than high, it obliterated every other thought. He was horny, and he needed sex. Stat.
He slid into the booth, ignoring his brother’s angry gaze burning at his back. So Sam didn’t approve, what else was new? Dean was done convincing his little brother sex wasn’t equivalent to love. Sex was…well, sex. Fucking. Plain. Simple. No strings attached. It wouldn’t hurt his brother to get a little tail. Maybe getting laid would dislodge the stick from Sam’s butt. Something needed to, soon, or Dean was going to go all ninja on his ass.
Brief contemplation of a painful confrontation with Sam returned the smile to Dean’s lips. Was it wrong to look forward to kicking the shit out of his brother? Did he care?
No. Not really. Sam had it coming. With his bitching and his moaning and his whining… Yeah, his little brother wouldn’t know what hit him.
Brown eyes flicked up, capturing Dean’s, and Sam was forgotten in an instant. Beautiful girl. Right.
Amused, wary, but not surprised, not in the least. Dean’s eyelids narrowed with confusion, premonition; she had known he would take the seat across from her. Had he been that obvious when they’d entered the diner? He didn’t think so. Maybe it happened to her a lot, a strange man invading her privacy, striking up a conversation. Yeah, that was probably it. She was pretty. Not gorgeous, but someone who would turn a few heads no matter where she went.
Still, something about the woman didn’t set right in his gut. Something was definitely off-with him, with her, he didn’t know. She had his senses in chaos.
Not that it mattered. He had too much adrenaline rushing through his blood. The thrill of the hunt, the success of the kill always gave him a high. It was better than drugs, than alcohol. Exhilarated. Randy. And the best method he’d found for burning excess energy? One supercharged night of marathon sex with a hot woman. Mystery girl definitely fit the profile.
“Thanks.” Dean set his coffee cup on the formica tabletop. “This place is packed tonight.”
He grinned, the motion crinkling the corners of his eyes. Dean was lying; they both knew it. Neither appeared to care. His attention drifted across the diner, lighting on each of the empty seats. Other than the woman, Sam, the man behind the counter, a couple making out in the corner, and himself the place was empty. His brother snorted, and Dean knew, if he looked up, he would see Sam’s eyes rolling.
Quiet settled over the table, the stranger yet to speak. Dean frowned at her hair, her head bent over a book and shadowing her eyes. He studied her, the way the florescent light shimmered off her dark locks, the soft glow of umber skin peeking out from beneath faded denim. The line of her shoulders was relaxed, her posture at ease. Her hands were small, dainty; nails clipped short and neat, clean of polish and color. Not a girly-girl. Practical. Intelligent.
Voice lowering, rumbling from his chest, he held out his hand. “I’m Dean.”
Smooth, slow movements of her fingers closed the book, placing a thin ribbon between the pages. She pushed it aside, and propped her elbows on the table, cradling her cheeks between her palms and ignoring the outstretched appendage. Her eyes were large, the deepest of mahoganies, intense. His hand fell to the table, forgotten. Tiny flecks of gold danced and shone in her irises. Swirling. Mesmerizing. Dean struggled to keep contact, to hold her eyes, to not look away. It was difficult. There was a weight to her gaze, knowledge.
She nodded, her hair falling forward, obscuring her face. “Of course you are.”
The words were soft, a husky whisper of breath. Dean leaned closer to hear them, his upper body halfway across the distance before he realized what he had done. He carefully shifted the line of his back into the bench, folding his hands around the hot coffee. His fingers tapped against the ceramic cup, tracing the handle, rotating it back and forth. It was a not so conscious tell; he was nervous. Uncharacteristic. Girls did not unnerve Dean Winchester. No exceptions.
Grimacing, Dean looked down, away from her penetrating gaze. It was easier to breath, to think, to forget she had unsettled him without so much as a smile. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Whatever you want it to.”
This time she purred, a low seductive intonation that prickled the hair covering his flesh. Static erupted; heat searing, overwhelming. His palms were slick with sweat, damp. He released the cup, slipping his hands to his thighs and scouring the moisture into his jeans. She was forward, very direct.
“Um…yeah.” Dean nodded. He sought out Sam, but his brother wasn’t paying attention. “So…”
“So…” she repeated. A grin split the woman’s lips exposing a row of straight, white teeth. She was beautiful when she smiled. “You don’t have to be scared of me.”
“You don’t scare me.”
Dean threw an arm across the back of the booth, relaxing into his seat. She followed the movement, her gaze lingering on his fingertips. He wriggled his digits, smirking as her eyes glazed. Parlor tricks. It was careful engineering to insure a playmate for the night. Draw attention to the hands, to the mouth, make her think about all the things he could do to her, for her. He’d scored using less; she’d give in to him.
Her tongue darted out, wetting the red plumpness of her lips. He sucked in a shaky breath, studied the moisture glistening on the woman’s mouth. Seemed she had some experience with the game.
“You want me to?”
Muscles tightened, tension coiling in his groin. A question. A promise. Arousal spilled through him, the blood in his veins warming, igniting. The conversation was moving too quickly, even for him. Their chemistry had sparked instantaneously, a match to kindling. It was surprising and rare; usually it took more time, more effort, more of a show. Not with this one.
Leaning towards her, Dean tugged her hand into his, stroking the soft skin with his thumb. “You wanna get out of here?”
She laughed, the sound warm and light, and squeezed his fingers. “I can’t leave.”
His forehead wrinkled, not comprehending. He was getting the ‘fuck me’ vibes. Why didn’t she want to leave? Confusing. Irritating. He wanted to covet her properly, without the diner’s watchful eyes. It wasn’t the sort of town that would be amicable to exhibition acts, even if he could teach the locals a thing or two. Maybe she was teasing him, trying to humiliate him, never intending for their contact to be more than passing. Cruel.
Tempting, to cut his losses and retire for the night. Drag Sam away from his fifth cup of coffee and slice of apple pie to some local dive and sleep. A piece of ass wasn’t that important.
But he was horny…
Dean’s eyes skated over the woman, drinking in the deeply tanned flesh, the tight curves barely hidden under her clothing. She was small, dainty, but there was a hardness about her, a strength, a wild aura. He was enthralled by a chance to fuck her. They’d be explosive in bed, he knew, and that knowledge was near impossible to pass up.
“Why not?” He bit his lip, giving his best wounded look.
It was a simple and straightforward answer, despite the bemused eye rolling. “I’m waiting.”
“Waiting?” Dean looked around the small café. “For what?”
Face tensing, her mouth pulled into a straight, thin line. Her fingernails bit ever so slightly into the flesh of his palm. “How is that your concern?”
Oooo. Touchy. Dean knew he had hit a nerve although he had no idea how or why. She was waiting, but she wasn’t happy about it. Great. She was probably waiting for someone-a large, beefy male who could bend him double.
The nails retracted, and she pulled away, hands disappearing beneath the table. It was probably best for his sex life if he let it go. Let the subject drop.
“Just curious.” He shrugged good-naturedly, twirling his cup and glancing into the oily, black liquid. Of course, Dean had never been one for self-preservation when it came to sex. “Husband supposed to meet you?”
Demeanor wilting, she sipped from a cup. “Don’t have one.”
Good.
“Boyfriend?”
She squinted at him over her coffee, her eyes thoughtful. “Nope.”
Better.
“Girlfriend? Please let it be a girlfriend.”
His face lit with the possibility. She was interested in him. Maybe she could bring more to their bed. A friend would be the perfect ending to his night. He hadn’t shared a bed with two girls in years, not since-
She choked on her drink, spitting the coffee back into the mug. His daydream evaporated, his hopes smashed.
“No.” Shaky hands settled the cup onto the table. She was laughing, her head tossing gently from side-to-side. “I’m straight.”
Dean sighed, disappointed. Lingering images teased his thoughts. It would’ve been beautiful-him, her, an as yet unidentified woman. “What a shame.”
“What was that?”
His head jerked up, his lips fixed in a devious smirk. Oh. He’d said the last part out loud. “I said, ‘Good.’”
She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling playfully. “Uh-huh.”
At least she wasn’t angry. Or she hid it very well. Dean wasn’t going to dwell over which. He had a goal. Dazzle her. Lure her to a motel room. Fuck her silly. Send her packing in the morning. Pretty clear-cut as far as plans went.
“So what’re you reading?”
His fingers danced across the table, playing with the discarded book. He rotated it until the title was legible: The Collected Works of Robert Frost. Wonderful. Intellectual female, he’d known that, but there was no way he could fake a conversation about poetry. Dean fingered the tattered pages, noting the hard creased spine. The book fell open without prompting, one poem marked by wear and time, words nearly faded into obscurity.
“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but I have promises to keep.” He paused, frowning at the lines. “And miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.”
The woman’s face darkened, her lashes lowering, but not before Dean saw the sorrow pooling in her eyes. They glistened, drops of water shimmering before they were blinked away. So much pain from so little. Words, that was all. Just words.
“Stop.” Her breath hitched as she reached across the table, plucking the ragged copy from his grasp. It disappeared into the inner sanctity of her jacket.
Dean wondered at the change, if he should address it. It had been unintentional, but he had provoked her, caused something to resurface. His fault, and that troubled him. He didn’t want tears or sadness; he wanted sweat and rapture. He wanted sticky bodies, moving in tandem, driving the other to the pinnacle of mind numbing bliss. Maybe he could fuck away the tears? He was more than willing to give it the old college try. It would be such a sacrifice, putting a smile on a pretty girl’s face with his cock.
Yeah. Right. A sacrifice. He was a self-serving bastard sometimes. Time to duck and run. Her lip trembled, and he sighed.
“What?” Dean swallowed a long pull of his coffee, grimacing at the taste. Terrible. “You can’t leave.” He caught her eyes, knew he’d regret his next words. “And I’m not going anywhere. We’ve gotta talk about something.”
She settled back into the booth, folding her hands on the tabletop. Apparently the weak moment had passed, she was herself again. Or, really, the self Dean recognized. Pity, he’d been enjoying the side trip into her consciousness, getting to know her. He didn’t think her façade cracked often, not with strangers, not with friends. She had exposed herself to him, shown a piece he knew she kept hidden. It had been brief, but real, human, and it enthralled him.
The realization was sudden, scary, and jerked Dean back from the path he’d unintentionally pursued. He did not care about the inner workings of her mind, only the tightness of her cunt as he worked in and out of her body. She was a piece of ass; anything else was trouble.
Flinty, but amused, she drew Dean back into discussion. “And you’re interested in Robert Frost?”
“No, but it’s conversation.” A little honesty never hurt, chicks dug that shtick. Dean pulled at a string on his sleeve, smoothed it down. He did not feel guilty. He did not feel guilty. “You don’t strike me as a guns and ammo type of girl, so topics are limited.”
“And you think you could hold a conversation about American poetry?” Her eyes lit, a good-natured gleam filling her gaze as she traced the lines of his face, his chest, hovering over his abdomen. “Can’t say you fit the intellectual mold.”
Dean smiled, but knew the action was forced. She had inadvertently insulted his pride. So what if he didn’t know dick about poetry? He wasn’t an idiot. A pretty face and killer bod did not automatically equate with moron. He wagered he knew a lot more about the seedy underside of life than she ever would. Knew about it, and could fight it. What could she do? Bat her eyelashes? Flash some skin? Battling the supernatural took a lot more brains than brawn. He-
Wait. He cocked his head to the side, bit the inside of his cheek. Why was he irritated? She wanted him for his body not his mind. Wasn’t that the exact reason he’d settled into the seat across from her?
Right. Dean rolled his eyes. Time to get the convo back on track. “I’m more of a doer than a reader.”
Eyes trailed up his torso, sparking as they lingered on his mouth. “I bet.”
Whoa, Nelly. Dean shifted, tugging uncomfortably at his jeans. Biting venom or sultry come-ons, his cock really didn’t discriminate. It was all foreplay.
Fingers settled on his knee, gripping ever so slightly. Warmth spread across the inside of his thigh, her palm sliding up his denim-clad leg. The breath caught in Dean’s throat, and he swallowed thickly. So he hadn’t misread her interest, that was-
“Fuck.”
He inhaled slowly, shakily, all too aware of the fingertips tracing the line of his zipper, fluttering along the rigid length of his erection. Good God. Thick denim, cotton boxers, and he could still feel every twitch of her wrist, the faint, arousing pressure of each touch. His senses were in overload, his hands gripping weakly at the edge of the table.
How had they passed from innuendo to second base so quickly?
Hell, he still didn’t know her name. Which, really, was becoming less of a problem the longer her hands caressed his cock.
“Shh.” Her lips puckered, her cheeks flushing.
She leaned forward, t-shirt gaping, exposing the tops of her breasts. Dean’s eyes glazed, riveted to the glimpse of red satin, to the soft flesh undulating with her every movement. He barely registered the fly of his jeans opening, the zipper sliding down with audible snicks. His hips shifted of their own accord, grinding into the damp heat surging through the thin layer of his underwear. Nails…oh God…her nails… And her palm…pressing, squeezing, flesh teasing him through the slit of his boxers.
And then it wasn’t. The contact broke off, heat and pressure gone.
“Wahh…?”
Relaxed, grinning, she rested against the back of her bench, arms folded across her stomach. Dean blinked, more than a little confused. A mirage? Had he imagined it? A quick glance to his lap confirmed otherwise-his dick jutted proudly from the opening in his boxers. Speaking of which-he dropped a napkin across his groin.
So, to recap: It had happened. The strange woman had felt him up, in public. She had then proceeded to unfasten the closure of his jeans and extract his penis from said jeans under the pretense of giving him a hand job. (That’d earned her some brownie points.) Finally, she had gotten him all sorts of horny and had stopped before-
“Shit.”
Feet worked nimbly up his calves, over his hamstrings, dipping under his waistband. Toes grazed his arousal, and Dean sucked heavily at the air. Cool. Rough. They rubbed his length, kneaded the tender head of his penis, tickled the tightening skin of his balls. His body shuddered, jolting off the cushion, reveling at the unexpected friction. Jesus. She knew what she was doing.
“Ahh. Ahh.”
Dean caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Sam. His brother was pushing away from the counter, turning towards their table. The apprehension was unmistakable, the surge of fear almost palpable. Dean would’ve laughed, if he could spare the energy. Instead, he focused all his willpower into frantic shakes of his head. The motion came out jerky, and, he was certain, less than convincing. At least it didn’t keep Sam from stalking in his direction.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice was concerned. “You okay?”
Fucking A-OK. Dean grimaced; he didn’t have the vocals to speak the words aloud. Fuck. Strange woman or not, she clearly played by her own rules. Skipping bases, sneaking around the umpire, running straight towards home. Baseball analogies aside, she’d stolen all logical thought. He was going to come, all over her foot, with his brother looking on. Not the climax he’d anticipated.
So much for his rule about PDA. Well, it was more of a guideline than a rule, but Dean was certain the foot job crossed some line he’d forged in his mind. Leaped over, really. Blasted the rule to bits. A woman with a fetish for sexual acts in public places-Christ, she’d probably kill him.
But he’d die a very happy man.
“Dean?”
Oh, yeah, the brother. Dean needed to do something about that. Fast. Sam was about to get an eyeful.
As much as it pained him to do so, Dean doubled over, trembling fingers capturing the woman’s foot in his hand. He succeeded in trapping the ankle, but the toes… The toes…
Dean gave up, his mind escaping to a distant, contented place. His hand grew slack, clenched, pulling more so than pushing. Encouraging. Damn it. He couldn’t stop what was happening, couldn’t stop his balls from tightening, couldn’t stop his pelvis from its jerky spasms. Her toes curled, and he twitched against them, white halos infringing on his vision. Teeth gritted, hands balled into fists, he fought the orgasm threatening to ride his body. To no avail, his will wasn’t strong enough. It washed over him in a blaze of molten fire, lava rushing through his veins.
Holy. Fucking. G-
A series of loud explosions rocked the diner, slamming Dean’s back into the bench. He was stunned, dazed but not impervious to the pandemonium erupting around him. Something had gone wrong. Something had intruded upon his lusty romp. It was the glass that gave it away-it had shattered inwards, shards raining on the table, a fine dust glittering with refracted light-and the chips of formica imbedded in the side of his face. It was the cold stillness that enveloped him, cemented every muscle in his body. It was the choked screams and squealing tires. Something was off.
It was a long moment before the weapon registered, the rapid succession of dispelled ammunition. A machine gun, something automatic anyway. The noise had dulled Dean’s hearing, had numbed all his senses, but he was certain of his recognition and all that implied. Someone had fired though the diner’s window, blasting-
His eyes snapped to where Sam had been sitting. The countertop was shattered, riddled with bullet holes, irreparable; the red, vinyl stool ripped and freshly scarred. No brother. Dean’s gaze plummeted to the floor, found nothing. It was then he remembered Sam had been coming towards him, not sitting. Sure enough, his brother squatted below the counter, fingers searching out the gun Dean knew was nestled in the small of his back. Sammy’s face was tight, tense, but not with pain. It was his game face, knowing harm might befall the people occupying the diner. Untouched.
Sam could take care of himself. Apparently his sense of self-preservation was kicking in much faster than Dean’s. Damn. Get a little…action and his instincts went haywire.
Silently, he cursed himself and slid low in the bench, under the line of the windows. Dean stuffed his cock back in his pants and tugged the zipper into place. He forgot the button, forgot everything, really. He’d almost died, and it was the only thought concerning him. Well, that, and making sure the deliverer of one of his most intense orgasms ever hadn’t gotten herself shot up.
Gaze roving, Dean found the woman where he had left her. She hadn’t moved, not at the play of gunfire, not in the general bedlam of the diner. Cool, calm, unaffected. Dark eyes blinked at him, sparkling brightly. He stared, his jaw dropping. Was that awe? Admiration? Was he registering an emotion other than hunger?
Impossible.
Dean folded his body under the table, and scrambled blindly to capture the woman’s hand. She batted him away, but he held fast and pulled. And she resisted, he’d known she would.
“Get down,” he growled. Dean glared at her, willing her to cooperate. “They could come back.”
Shrugging, she patted his hand and tried to ease from his grip. “They’re not coming back.”
His hold tightened, impressing nails into the flesh of her palm. He wasn’t taking no for an answer. “Humor me.”
She huffed and rolled her eyes, but allowed herself to be dragged beside him, or, rather, on top of him. Her tight little ass wedged into his thigh, her legs splayed across his lap. She turned into him, and Dean was only too aware of the proximity of her lips, of the perfume of her hair, of the damp pants of her breath against his cheek.
“This isn’t comfortable.”
Despite the fact she was right-the space was confining, cramped, and Dean had to keep his head bent at an awkward angle to avoid bashing his skull on the table-he found her attitude disconcerting. Weren’t girls supposed to get all…girly in dire situations? Cry into his shoulder? Press her soft body as close to his as possible? Scream?
Oh, right, this girl wasn’t the clingy type. Which, he found, was seriously turning him on.
“You almost die, could still die, and…” She wriggled and his train of thought meandered off course, veered straight to unholy acts of adultery. Certain parts of his anatomy responded. Uh oh. “Stop that.”
She grimaced, and rubbed at her arm. “Your gun is jabbing me.”
“Honey,” he drawled, “that’s not a gun.”
Hands flattened against his chest, fingers plucking the lapel of his jacket. Dean glanced down, sighting cold, black steel peeking out from under his arm. Huh.
Face smoothed, tightened, finally settling on a sheepish grin. “Oh, well, maybe that is a gun.”
“You think, Hotshot?”
Irritation colored her voice, but she was impossible to read. Was that a smile? What the hell was wrong with her? And why the fuck wasn’t she just a teensy-weensy bit worried?
Dean frowned and planted his hands on her hips, helping her shift into a better position, away from his…um…gun. Crap. Movement only complicated things. There was the friction and, oh yeah, the fact she was straddling him. Yup. Uh-huh. Legs to either side of his thighs. Arms trapped against his chest. Face resting intimately in the crook of his neck. Her…heat was everywhere. If it had been any other situation…
He would what? See what color panties she wore?
Actually, that wasn’t a half bad idea. Maybe she didn’t wear panties. Maybe all that separated him from touching her was a layer of denim.
Hmmm.
The woman pulled away, perching as far back on his thighs as she could manage. “You mind?”
“Huh?” His head jerked up, following the line of the woman’s grimace. Curious, seemed his hands were planted on the rounded contours of her ass. The flesh felt really good, too. Firm. Dean flexed his fingers, smirking at the flush that crept across her face.
Did he mind? No, not really.
“You’ve got an incredible ass.”
Dean shrugged, the movement upsetting the woman’s precarious position and spilling her into the center of his chest. She pushed against him, warm palms heating his flesh through his t-shirt. His nipples hardened with her struggle, with the constant friction applied to them, and she froze. She gave up, her body relaxing into his, the line of her torso flush with his.
She whispered into his neck, teeth grazing his skin. “You’ve never seen my ass.”
A shiver raced up Dean’s spine, his back bowing in pleasure. He gripped the girl tighter, his hands convulsing around her ass, shifting her closer. It was strange and wonderful, his body’s reaction to the tiny brunette. One touch and he was ready for anything, everything. Of course, it really wasn’t one touch; it was more a vertical aligning of bodies. Sex with clothes on. All that lovely friction without the slippery slick of arousal and sweat. God, how he wanted to get naked and rut. Rut and rut and rut and rut.
Lungs quickening, Dean dropped his mouth to her ear, nuzzling his nose into her dark tresses. Dark and husky, his lips brushed the shell of her ear. “Well, it feels good.”
She hesitated then pressed impossibly closer, so close the heat of her sex seared through two layers of denim. “I can tell.”
“About that…” Dean rocked his hips off the floor, teasing. Teasing who? He just didn’t know. “Wanna go back to my place and fuck?”
He could hear the smile in her voice and in the slight tremors vibrating her body. “Subtle much?”
“Sorry.” His tongue darted out, flattening against the skin in the hollow of her ear. He licked her hard and slow. “Would you like to accompany me to the hotel where I’ll be staying the night so we can engage in tawdry deeds of a horizontal variety?”
Fingers curled, nails biting into the swell of his pectorals. Wholly affected by in ministrations, hot little body completely taken by a swipe of his tongue. She really had to suck at poker, ‘cuz he knew she was fighting hard not to react to him. But the little tells… The tightening of muscles in her legs. The surprised intake of breath. The sudden scent of her arousal. Hard to ignore. She wanted to fuck him blue.
“Sorry, don’t speak jackass.” Dean gave her a few more points for keeping her voice to a breathy rasp.
“Again, sorry.” He smirked, sucking her lobe into his mouth and releasing it with a wet smack. She was so his. “Would you like to join me for a drink? In my room? Under the sheets? With all of your clothes off?”
Her head tilted back, and Dean stared into her eyes. Something swirled in the dark depths, something cautious but wanting. Crimson filled her cheeks, her lips slack and dry. So very taken, by him, by insinuated acts, by his erection pressed so intimately against her crotch. It was difficult to watch her expression harden, to know what she would say.
“Can’t. I’ve gotta go.” For a moment, she looked worried, almost frantic, but it passed. “Places to be and all that.”
Dean’s hands drifted up her spine, slipping beneath the edge of her shirt to smooth circles into the small of her back. He wasn’t letting her go. “Can’t go, there’s an armed assailant outside.”
Heat flashed in her eyes, anger, but she didn’t bolt from his touch. An improvement. “And I told you they were gone.”
Gaze narrowing, Dean traced the lines of the girl’s face, searching for sign of her confidence. It was the second time she’d made the statement, and she meant it. The gunners weren’t coming back. How could she be sure? Hell, maybe it was a drive-by, but she couldn’t know for certain. No one could.
“How do you know they aren’t waiting for everyone inside to be outside?” He frowned. “So they can finish the job properly?”
A troubled smile spread across her face, and she looked away. “I’d know if they were.”
“So not only do you jack strangers off in out-of-the-way diners, but you’re psychic?”
Oops. Dean flinched at the words, at the sharp tilt of her chin, at the flames dancing wildly in her eyes. He hadn’t meant to say that part aloud. Well, yeah, maybe he had, but she wasn’t giving him the reaction he’d expected. She was supposed to laugh. It was supposed to break the tension that had sprung up around them. The atmosphere was damn near suffocating.
He sighed, shifting gears. “Why?”
Forehead crinkling, she looked at him. “Why what?”
“Why do you have to leave?” And why did it physically pain him to think about her exodus? “Why can’t you just come with me? I promise I won’t bite.” Despite himself, the words brought crystal clear imagery. The smile was immediate and unstoppable. “Unless you want me to.”
The corners of her lips twitched, and she averted her gaze. Answer enough for him. “Do you want me to?” He cupped her cheek, drew her eyes back to his. “’Cuz I can do that. My mouth is at your service. I’ll-”
“Stop.” She pressed a finger to his lips, let her hand slide to curl behind his ear. “I have to leave because I broke a rule.”
He thought back to her hands, to her touch. “I think we both did, sweetheart.”
A tongue. Lips. Heat infused cheeks. Fluttering fringe of eyelashes. Dark, glistening irises. His eyes raked over her face, his fingers snarling in her hair, dragging her mouth to him. Want, he wanted to taste her, to dip his tongue inside her mouth and taste her sweet saliva. He nudged her nose with his, tilting her head to the side to inhale the scent of her soft skin. Tender flesh. Smooth. His mouth hovered over hers, breath mingling, hesitant, savoring. The first brush of those soft lips would be his undoing. Hers. He could feel it.
“Dean, you okay?”
The words were unwelcome, interruptive. She jerked away, out of his hands, as far as she could retreat and still be seated in his lap. So…not far, but the division was definite, shattering.
“Great, Sam.” He grunted, scowling at the face peeking beneath the tabletop. “Go away.”
Miracle of all miracles, his brother listened. No arguments. Nothing. Must’ve been the frustrated anger infusing Dean’s face. He could’ve murdered Sam at that moment, and felt no remorse. Well, a little remorse-he didn’t relish cleaning Sam’s blood out of his clothes. It was probably just as stubborn.
Deep breath. Sigh. Pick up the pieces. She had reasons for resistance; maybe he should find them out before launching another assault. Assault: Such a pretty word for what he was actually doing…begging, for sex. If she wasn’t so hot, he would have been ashamed.
“Out of curiosity, what rule?”
There, that wasn’t so hard. He could be sensitive, inquisitive man, ready to lend a shoulder-really, any part of his body-for comfort. She’d broken some law she lived by, and that was always painful to accept. It was disruptive enough to her that she refused the solace of his bed. Must be something huge, something-
“Never get involved with a job.” Her face tightened, closed up, all shaded eyes and thin lips.
Funny, it was quite the opposite for him. Dean never turned down a little ‘Thank You’ sex, a little ‘We’re Both Hot and Might Die So We Better Fuck’ sex. In fact-
“Job?”
What? Dean’s heart tripped, spilling into his throat. His fingers curled into fists, his nails cutting through the flesh of his palm. A job? What did that mean? She was paid to have sex with him?
His mouth gaped, sputtering before he found words. “I was a job?”
She softened, her features regaining fullness, color. “Not you, not directly.”
Not him? What then? The gunfire…
“Sam?” Dean jolted, his head slamming into the table. If there was pain, he didn’t feel it. “Sam was the job?”
Hands lashed out, securing the upper arms of the woman. He squeezed, more tightly than he’d intended because her face skewed with pain. For the moment, it didn’t matter; he didn’t relent. She was a threat to his brother’s safety and that did matter.
“What?” Dean grimaced, his words hard and crisp. “You were hired to kill him? Is that why you know the gunners are gone?”
“No. God no.” She jerked back, revulsion sliding into her expression. “I don’t kill people. The opposite, really.”
A flash of memory was the only way to describe it-Sam looking at him, standing, walking away from the counter. It had been very timely, her public display of…hand dexterity. But that was impossible and impractical. There were much easier ways to warn someone, less exhibition, more, more…
“The plan was for me to call Sam over to the table, not to…” She rolled her eyes and he eased his grip, feeling the truth in her words. “Apparently, you’re irresistible.”
Irresistible. Yes, that was easy to believe. No woman held out for long when he turned the charm on. But the rest…get Sam to move?
Oh. Dean’s eyes widened, careened to hers. “If you hadn’t…”
She nodded, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. “He would’ve died.”
The breath left Dean’s body. Realization a sharp blow to his sternum. The woman had known about the gunfire, had known and come to the diner anyway. She’d been there to stop Sam from a bullet, to keep him alive. He should be grateful-and he was-but the knowledge seriously pissed him off.
“How could you possibly know that?”
Arms folded over her chest, protective, defensive, warding him away. “You’re not the only one in the business of helping people, Dean.”
Evasion, to be expected. Too bad he wouldn’t take no as an answer. The anger simmering within him cooled, became some controllable thing. She wouldn’t respond to threat, he knew that much about her.
“How?”
“Do we have to talk about this?” Her eyes grew wide, lids quivering. “I saved your brother’s life. Isn’t that enough?”
It was a plea, and Dean felt something within him crack. Her reasons for shielding weren’t selfish. She was protecting something, someone. Her? He didn’t think so, at least not totally. He had experience with secrets, with the pain and destruction they could cause. And her secret…it was big. In his business, though, a secret could kill. They were too involved for him to allow her safe passage. He was too involved.
“Enough?” Dean snorted. “What in the hell makes you think that’s enough?” He lowered his voice, leaned into her personal space. “Was it the perplexed expression? The slight glazing of my eyes? My grinding jaws?” He reached for her shoulder then thought better of it and dropped his hand to his side. “You owe me an answer.”
Refusal was on the tip of her tongue, in the wrinkling of her eyes, in the stiffness of her muscles. Yet, she relaxed, her shoulders drooping, a sigh spilling from her lips. “I’m a precog.”
Precog? As in receiving visions of the future? Pretty plain secret to be holding so dearly. Dean knew a lot of psychics who flaunted their otherness, ones with a lot less potential than she suggested. She had known when and where the attack would happen, not just an impression of danger. She had known a little about him, a little about his brother, not just pictures. No, she was hiding something else, something a lot more mysterious, a lot more hazardous.
He wanted to ask her, to be blunt and demand more answers, but what came out of his mouth was a lot less invasive. “Oh.”
“That’s it?” She stared at him, suspicion one of the more recognizable emotions crossing her face. “Oh?”
Yeah, he’d been right. She wasn’t ready to spill everything to him. That’d take time, patience, and some mind-blowing orgasms. Huh. He’d found a woman who held his interest longer than it took to unzip his jeans. What next? Flying pigs?
“I’ve heard crazier.” He shrugged. “Hell, I’ve seen crazier.”
“Great.” She exhaled, unfolding her arms to brace her hands on her thighs. “Now I’m crazy.”
“No.” Dean snagged her hands, entwining their fingers. His thumbs stroked the seam of her jeans. “Now I owe you.”
Her breath caught, her body swaying towards his. “That’s not why I do this.”
“Oh?” He released her hands, sliding his palms up to grip her hips. “So you jacked me off for what? The greater good of humanity?”
“I saved a random girl from a night of meaningless sex and morning-after remorse.” Her eyes glazed, her tongue licking the lower swell of her lip. “So, yeah, I’d say it was for the greater good-“
“Not some random girl.” Dean tugged her, hauling her into his chest. God, he’d missed her heat. “You. You saved yourself from a night of meaningless sex.”
Rigidity lined her spine, her entire body coiling with tension. He studied her face, the black abyss of dilated pupils, the soft flaring of her nostrils. She was in over her head, trapped. She wanted him, wanted every part of him, but she was a fighter, not given to whim or fancy.
“Sex isn’t meaningless for me.”
He nuzzled her neck, wet lips sliding along her collarbone. “Yet you made me come.”
She shuddered, a low moan working free from her throat. “Lapse in judgment.”
“Lapse or not, doesn’t change what you did.” He purred into her ear, flicking his tongue over the fleshy lobe. “Doesn’t change what you want.”
“And what do I want?”
“I thought you could see the future.” He laughed, a deep rumble that spilled from his chest. “You want me to take you home. To throw you on the bed. To rip off your clothes. To run my tongue over your hot, damp body. To slip my fingers inside your cunt. To rub you in all the places that make you scream.”
Breaking. Giving in. “And…you…what do you want?”
“I want to sink my cock inside you. To stretch you. To drive into you. To make you writhe and yell my name. To feel your nails digging into my back. To feel your calves tighten around my ass. To feel your body clench and spasm. To fuck you until you’re too weak to move, too hoarse to cry out.”
They both breathed heavily, panting at the air. Dean’s body was warm, but not nearly as much as hers. She was heat, flames licking through every layer of denim, cotton, leather. His arms wound around her back, forcing her closer, into him.
She sighed into his cheek, her tongue tasting his jaw. “Thought you didn’t do poetry.”
Dean’s hand fisted in her hair, tugging her head back and exposing her neck. He whispered into her skin, his breath a caress of moist air. “Poetry isn’t just pretty words.”
She trembled and writhed in his lap. Pushing closer. Pushing farther away. He couldn’t tell, didn’t think there was a difference. It was undeniable, their attraction. Inevitable. The heat between them would bind them or destroy them. Either way, he couldn’t bring himself to care. For this…whatever it was, he would put everything on the line. Sacrifice. Surrender.
Damp, wet, lips moved almost silently against the stubble on his cheek. “I’m not that kind of girl.”
Breathing, coaxing a hand to twine in her hair, Dean relished her release, her capitulation. “I think you want to be.”
“I think you’ll say anything to get what you want.” The words were teasing, mocking, but she made no motion to escape, to leave his embrace.
Dean kneaded the base of her scalp, threads of satin slipping through his fingers. “And what is that?”
“Random, meaningless sex.”
He inhaled deeply, shakily, voicing what he knew to be true in his heart. “We’ve moved beyond meaningless.”
Her breath caught, her body stilling. Cautious. Hopeful? “To what?”
“The fuck if I know.” Dean smirked, withdrawing to meet her eyes. Shining and black, mesmerizing. “I’m just going with it.”
A flicker of a smile quirked her lips, and she touched her hand to his jaw. “With what, exactly?”
Flutter of his heart, pounding of his pulse. He was honest with himself, to her. “The feeling in my gut.”
“Do that often?” She glanced down the line of his body, skimming his abdomen before returning his gaze. Steady. Not looking away. “Follow your gut?”
“It’s never led me wrong.” He cocked his head to the side, frowned. “Of course, it’s almost gotten me killed a few times.”
Her head shook from side-to-side, dark hair spilling about her shoulders, framing her face. Amused and bemused. Wary. “That’s reassuring.”
“So are you gonna come with me or not?” Dean waggled his eyebrows, allowing his fingers to drift down her neck, dip beneath her collar. “Cuz I’ve gotta ditch Sam if you are.”
She arched an eyebrow, and rested a hand against his chest. Her flesh burned through cotton, flamed his smoldering arousal. “And here I thought you got off on voyeurism.”
“Special occasion, Babe.” He released her neck, tapped the hand covering his heart. “I’m a one man show.”
A giggle. So girly. Out of place, but not. He loved it. “Then why do you need me?”
Dean widened his eyes, pursing his lips. His own way of saying ‘Are you kidding?’ Like his hand and his memories were the only stimulus he would need. He was nearly positive that after her ‘debut’ self-flagellation was just not going to do it for him. Ever.
Pause. The only sound the harsh pants of air exiting lungs. It allowed him time to think, to breathe, to adjust. Everything had spiraled out so quickly-the night, the girl, the attraction, the lust. It was weirdly strange and a bit unsettling. He’d been looking for a quick score, another notch on his belt, and he’d found something else. Something he didn’t quite know how to handle. Something that could be very, very good.
“Can I kiss you?”
“You’re asking?” Her nose wrinkled and she blinked dazedly at him. “I thought you just took what-“
Right. He did. Dean’s lips crashed to hers, drowning out complaints, thought, breath. He swallowed her, his mouth demanding, hard, fusing, plying. She was sweeter, softer, wetter than he had imagined. More, just more. She melted into his mouth, lips parting, hands curling into the fabric of his shirt. Tugged closer, hands lost in the silky locks of her hair. She was his air, his being, his life. Tongues and teeth. The perfect mix of heat and desire. Ravenous. It was so easy to give himself away, to her. To take and take and take.
Dean forced himself back, tore his mouth from the delicate petals of hers. Disoriented. Adrift in her…everything. So easy… So easy…
“Why’d you stop?”
He panted, his forehead resting against hers. “If we’re gonna do this, I need you to tell me one thing.”
Hesitant, a trace of fear. “Yeah?”
There were many things he could ask, many answers he could demand, but only one was important. “What’s your name?”
A sigh of relief, reassurance. “Elizabeth, but you can call me Liz.”
“Well, Liz…” Dean gripped her chin, planting a noisy kiss to her mouth. “Wanna fuck?”
Liz scowled, curling her mouth petulantly. “I don’t fuck. I make love.”
It was all one in the same for him. Sex was fucking. Love was fucking. Fuck, fucking was fucking. Two people driven to each other, bodies twined, plundering. Him inside her, that was it. “The difference?”
Again, Liz sighed, her face falling. He could feel her pulling away, withdrawing emotionally. “You’ll still be there in the morning.”
Dean thought about the distinction, mused over it for a millisecond. Fucking was two bodies moving in tandem seeking that ethereal glow. Lovemaking was more involved, more than one night. Would he still be there in the morning? One look, one touch, one breath of Liz and the answer was obvious.
“Yeah, I will.”
********
The End